The Champion

by Scott Sigler

  Quentin knew they had entered punch-space only because he’d felt the sickening shimmer. Hopefully, the next time he endured that sensation, they would be at the point where Frederico had sent his last message. If so, Rosalind figured, they had a good two or three hours yet to go.

  Doc Patah was using the downtime to work on Quentin’s pinkie. The Burly Brown had been far too filthy, Patah had said, to risk anything other than changing dressings. For all of Rosalind’s peculiarities, the ship was immaculate. She had grown another new room: white and plain, as spotless as any high-grade hospital facility, with a white table upon which Quentin sat.

  The tip of Quentin’s tongue poked at his repaired tooth. It always felt so strange to have something in that space after it had been empty, even briefly.

  “Thanks for fixing my mouth, Doc.”

  “A trivial procedure, young Quentin. Your finger, however, is more demanding of my skill.”

  Thanks to nerve blocks, Quentin felt nothing, but he watched carefully — it wasn’t every day you got to see your own muscles, ligaments and bones laid bare.

  At first glance, Doc Patah’s mouth-flaps looked like clumsy things: two flattened snakes on either side of a wide opening. Up close, however, watching them work, Quentin was always amazed at their dexterity. The tips of the mouth-flaps could fold, twist, bend and pinch, could manipulate two or even three objects at once. It was no wonder the Harrah dominated medicine across the galaxy, especially in professional sports, where a patient’s health could mean the difference between priceless victories and costly defeats.

  “Doc, is that my pinkie bone sticking out there?”

  “No, young Quentin, that is the right fifth-finger metacarpal,” Doc Patah said. “I severed it just above the knuckle when you made your idiotic decision.”

  Patah’s backpack doubled as both storage for the doctor’s medical supplies and a speaker that translated his native tongue of hisses and breaths into English. Quentin noticed a circular metal badge on the backpack, one he’d never seen before: an image of the GFL championship trophy, with the English words Galaxy Bowl XXVII arcing across the top, and Ionath Krakens, Galactic Champions arcing up from the bottom.

  Quentin reached over with his good hand and gave the badge two quick knuckle-knocks.

  “Wasn’t enough time for you to make that after the Galaxy Bowl,” he said. “Seems to me you had that made before the game. Pretty confident in me, eh, Doc?”

  “No comment,” Doc Patah said.

  “Anyway, seeing as you’re proudly showing off that badge, looks like my idiotic decision turned out all right.”

  The Harrah let out a grunt of annoyance. He could pretend to disapprove of Quentin’s decision all he liked; Patah wanted to win, just like everyone else in the Krakens franchise. When Quentin had told him to amputate the finger, Doc could have said “no,” and they both knew it.

  The Harrah worked on the pinkie stump, cutting away a bit of flesh here, cauterizing a bit there.

  It seemed so strange to feel no pain at all, especially after how badly it had hurt during the Galaxy Bowl. Quentin’s little finger had stuck in the facemask of Katan the Beheader and been bent back at a sickening angle. In all the injuries Quentin had suffered — both on field and off — he’d never felt such agony.

  Doc wore attachments of some kind on two of his five sensory pits. Maybe a high-tech magnifying glass or something like that. His left mouth-flap pinched around a scalpel and white sponge that was already dotted with the red of Quentin’s blood. Doc’s right mouth-flap held some kind of delicate tool with multiple lights that lit up either blue or yellow when Doc pressed it to various areas of Quentin’s stub.

  The lights were more blue than yellow.

  “You have extensive nerve damage, young Quentin. When we return home, or go anywhere with proper medical facilities, I should be able to fit you for a prosthetic. It will function normally. You will have to remove it for football, of course.”

  “Can’t you just grow a new pinkie? I’ve seen people with regrown feet, even entire arms.”

  “Not in the GFL, you haven’t,” Patah said. “Nor in the fighting leagues, nor on any Human who plays professional sports. When a limb or digit is replaced, it might look normal, but that replacement never regains full coordination. The player loses a step or two, reacts a bit slower, loses some degree of balance. You can imagine how that translates when it comes to performance.”

