by Scott Sigler
The hologram stared at him, waiting, so real save for the tinge of shimmering blue.
Fight together? What the hell did that have to do with him? He wasn’t a general or a soldier or a ...
Finally, he understood. A numb sensation blossomed in his chest.
“You’re insane,” he said. “You think I’m one of the people that can help bring all the races together or something?”
Petra shook her head. “Not one of the people, the person. Only you can unify our galaxy, Quentin. You and you alone.”
The numbness wormed and wiggled, spread through his guts.
“I’m just a football player.”
“You are more than that,” Petra said. “You have already done things that no one else could do, things that I could not do. You brought my people into your world, peacefully, for the first time ever. You left the Portath Cloud, something that only a handful of sentients have ever done, and that no one has done in a century.”
“I only went there because you tricked me,” he said, his voice rising. He was losing control. He wanted to hit something, hit her, but the only real target was a prone Bumberpuff.
“I tricked you because I knew you were the one,” Petra said. “I knew you could make it happen. I could have manipulated any number of sentients into that mission, but I chose you, and I chose well. If you doubt your destiny, what about the war between the Prawatt and the Sklorno? You stopped that, all on your own.”
“All I did was tell everyone to calm the hell down. There was no reason to fight in the first place. It was all a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstandings have started more wars than history can ever count,” Petra said.
If she was mad, if she was frustrated, she wasn’t showing it. She was calm, yet focused, her image brimming with the intensity of someone who knows they are doing the right thing.
“You told everyone to calm down, and everyone listened. What you’re too young to understand is that each minute of each day, sentients in every corner of our galaxy tell other sentients what to do. Very rarely does anyone really listen — but everyone seems to listen to you”
Petra thought he was some kind of savior, someone who could unify races and governments that had been slaughtering each other for centuries, that had only stopped because the Creterakians had conquered most of them in a bloody war and made them stop.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “No one can unify the races. The smartest sentients in the galaxy have been trying to do that for as long as races have known other races exist. Politicians, scholars, philosophers, peacemakers, generals, people ten times smarter than me, a hundred times smarter ... they all failed. And you think some quarterback can do it?”
“A quarterback already has. Remember what you thought of the Prawatt before you came to Sanctuary?”
Quentin remembered. He, like everyone else, had thought of the Prawatt as the galaxy’s boogeymen, a lethal ax dangling over the head of every sentient in every system. He’d found that wasn’t true, and with Bumberpuff, Luciano Cretzlefinger, Katzembaum Weasley and Tommyboy Snuffalupagus, he’d given the rest of the galaxy hope that the boogeymen were, at heart, far more similar than they were different, regardless of their horrifying appearance and ridiculous names. The battle to overcome centuries of anti-Prawatt racism had only just started, but it had started, because Quentin had made it happen.
But that was just football, that was just finding a way to win — if it impacted race relations or politics, that was nothing more than an accidental benefit.
“So I recruited some good players that just happened to be from a different species,” he said. “It worked out. So what? I play a game for a living. Why aren’t you taking your message to the leaders, the sentients who can actually do something about this?”
“Because we can’t trust the leaders,” Petra said. “This isn’t just about military might. The million ships are coming, but Abernessia agents are already here. They want to corrupt from within, start wars between the systems, make all of us fight each other so everyone is weak when their armada arrives.”
It sounded like something out of a spy movie: evil alien advance agents trying to infiltrate governments, weaken them.
“How do you know this?”
“A few years ago, they found some of our outlying explorers,” Petra said. “They tried to buy my people off with gems, precious metals, other materials that are probably rare and valuable no matter where you are in the universe. But the Abernessia didn’t understand that the Prawatt are connected. The ultimate goal for a Prawatt is to gain enough knowledge and wisdom to merge with the Old Ones and thereby become immortal. So money doesn’t matter that much to us, but for Humans, Ki, Sklorno, Quyth, Harrah and others, that is not the case.”
