by Scott Sigler
He didn’t know. And he didn’t want that kind of responsibility. He couldn’t change an entire race with a single comment, but at least for his followers, he could make a difference.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “No one gets killed, cooked or eaten in my name. I forbid it.”
Richfield thought on this for a few moments. Just watching her response told Quentin he was asking for a lot, perhaps too much. But in the end, she did the Sklorno version of a bow.
“So let it be written,” she said.
The Ki wrote.
“Thank you,” Quentin said. “All right, you told me you’re the high priestess and you listened to my commandments. When you hailed our ship, you said it was a matter of life or death?”
“Yes, Quentinbarnes. We have come to tell you that your life is in danger.”
“From who?”
“The Creterakians,” Richfield said. “They are watching your church. That is why-why-why we had to come meet you out here, way away from Ionath and the Sklorno planets.”
“Wait a minute — they’re watching the church. I don’t do anything with the church, so how can that put my life in danger?”
Hoyt licked his lips, then leaned closer like he was sharing a deep, dark secret.
“We have converts in the Creterakian Ministry of Religion, and they say that bad things could happen to you if your followers measure over a hundred million.”
“What kind of bad things?”
“Assassination, for one,” Hoyt said.
Choto leaned in. “Assassination is a bad thing, Quentin.” He leaned back.
Quentin sighed and rubbed his eyes. Religious people back on Micovi or standing on the 50-yard line of the Touchback’s practice field, it didn’t matter — they were all crazy.
“A hundred million,” he said. “Then I guess I’m safe, because that number is ludicrous.”
Hoyt beamed and nodded furiously. “We know! The Creterakians think you have only sixty-five million!”
“Well, that’s good, then, because ...” Quentin lost track of his thought. “Wait, did you say only sixty-five million?”
Hoyt nodded.
“Worshiping me? Sixty-five million sentients, worshiping me?”
“That is what the Creterakians think,” Hoyt said. “We have been meticulous in communicating that false number, to lead them astray.”
Quentin felt a hollow feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.
“So ... how many do I really have?”
Hoyt looked at Richfield. She stepped forward, spoke so quietly Quentin had to strain to hear.
“It is difficult to tell,” she said. “Very difficult. Our current estimate is two hundred and fifteen million.”
Quentin stared at her. Then he stared at Hoyt, then at the Ki, then back to Richfield.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Richfield bowed. “Very well, Godling — we are kidding.”
“That’s not what he meant,” Hoyt said. “Godling, we’ve studied this, very carefully and very quietly. Other than the sentients standing here with you now, no one knows that estimate.”
Two hundred and fifteen million. That was ten times the number of sentients that lived on Micovi.
“Quentinbarnesquentinbarnes, are you pleased?”
That was more than all the mining colonies combined. The entire planet of Stewart had a population of just over 300 million.
The CoQB wasn’t a church ... it was a nation, and it was growing.
“Quentinbarnes? Have you any other commandments?”
He shook his head. He couldn’t handle any more of this.
“No,” he said. “No more commandments. I’m just a football player. Don’t bother me again.”
He turned and walked away, Choto instantly at his side.
Quentin hadn’t asked for any of this, didn’t want any of this. Petra, Richfield, Gredok, Kimberlin ... Quentin wanted them all to just leave him alone and let him do the thing he’d been born to do.
“Choto, I’m going to break down footage of Neptune’s game against the Earthlings. Care to join me?”
“Of course, Shamakath,” Choto said.
Quentin hated that term. He usually lectured Choto against using it, but not today, because that term was accurate — to Choto ... and to some 215 million sentients.
QUENTIN ADJUSTED his red do-not-hit practice jersey as he walked toward the line, stopping about five yards behind Bud-O-Shwek. Shotgun formation: Kopor the Climber stood at his right, Yassoud on his left. Up above, the Touchback’s dome showed the pure black of punch-space.
They had been hard at it during the trip from Yall to Neptune, had run literally hundreds of plays together, yet still Quentin couldn’t get used to having Kopor at fullback instead of Becca. A gray-striped Warrior behind him instead of a HeavyG woman — it just felt weird.