  Quentin could. Professional football was a game of intelligence and preparation, true, but those things didn’t matter if you didn’t already have strength, speed and reaction time. If a Human running back got hurt and lost a fraction of a second in speed — say, dropping from a 3.8 40-yard-dash time to 4.0 — that was the difference between hitting a hole clean or arriving after it was already closing up. In the Sklorno and Prawatt, that difference was even smaller: going from a 3.0 forty to a 3.1 was the difference between a starting role and a spot on the bench; dropping to 3.2 would probably take that player right out of Tier One.

  Speed. Strength. Reaction time. If any of those factors dropped, your career could suddenly be in jeopardy thanks to the faster, stronger, more agile backup waiting to take your place. For all the advancements made in medicine, training, nutrition and the plain fact that athletes kept getting bigger, faster and stronger, one thing remained the same — injury and age were the worst enemies of any athlete.

  Quentin stared at the exposed stub of skin and muscle, blood and bone.

  “It just seems weird you can’t fix that,” he said. “We can make ships travel faster than the speed of light, but we can’t grow a new limb that works correctly?”

  “False equivalency,” Doc Patah said.

  “False what?”

  “Equivalency. It’s a logical fallacy. Didn’t they teach you about that in school?”

  Quentin’s face flushed red.

  Doc Patah’s sensory pits tightened.

  “My apologies,” he said. “You are so intelligent, Quentin, that I often forget how your homeland cheated you out of even the most rudimentary education.”

  Quentin’s face flushed anew, but for a different reason. He knew how good he was on the field, knew that he was one of the best football players in the galaxy, but he’d left school after the sixth grade; he wasn’t used to people calling him smart.

  Doc Patah again pressed the device to the stump, watched more yellow and blue lights twinkle.

  “All species used to think faster-than-light travel was impossible,” the Harrah said. “But just because we’ve achieved what was once thought impossible doesn’t mean that which now seems impossible will be achieved, or is achievable at all. One of your kind’s ancient philosophers said something similar to that.”

  “My kind? You mean a Purist?”

  Patah sighed. It didn’t sound all that different from when Rosalind did it.

  “Young Quentin, I am doubtful anyone from your home system ever said anything that could be construed as intelligent. By your kind, I meant Humans. If you want me to grow a finger and graft it on, that is definitely possible. However, remember what I said about how replacement limbs can affect performance.”

  “But it’s only my pinkie,” Quentin said. “It’s not even on my throwing hand.”

  “The Human nervous system is just that — a system. Add something and the system changes. If you can play with just nine fingers, I would strongly suggest you continue to do so. I need to know now, however, if you want it regrown. If you do, I need to leave as much material as possible for grafting purposes. If you do not, I will trim this damaged stump away and properly seal up the hand. But heed my warning, young Quentin — adding material to your body could cause unforeseen issues.”

  “Such as?”

  “Difficult to say. I’ve seen injuries that cause pain in the replaced area only, and some that cause ongoing, incurable pain across the entire nervous system. Some people develop tics. Sometimes these things can be controlled with medicine, b
ut that type of solution can slow your reaction time, or affect your ability to grasp the ball.”

  Quentin pictured himself trying to pass, his aim marred by random, stabbing pains or an uncontrollable twitch. If he couldn’t grasp the ball properly, he’d be more susceptible to fumbling it.

  “But a regrown finger does work sometimes, Doc. Doesn’t it?”

  “Of course,” Doc said. “Sometimes the process goes off without issue, if the patient follows a strict recovery protocol. That part, I believe, will not be to your liking.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because proper protocol means no contact for about a year after the procedure.”

  No contact for a year? Quentin would miss the next season, and even then there was no guarantee the process would be successful. If there was constant pain, he might have to just get the new pinkie amputated anyway.

  “No replacement,” Quentin said. “No transplant. Do what you need to do, Doc. I’ve got a lot of football-playing years ahead of me.”

  “Assuming we don’t die in the Cloud, of course.”