It certainly wasn’t. Creterakians ruled much of the galaxy, true, but money ruled everything else. Billions of sentients wanted more, wanted better, and would do just about anything to get it. Quentin could easily imagine how effective such bribes would be with the downtrodden people of the Purist Nation — and just about everywhere else, for that matter.
“So the Abernessia are already here,” he said. “You’ve known for years and you haven’t said anything. Why?”
“Because the Prawatt might not have been their first attempt. If their influence has already infiltrated other cultures, who knows how high up that influence goes? That’s why you’re the one, Quentin — there has to be a massive groundswell of support before the governments get involved, so that leaders who object to unified action can be seen for what they are instead of having time to shape the message that people hear. We can use your fame to our advantage. When the time is right, you will tell everyone what we face. You will present the evidence. It’s one thing to call some unknown mechanical alien a liar — saying the same thing about the galaxy’s most popular individual is quite another.”
Quentin suddenly thought of Manny Sayed, of Manny’s claim that Purist mullahs would fight to be seen by Quentin’s side. He was an orphan, something despised in the Nation, yet fame and popularity had changed everything. But if the message was dire enough, the messenger didn’t matter.
“Just show your evidence,” he said. “Sentients will see. They will understand.”
“Evidence can be faked,” Petra said. She smiled softly, like she was a friend trying to give guidance and wisdom. “If leaders are already compromised, they will say I am a liar, that I am just out to start another war. That’s why it has to be you. Who could get the Sklorno Dynasty to cooperate? Someone with a hundred million Sklorno followers. Who could get the Purist Nation to cooperate? One of their own, a rags-to-riches folk hero who brought that system a glory everyone else claimed was impossible. Who could get the Portath to listen when the time comes? Someone who has already met them and lived to tell about it. Who could convince the Ki, both the Empire and the Rebel Establishment, how important this is? Someone who has proven himself as a warrior, who has bled with their kind on the field of battle. And who could get the galactic media to instantly pay attention, to instantly repeat what needed to be said before any government could filter or stifle that message? Someone the media can’t get enough of to begin with.”
She ran fingers through her short purple hair and let the heavy strands drop back into place. Centuries had passed since that hair had been real, yet the habit remained.
“There are other sentients who have done some of those things,” she said. “But there is only one who has done all of them. You. You will be the trumpet that sounds the alarm, Quentin. You.”
He stared at her but didn’t really see her. He’d been ready to be a team leader. He’d fought for that. But leading a franchise was nothing like this. She wanted him to lead the whole damn galaxy.
He shook his head. “You say I’m all those things. You’re wrong. You want to know who I really am? I’m the quarterback of the Ionath Krakens. I’m a brother to Jeanine Carbonaro. I’m a brother to John and Ju Tweedy. I am a son to Ma Tweedy,
and that is all I am. I’ve never asked for anything else.”
Petra’s patient smile faded. Those old eyes blazed with impatience — she was a supreme being whose word was accepted as divine.
“You don’t have a choice, Barnes.”
His anger flared up, a welcome sensation that chased away the overwhelming responsibility she had thrust upon him. Anger was familiar. Anger, he knew.
“My life is my own,” he said. “If you wanted my help, you should have asked for it, not chased my sister into the most dangerous place in the galaxy.” He stepped closer, staring down at the hologram like he would stare down at a real person he wanted to intimidate.
“I don’t trust you, Petra, and because of that, I won’t help you. You say I don’t have a choice? You’re wrong. There is always a choice, and I am free to make mine.”
Petra floated up until she was nose to nose with him. So much for intimidation. She stared at him, narrow-eyed and hateful.
“Is your precious freedom worth more than the trillions who will die when the Abernessia arrive? You better spend as much time as you can with Jeanine, John, Ju and Ma, Quentin, because when the horde gets here, all of you will die. You will understand that eventually, you will change your mind, and you will help me. To put it in words that a simple football player can understand, the only variable is time. I just hope you don’t wait so long that it kills us all.”
