by Scott Sigler
He looked up and down the expansive corridor, craning his head to see past the crowds of late-night revelers. He saw Yassoud and Pishor heading to the loading dock — that was a relief, as he wouldn’t have been surprised if the two had searched for another bar in which to continue their undecided battle. He didn’t, however, see the rest of his friends.
“Choto, you see John anywhere?”
“I do not,” Choto said. “Clifford seemed quite sober — I suspect he already has John and Ju at the limo.”
Quentin hoped so. He didn’t want to come back out here and hunt for the drunken Tweedys.
“Come on,” Quentin said. “Let’s head ou—”
Choto suddenly turned and shoved Quentin, hard. Quentin flew to his left — a metal pipe hissed through the air where his head had just been. He slammed into a Human woman; they both crashed to the metal deck. People scattered out of his way.
He looked back at Choto, who drove a knee into the ribs of the HeavyG holding the pipe. The attacker doubled over, face scrunched in pain. Choto swung a pedipalp fist into the man’s mouth, knocking him to his knees.
Quentin scrambled to his feet. A blur of motion hit Choto from behind: a Ki had expanded and slammed into Choto’s back. The two landed hard, skidding and rolling. Quentin ran toward Choto. He saw Yassoud and Pishor coming from the other direction. A Human near them turned sharply, swung a baseball bat into Yassoud’s stomach. ’Soud’s mouth opened in a breathless look of surprise; he dropped hard. Pishor’s fast pedipalp hands grabbed the bat out of the man’s grip, then jammed the end into the man’s mouth, knocking his head back. Pishor raised the bat to strike again, but three more attackers slid out of the crowd and gang-tackled him.
The Ki that had leveled Choto rolled on top of the Warrior, six legs straddling him, and started raining down blows with all four hands. The Ki wore Scarlet Fliers fan gear: a crimson lower-body suit, a black jacket with four long sleeves. The five Ki eyes saw everything, but seeing Quentin barreling in and reacting in time to do anything about it were two different things. Quentin drove his shoulder into the sentient, knocking him off Choto and driving the Ki to the deck. Quentin followed up with an elbow to the soft spot just below the Ki’s mouth. The effect was the same as hitting a Human in the throat: the ten-foot-long creature sputtered and gasped, spitting clear fluid out of his hexagonal mouth.
Choto stood on wobbly legs.
Yet another attacker slid from the crowd, a Quyth Warrior, middle hands reaching out and slapping against Choto’s chest — there was a crack of electricity; Choto flew backward, sending smaller sentients sprawling across the corridor deck.
Choto didn’t move.
The attacker turned to face Quentin. Like most Warriors, this one had multiple engravings on his reddish carapace. Quentin recognized some of them — gang symbols and the marks a Warrior got while serving prison time.
The Warrior wore gloves on his middle hands. A thin cable ran from each glove to a box on his belt. The gloves smoked slightly. Curls of black wormed across his cornea, but there were also strands of pink — nervousness — and some of blue — fear.
The HeavyG that Choto had taken out stood up. He weakly wiped blood from his mouth, grabbed the pipe, then fell in at the red Warrior’s side.
The coughing Ki struggled to get his six legs beneath him.
From farther down the old tanker, Quentin heard Humans screaming the kind of obscene encouragement typical of a street-brawl crowd — Pishor and Yassoud still fighting for their lives, probably.
The reddish Warrior moved closer to Quentin, smoking shock-gloves out in front of him. The bleeding HeavyG came forward as well, pipe held in both big hands.
Someone stepped out of the crowd and stood between Quentin and his attackers: a tall, black-skinned Human wearing a long coat and a fedora.
Jonathan Sandoval.
“You should leave now,” Sandoval said to the Warrior. “Before this gets messy.”
The reporter was tall, sure, but so skinny he looked like he might break into a dozen pieces if he tripped and fell on the deck.
“Sandoval,” Quentin hissed, “get the hell out of the way!”
The reporter held up a hand, a gesture that said stay back, let me handle this.
The red-shelled Warrior tilted his head to the right. “Get lost, or get hurt.”
The still-coughing Ki tucked his legs against the sides of his body, then slithered like a snake to the Warrior. Spectators scrambled out of the way. The Ki stood, reached into his clothing and drew a pair of ten-inch knives.
The reddish Warrior had the pipe-wielding HeavyG on one side, the Ki on the other. He waited another moment, as if he expected the sudden show of numbers to make Sandoval run.
Sandoval did not.
Instead, he stepped forward in a blur of motion, right fist shooting out in a straight jab that snapped the Warrior’s head back and sent him sprawling.
Quentin stared, stunned. He’d watched professional fighters in the Octagon, but he’d never seen anyone punch that fast or that hard.