  “One can only hope.”

  Doc Patah slid a mouth-flap into his backpack and came out with a wicked-looking little saw blade.

  “Very well, young Quentin.” Doc turned on the saw. The circular blade whined. “Let us begin.”

  9

  Punch-Out

  QUENTIN STOOD ALONE in the viewport bubble. The Leviathan had brought them to the edge of the Portath Cloud, released them, then blinked back into punch-space. Rosalind was preparing a punch of her own. She had asked everyone to return to the room with the blue walls. Quentin had dallied, needing a few moments to himself.

  He stood there, staring out into space. Everywhere he looked, a vast, endless sea of black flecked with chips of light. Emptiness. Everywhere except for straight ahead. There, growing bigger as the ship drew closer, Quentin saw the expanse of the Portath Cloud — an angry, electric-purple mass lit up by the deep glow of the stars hidden within.

  The Cloud. A place from which no ship returned.

  And inside, somewhere, was his sister, Jeanine, and his friend Fred. Quentin had traveled so far just to get here, and likely had much farther to go.

  The walls sighed.

  “Quentin, do you mind?” Rosalind, talking to him through the walls, the floor, the ceiling, through the clear bubble itself. “I’m about to initiate a punch into the Cloud, and I need to close up your viewport. Not that anyone ever listens to me, of course. I mean, why would they? I’m only a century-old ship that has probably seen more of this galaxy than any other sentient alive. Who would want to listen to me blabber? It’s not like my experience is—”

  “For High One’s sake, Rosalind, shut up.” Quentin turned away from the viewport. “I’m going, I’m going. Can you please stop whining?”

  He’d wanted the Grieve, a dreadnaught that would strike fear into the hearts of any sentient. What he got instead was a ship that complained about everything, and wasn’t all that much bigger than his own yacht.

  “Whining, Quentin? Honestly, there’s no need to be mean. I only want what’s best for you.”

  Quentin turned and walked toward the corridor. He sensed, more than saw, the bubble he’d just left closing up behind him, the clear material shrinking into the collapsing walls.

  He didn’t pray often, but at that moment, he did — he prayed that Rosalind had some fight in her.

  Because they were going to need it.

  BOOK TWO

  The Portath Cloud

  10

  First Contact

  QUENTIN SAT ON ONE of Rosalind’s couches, eyes closed, waiting for the reality wave to wash over him, to twist him. When it hit, he felt his atoms shift from the false existence of punch-space into the world he knew, the world in which he belonged.

  They were back in normal reality — which meant they were finally in the Portath Cloud, one step closer to finding Jeanine.

  He opened his eyes. Ju sat on a couch across from him, calm and relaxed. John sat on Ju’s left, Becca on his right. Kimberlin stood in a corner, still reading his messageboard, while George Starcher was in a chair. Doc Patah hovered in the middle of it all.

  “Hey, Q,” Ju said, “we punched out and you didn’t barf. Maybe people can finally sit next to you and not have to worry about spew-spray.”

  Becca smiled. “He’s right, Q. You haven’t thrown up from a single punch on this trip. Maybe you’re over your motion sickness?”

  John rolled his eyes. “Nah, pretty boy just has something other than himself to worry about for a change. We rescue his sister, I got a hundred credits that says he makes mouth-chowder first punch after.”

  Ju offered his hand to his brother. “You’re on.”

  They shook, sealing the bet.

  Quentin stood. He did have things other than himself to worry about, that was true, but he was getting tired of John’s attitude. Hopefully his brother would stop making snide comments sometime soon.

  “Let’s go to the bridge,” Quentin said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Bumberpuff will find the Hypatia right away.”

  WHEN QUENTIN AND THE OTHERS reached the bridge, Bumberpuff was staring at a hologram with a miniature representation of Rosalind in the center.

  “Nothing yet,” she said before Quentin could even ask. “We’re alone. No sign of the Hypatia. I’m sorry, Quentin.”

  Of course, it couldn’t be that easy, but he’d held out hope for a miracle.