And with that, her hologram blinked out.
Bumberpuff’s prone form twitched, a dead spider slowly coming back to life. Quentin watched, transfixed, a part of his brain latching onto the visual distraction so he didn’t have to think about what had just gone down.
The Prawatt captain slowly got his limbs under him and rose to all fours. He tried to stand on wobbly, boneless legs. Quentin reached in and lifted a long arm.
“Cap, you okay?”
“No,” Bumberpuff said. “That experience is awful. But to serve Petra in that fashion, it is a small price to pay. Did you talk to her?”
Quentin nodded.
“And? Did you discuss grand things? Does she have your destiny picked out for you?”
His destiny. That was something he would make for himself.
“We talked about the weather,” Quentin said.
Bumberpuff looked so weak; the visitation had really done a number on him. None of this was his fault. He just wanted to do the right thing — and as with many sentients throughout history, that made him susceptible to those who would use that desire to manipulate him.
“Listen, Cap, I don’t want anyone to know about this. Keep it between us, okay?”
“You don’t want people to know the livings god came to your room?” Bumberpuff couldn’t have sounded more astonished if Quentin had suddenly turned into a little bird and flown away. “The living god, Quentin. Do you have any idea of how important this makes you?”
Maybe Quentin did, but it was an importance he didn’t want. He wanted this to go away. He wasn’t going to tell anyone about it, not even Becca.
“If you don’t mind, Cap, I want to get some sleep. Think you can make it to your apartment on your own?”
“Yes, it is only a few floors down. Good night, Quentin — and thank you.”
Quentin saw Bumberpuff out, then returned to the couch. He was tired but knew sleep would evade him. Perhaps another game of Madden would help tune out Petra’s message — mostly. One thing she had said stuck in his head and wouldn’t fully leave his thoughts.
The only variable is time ...
IT JUST DIDN’T FEEL RIGHT without John.
“Hey, ’Soud, know where Uncle Johnny is?”
Yassoud looked around the landing bay, surprised.
“No, I don’t. It isn’t like him to miss his favorite joke about rookie stank.”
As they had for the three seasons before, Quentin and Yassoud stood together in the Touchback’s landing bay. The entire team had gathered to welcome the shuttle back from the Combine. The orange and black vehicle clinked and plinged as the hull warmed up from its time in the void’s absolute cold: inside were the rookies who would have a shot at joining the Ionath roster.
Quentin heard a voice shouting from the corridor outside the landing bay’s internal airlock.
“Wait for me! Wait for me!”
“Ah,” Yassoud said. “There he is.”
John ran through the door, chest heaving and arms swinging in a dead sprint. He stumble-slowed as he approached Quentin and Yassoud.
“Did I ... did I ...”
MISS IT? scrolled across his forehead.
Quentin tipped his head toward the shuttle. “They’re still in there.”
“Oh ... good,” John said. He bent at the waist, put his hands on his knees. “Hey ... Q ... you ... smell that?”
Quentin smiled at the annual joke.
“No, John, what is it?”
“Smells like ... rookie ... stank,” John said.
Yassoud rolled his eyes. “It’s not even a joke, Uncle Johnny. It’s a statement. You really need some new material.”
Quentin didn’t mind. He hoped he heard the same joke for another ten years in a row, hoped that he and John would be Krakens until the day they retired. A pipe dream, sure, but hopefully the inevitable was many years away.
But the Abernessia will get here first, won’t they? You better spend time with John and Ju and Becca now, because when the horde gets here, all of you will die ...
Quentin shook off the thought. That was at least two years away, if it was going to happen at all, which he doubted. Petra would do something, so would the Creterakians and the other governments. He was safe, as was John and Ju and Becca and everyone else. More football, less Petra, that’s what Quentin needed.
“John, you’re never late to see what rookies we got. Where were you?”
Hands still on knees, John jerked a thumb back to the airlock door, then put his hand back on his knee.