It wasn’t that Kopor was doing anything wrong. He knew the offense, of course — not with Becca’s instinctive mastery, but easily well enough to handle most anything thrown his way. Still, Quentin was glad Kopor’s first game was against the anemic defense of Neptune and not a head-crushing squad like OS1. Kopor had been the starter before Becca came, and with a game or two, hopefully he’d be back to his old form.
Quentin gazed out over his orange-jerseyed offensive line to survey the black-jerseyed defenders. John Tweedy looked back from his middle linebacker position. His eyes flicked to his right, Quentin’s left, telling Quentin that Virak the Mean was coming.
The called play was a screen pass to Yassoud. If this had been a game, it was the perfect thing to run against a linebacker barreling in, but right now Quentin didn’t need to gain yards — he needed to see if Kopor could pick up the blitz.
“Red, twenty-two,” Quentin called out. “Red, twenty-two!”
The first word, red, signaled an audible. The second, twenty-two, indicated the play. His offense knew that if he called any number other than one in the twenties, the original play-call stood. This gave Quentin the chance to make “fake” audibles so the opposition couldn’t key in on a particular color.
Red twenty-two was a downfield pass. Yassoud would roll out to the left flat on a pattern, leaving Kopor alone to stay home and pass-block.
John crept toward the line, pointed at Kopor and screamed. “I’m coming for you, meathead! I’m tearing off your head and taking a dump on the black stuff inside your shucking chest, then I’m going to kill your quarterback!”
I NEVER LIKED QUENTIN ANYWAY scrolled behind John’s facemask.
Earlier in the week that kind of talk had gotten a rise out of Kopor, distracted him. In three days of practice, however, he had settled down and wasn’t taking John’s bait.
Quentin raised his right knee high, signaling to Bud-O that he was ready for the snap. When Quentin put his foot down, there was a one-second pause before the ball shot toward him.
The offensive and defensive lines clashed together: hard, but not as hard as in a game.
Quentin raised the ball to his left ear. He kept one eye on his receivers and one on Kopor.
John pushed into the line like he was the one blitzing. Kopor took a half-step forward. Even yesterday, Kopor would have bought into that feint and overcommitted, rushing straight at John, but not this time.
John reversed, back-pedaling into coverage.
Quentin saw Virak coming from the left, coming hard. Kopor had to react immediately ... and he did. The fullback tucked and rolled, popping up between Quentin and the oncoming Virak.
Hokor had ordered the team to go half strength — unless they were facing Kopor, that was. Virak brought every ounce of his 375 pounds in at top speed. Kopor’s 415 pounds met him head-on with a thunderous crack of helmet and armor.
Quentin stepped up into the pocket, as he would in a game. Virak kept coming but Kopor had a good fit on him, kept Virak from adjusting his path of attack — the linebacker harmlessly passed through where Quentin had be
en standing one second earlier.
Quentin threw a dump-pass to Yassoud in the flat, who ran upfield until Bumberpuff came up to meet him. The two players slowed, then ran into each other with all the intensity of friends sharing a hug.
A whistle blew from Hokor’s floating cart.
“Nice work, Kopor,” the coach’s amplified voice called out. “Much better than yesterday. Second team offense, ten reps, let’s go!”
Virak reached down a middle arm, gripped Kopor’s pedipalp arm and pulled the bigger Warrior to his feet.
“Good block,” Virak said, then turned and ran to the defensive side of the line.
Kopor’s eye swirled with yellow-orange, and Quentin couldn’t blame him: Virak the Mean didn’t pass out compliments often.
Quentin and Kopor jogged to the sidelines with the rest of the first stringers. Nancy Wolf and a red-jerseyed Yitzhak came on to replace them, along with Josh Athanas and the other second-string linemen.
As the second offense huddled up, Quentin saw Bud-O scurry past the sideline benches toward a waiting red-jerseyed Becca. She handed him a ball. Bud-O got down into his center’s stance. Becca stood behind him. She turned her head left and right, looking out at an imaginary defense. She called out signals — softly, enough for Bud-O to hear, enough for her to practice the snap-count cadence, but not enough to disturb the second team out on the field.