  “I want to see for myself,” he said. “Can you grow that viewing deck again?”

  Rosalind sighed. “Don’t trust my observations, Quentin? Well, fine. I don’t mind, as long as it makes you happy. Hold on a moment.”

  The gnarled material beneath his feet rumbled and vibrated. Quentin saw the room’s walls waver, large chunks of gnarled black moving and shifting. Then, he saw a few stars: Rosalind’s hull became transparent. Seconds later, a full viewport bubble formed.

  “As you requested,” the ship said. “By all means, see if your tiny little Human eyes can spot something I missed.”

  Quentin stepped into the bubble. The others hung back, obviously wanting to give him his space.

  Far off, in all directions, he saw the Cloud’s signature amethyst glow. Three hazy, glowing orbs dominated the space straight ahead. Quentin couldn’t begin to estimate how far away those stars were. Smaller, teardrop-shaped stars surrounded them, tails pointing away from the trio.

  He turned to his friends. “Mike, can you come here for a second?”

  The HeavyG lineman joined Quentin in the bubble.

  Quentin pointed to a teardrop-shaped star, then another, then another. “Why aren’t those spherical?”

  “The three right in front of us are known as the Triplets,” Kimberlin said. “Three stars so big, so powerful, the radiation coming off them creates solar wind that overpowers nearby stars, stripping off outer gas like a river slowly eroding a clump of dirt.”

  Quentin had never seen anything like it. Stars were usually dots of light on a field of endless black. Here, the stars fought to be seen against the background glow, and there were so many of them, packed in more densely than what he’d experienced standing on the surface of any planet or ship.

  So much to see, and yet the area immediately around Rosalind looked like any other kind of space: garden-variety blackness.

  “We must be in a pocket or something,” Quentin said. “There’s no gas around us, just off in the distance.”

  “Oh, it’s there,” Kimberlin said. “The gas is extremely dense, relatively speaking. But even gas that is dense by galactic standards is incredibly thin when compared to, say, the atmosphere on Micovi. So, you are inside the Cloud. You can tell because you see purple in all directions instead of just one. Thought you’d see streamers of purple drifting in our wake, like in the movies?”

  Quentin nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought I’d see. Life is never like in the movies.”

  Mike laug
hed and shook his big head. “So says the orphan from Micovi, born with a cannon for an arm, who wound up in the PNFL because someone saw him throw a rock, who then moved up to the GFL, where he heroically won a Galaxy Bowl and became one of the most recognized sentients in the galaxy. The one person whose life actually is like a movie doesn’t think life is like a movie at all.”

  Sometimes, Mike’s know-it-all attitude annoyed the hell out of Quentin.

  “Like you’re any different,” Quentin said. “The HeavyG offensive guard, one of the few of his race playing a position dominated by Ki, winning not one, not two, but three Galaxy Bowl rings. And your past, getting over what happened to you, and ...”

  Quentin’s words trailed off when he saw Michael’s expression fade from happy and interested to sullen and regretful. Mike had a dark chapter in his past, during his tenure with the Jupiter Jacks. Quentin knew Mike had killed a teammate — and not on the practice field, where such things might happen in the course of a football player’s life — but didn’t know any of the details, not even who had died.

  “Sorry,” Quentin said. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

  Kimberlin shook his head, forced a smile. “Nothing to apologize for.”

  Maybe someday Mike would talk about it. If so, Quentin would be glad to listen. For now, though, Quentin needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

  He turned to Bumberpuff.

  “So, Captain — what now?”

  “Now, we grasp at straws,” Bumberpuff said. “We followed the Hypatia’s last-known path, but this location is where the trail ends. We can broadcast a signal, hope the Hypatia receives it and also hope someone on that ship is still alive to answer. But we are close to the interference zone, Quentin. Our signal won’t—”

  “Won’t go far, I know,” Quentin said. “Do it anyway. We have to try anything we can.”

  Quentin stared out the bubble. Stared hard. He would find Jeanine. He had to. She was out there, somewhere. He refused to believe she was gone.