“Was in the VR room,” he said, his breathing starting to return to normal. “Stupid aft lift doors got stuck. I had to force the doors open, then run down the emergency stairs.”
Yassoud nodded. “Same thing happened to me yesterday. Captain Kate had a crew out to fix it. I guess they’ll have to come out again. If the outer doors jam, on any floor, the lift freezes.”
Quentin used that lift all the time to get from Deck One, the practice field, or Deck Zero, the locker room and training room, up to Deck Eighteen, which held the VR practice room and the administrative offices.
“You said Captain Kate sent a crew? Why didn’t they fix it the first time?”
Yassoud shrugged. “The Touchback is an old ship. Things break down. Sometimes I think they fix things with spit and duct tape.”
The Touchback didn’t seem old to Quentin — it was newer than anything he’d experienced back on Micovi, that was for sure.
John stood. He was still breathing heavily, but not as bad.
SURE AM GLAD I’M IN GREAT SHAPE danced on his forehead.
He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted across the landing bay.
“Hey, Procknow!”
Jason Procknow looked over. The long-armed HeavyG stood with the team’s other defensive tackles: fellow backups Cliff Frost, also a HeavyG, and Ki Chat-E-Riret as well as Ki starters Mum-O-Killowe and Mai-An-Ihkole.
“What do you want, Tweedy?” Procknow yelled back.
“I can smell you from over here,” John shouted. “Weird how you still stink like a rookie.”
Frost pinched his nose and took a step away from Procknow.
Procknow glared at Frost, then gave John an obscene gesture.
A second-year player, Procknow was the only other Nationalite on the team, and the only one with an infinity symbol tattooed on his forehead. At seven feet, eight inches tall and over six hundred pounds, Procknow had the size to be a great tackle — but his ability was another thing altogether.
Procknow had barely made last year’s cut. Depending on what rookies ste
pped out of that shuttle — and what free agents were invited to try out in the third week of the preseason — he might not make this year’s. His cousin, Becky Procknow, had been killed on the field by OS1 linebacker Yalla the Biter in the second week of last year’s regular season. Some on the team — Coach Hokor included — thought that had messed with Jason’s head, affected his performance.
If Procknow didn’t make the final roster, though, Quentin wouldn’t be that sad to see him go; the man still believed what he’d been taught by the Purist Church, and was easily the most racist sentient in the Krakens organization.
The side of the shuttle let out a hiss of compressed air, then lowered on a bottom hinge, turning into a ramp that led down to the shuttle bay deck.
The first rookie out was a HeavyG man. He wore a black Krakens jersey, number 74. He was a big kid, just a hair shorter and a few pounds lighter than Procknow. Quentin had wanted this player, and Gredok had landed him.
“Josh Athanas,” Quentin said. “Center from the Kaparna Collision in the Rodina Planetary League.”
Yassoud read data from his palm-up display.
“He’s only eighteen years old,” Yassoud said. “Same age you were as a rookie, Q, oh yep.”
That caught Quentin off-guard. He’d known Athanas’s age but hadn’t thought about the comparison. Quentin’s own eighteenth birthday was already four years past. He was only twenty-two, yet seeing an eighteen-year-old rookie made him feel like an old man.
John sighed. “A rookie center. Doesn’t look good for Gan-Ta.”
Quentin remembered how mad Becca had been when he’d talked of getting a new center, of grooming Bud-O’s future replacement. Getting that replacement meant that Gan-Ta-Kapil, Bud-O’s backup, was probably expendable. There were only fifty-three roster slots available, not enough to carry three centers. Come the end of the fourth week of preseason, either Gan-Ta or Athanas would be cut from the squad.
Michael Kimberlin was first to greet Athanas. He walked the rookie back to the gathered offensive linemen, all of whom — except for Kimberlin — were Ki. Quentin saw Gan-Ta in the press of long bodies. Hard to see emotions in the Ki’s five black eyes, but he didn’t seem agitated. Maybe he thought he could still win his roster spot. Time would tell.