Becca took the snap and drove back five steps, keeping the ball high at her ear. She read through some imaginary coverage, then threw twenty yards on a rope to a waiting Milford, who quickly threw it back.
Many players weren’t happy with her leaving her position and bumping Haney to the practice squad. But some players, obviously, either didn’t care or just wanted her to be as prepared as she could be.
As the third-string QB, Becca saw only a handful of practice plays. Yet here she was, creating her own drills, visualizing what she would do when she got in, practicing her drop back, her reads, even the way she took the snap. Her moves looked sharp and precise. Her eyes burned with intensity.
Quentin glanced back to the field, where Yitzhak stood behind a full offensive line and shouted a snap count.
How long would it be before that was Becca with the number-two squad ... and if that happened, what would it do to Zak?
Transcript from the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan, Akbar, and Tarat the Smasher”
DAN: And now let’s get into our topic of the day. It’s GFL Week Five, and we all know what happens come midnight, Friday, Football Standard Time — the trade deadline! Deals get made before Saturday, or they don’t get made at all. Akbar, what news do you have?
AKBAR: The big story is the trade of linebacker Izic the Weird from Themala to the Pirates in exchange for center Graham Harting. The Pirates keep investing in their defense, and this is a big move.
DAN: Harting was an All-Pro, a big reason that Pirates QB Frank Zimmer — God rest his soul — had such a long career. I can’t believe they traded him.
TARAT: Dan, Harting is an excellent player, but the Pirates have a young new quarterback in Abdullahi Ba, and they want him to develop with a young new center, to build a connection that will last for years. It is obvious that the Pirates will not make the playoffs this year, so it is logical that they are trying to build up their defense for next season.
AKBAR: Not make the playoffs? Tarat, the Pirates are 3-1, they’re in third place and, also, wait, let me check my sources — they are the To Freaking Pirates. Is that centipede sandwich you’re eating laced with drugs? Because you must be high.
TARAT: I do not participate in the consumption of controlled substances.
DAN: Hey, Akbar, let’s not refer to a sponsor’s food as laced with drugs, all right? Because here at the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show, we just love us some Hooper’s Grinders. Hooper’s, with franchises all across the Planetary Union, the League of Planets, the Tower Republic and opening soon, the Quyth Concordia. They provided us today’s delicious lunch, including that lovely centipede sandwich. Tarat, is it delicious?
TARAT: It is, Dan. Proper centipede cooking is truly an art.
DAN: I’m glad it tastes good, because what I’m about to tell you will not sit well in your mouth. Did you read Yolanda Davenport’s column that posted a few minutes ago?
TARAT: I did not.
DAN: Yolanda reported that the Krakens have officially moved Becca Montagne to quarterback and have put third-string QB Trevor Haney on the practice squad.
AKBAR: What? She’s an All-Pro fullback! Why would they do that?
TARAT: Yes, Dan, why would the Krakens do that?
DAN: The column says that Montagne demanded it or she wanted to be traded.
TARAT: I am unhappy that Yolanda Davenport acquired this story and I did not.
AKBAR: She really kicked your ass this time, Tarat.
TARAT: So who will be the starting fullback for the Krakens?
DAN: According to Yolanda, that will be Kopor the Climber or rookie Nancy Wolf.
TARAT: This is a major mistake on the part of the Krakens, Dan. Their offense relies heavily on a mobile fullback that can block and also catch short passes. Often, the Krakens leave a linebacker unblocked at the line of scrimmage, and it is the fullback’s responsibility to stop that player from reaching Quentin Barnes. Kopor the Climber is a personal acquaintance of mine, but he is not at the caliber of Montagne. If she isn’t lined up to protect Barnes, this will cost the Krakens in the long run.
AKBAR: I guess being the Galaxy Bowl MVP’s girlfriend has benefits, eh, Dan?
DAN: So it would seem, little buddy.
TARAT: Or it could be the result of her agent, Danny Lundy. He is infamous for his ability to get his clients what they request.
DAN: Let’s go to the calls! But first, let me take another bite of this delicious vat-grown protein and ranch dressing sub from Hooper’s Grinders. Hooper’s, take a bite, take a big bite. I ... oh my god, that’s disgusting! What’s in my mouth?
TARAT: I believe you ate my centipede sandwich by mistake, Dan.
AKBAR: (laughing) Oh man, I switched ’em, and you just ate it!
DAN: (spitting) Good god, I think I’m going to die!
AKBAR: (laughing loudly)
TARAT: Dan, do not be an infant. Insect protein is very good for the Human body.
DAN: Water! Beer! Oh my god, I think I have a leg stuck in my teeth!
QUENTIN STOOD in the Touchback’s observation deck, his eyes closed, waiting for the punch-out.
“He’s totally gonna puke,” Ju said.
“No way,” John said. “Our little Quentin is all growed up. He doesn’t do that anymore. One fluker does not a puker make.”
Quentin tried to ignore them. That was hard to do when they were here not to see the Touchback arrive at Neptune, but instead to watch him. He’d made the mistake of mentioning to Ju that he’d thrown up after the Capizzi punch-out, and now his delicate digestive tract was the main topic of conversation between his brothers.
“Puke detector on full alert,” Ju said. “Put your money where your mouth is, John — a six-pack says Q has a yak attack. I even brought the puke bucket.”
Ju held up the small golden trashcan that Quentin had used in seasons past. A plastic trash bag lined the inside, while stickers from GFL teams covered the outside. The latest addition: a red sticker with the black-lined white trident, the logo of the Neptune Scarlet Fliers.
“You’re on,” John said.
Quentin felt the shimmer start, felt himself spreading across an infinite amount of space, then ripping back together at something beyond the speed of light. He was queasy, sure, but he’d gotten so much better at this. That punch-out at Capizzi had caught him by surprise: this time he was ready. The last of the shimmering started to fade away. He was going to make it, he—
Something flicked him in the crotch. Not too hard, but enough to make his breath catch, enough to make him bend over a little. He opened his eyes to see a gri
nning Ju, offering the golden puke bucket. Next to him stood John, his face an expression of outrage and betrayal.
“No fair,” John said. “You can’t touch him if there’s a bet!”
Ju shrugged. “You didn’t say I couldn’t touch him, so I can.”
Quentin started to stand up straight, then saw the briefest shimmer as the last of the punch-out effect drained away.
He snatched the bucket away from Ju, who laughed as Quentin threw up.
“Cheater,” John said. “Shucking cheater mega-booger eater. You can’t flick a guy in the nads to win a bet. That’s just not... it’s not classy.”
“Six-pack,” Ju said. “And good beer. None of that swill you and Quentin drink.”
Quentin heaved one more time, then the queasiness passed. He stood and performed the last part of the ritual, tying the top of the plastic bag so someone could come in and get it later.
“Nut shot,” Quentin said. “Not very nice, Ju.”
Ju shrugged again. “All’s fair in beer and bets, Q. It wasn’t personal — it was just business.”
Out beyond the observation deck’s crysteel windows, Quentin took in the sights of Neptune. A massive sapphire-blue world, several times bigger than Earth. A gas giant — not as big as Jupiter, but still damn big. Humans didn’t live on Neptune proper, nor did Ki or even Quyth. Harrah were the planet’s only full-time residents; they flourished on the gas giant just as easily as they did on the five planets of the Tribal Accord.
It wasn’t the planet itself that made Neptune, it was the seemingly endless clusters of constructs surrounding it: small vessels, mining barges, stations, manned satellites, decommissioned warships, obsolete cruise ships, old colony arks that had never made it out of the solar system ... all part of the flourishing “world” known as the Neptune Net Colony.
Floating dead ahead was the Touchback’s destination point: Trident Station. An old ark originally meant to carry half a million emigrants to Tower, it had fallen victim to a Planetary Union economic depression; the government had run out of money even before fitting it with what would have been the largest — and most expensive — punch drives in history, leaving the ark only three-quarters complete. The massive derelict sat unused for fifty years, right up until the Shell Gas Corporation bought the ark for a fraction of its original cost. The company used a new impulse-drive technology to move the station from a position near Earth to Neptune, a trip that took almost a decade. Trident City now housed somewhere around 400,000 permanent residents in the ark proper and well over 1 million more in the thousands of vessels spreading away from it like a combination asteroid belt/insect hive.