Mods ... Jonathan Sandoval has mods.
The Ki’s blades slashed out. Sandoval turned, a precise movement — the blades slid harmlessly past. He drove an elbow into the Ki’s mouth with a sickening crunch: two black, triangular teeth spun through the air and clattered onto the deck.
The HeavyG raised his pipe, but he didn’t even get the swing off before Sandoval’s long leg kicked out, heel driving into the man’s stomach. The attacker flew backward, landed in a motionless heap on the deck.
With the three attackers down, Sandoval turned and grabbed Quentin’s right arm.
“Come with me, Barnes.”
Quentin tried to yank away, but Sandoval’s grip didn’t budge. The reporter squeezed — Quentin’s thoughts vanished beneath the single overpowering fear that his arm was about to break. Sandoval pulled Quentin toward Kessel’s Run.
Before Quentin knew what was happening, Sandoval had thrown him through the bar’s open front door. Quentin slammed into tables, knocking them aside. Kessel’s Run was almost empty: most of the patrons had run outside to watch the fight.
Sandoval entered. The two HeavyKi bouncers rushed at him. Sandoval’s hands snapped out and grabbed each one by their thick necks, his thumb pressing deep into the pressure point below their mouths. Both bouncers stiffened instantly, afraid to move a muscle.
“You’re closed,” the reporter said quietly. “Get everyone out, let no one in. Do what I say and I’m out of here in five minutes, no one gets hurt, and you’re each a thousand creds richer.”
He let them go. The two HeavyKi paused for a moment, black eyes blinking, then they started herding the few remaining drunkards out of the bar. Sandoval, meanwhile, stayed between Quentin and the door, blocking any escape. In seconds, the bouncers pushed the last person out, walked out themselves, then shut the door behind them.
Quentin was trapped with a man far stronger than any lineman he had ever faced.
“Sandoval, what the hell is going on? How come you have mods?”
“First things first,” he said. “I’m from Earth. The African States. We have a saying there — know what it is?”
Quentin shook his head.
“It goes, when someone saves your life, say thank you.”
Quentin needed to get to his friends, but from what he’d seen — and felt — he wasn’t going to get past Sandoval until Sandoval let him past.
“You’re right,” Quentin said. “Thank you. Do you know why those guys attacked me?”
Sandoval shrugged. “My guess is they were sent by one of your many true fans. You’ve got the Pirates coming up, and Kirani Kollok is still so tickled that you turned him down. Then there’s OS1 and your girlfriend Anna Villani. Then Buddha City, and we know how much your home system loves you. Then Gloria Ogawa’s Wolfpack, then—”
“I get it,” Quentin said. He was almost surprised the reporter hadn’t also mentioned Petra Prawatt. “There are pe
ople that want to take me out. Whatever. What about you, Sandoval? How can you get away with mods like that?”
Sandoval crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe.
“Because I’ve got special dispensation from my employer.”
“Net Colony News Syndicate has dispensation to turn sports reporters into killing machines?”
Sandoval smiled and shook his head.
“Clever. You always were so clever, Barnes. I mean my other employer.”
“Which is?”
“The Creterakian Ministry of Religion,” Sandoval said. “They pay me to follow you.”
The CMR ... the same organization that Richfield said would kill him if the church gained more than a hundred million followers. Did they know it was way past that already?
At least that explained the mods: if Sandoval was telling the truth, if the Creterakian Empire had hired him, they could give him some kind of pass for the illegal tech. It made sense why they picked Sandoval, or recruited him or whatever — as a reporter, he could follow the GFL teams and be at any game he chose. No one would think twice about it.
Quentin thought about sprinting to the rear of the bar, hoping he could find a back door, but he’d seen Sandoval move and knew he wouldn’t make it five steps.
“Why would you follow me? I’m just a quarterback.”
“You’re more than that,” Sandoval said. “At least that’s what the CMR thinks. The CMR is very concerned about just how dangerous you could be. You, and your church.”
Quentin felt cold all over. Was he going to die here? Die over something for which he had no interest and zero control?
He needed to get out of this bar, needed to get to Yassoud and Pishor, needed to check on Choto. Had John and Ju made it back to the limo, or had someone attacked them as well?
“My friends are still out there,” Quentin said. “They’re in trouble, so let me go.”
Sandoval shook his head. “Before you even ask me what I want? Why, that just seems rude”
The reporter was toying with him. Sandoval didn’t care about Quentin’s friends. Whatever this was, Quentin couldn’t help them until he played Sandoval’s game.
“Fine,” Quentin said. “What do you want?”
“The same thing everyone else wants, Barnes — money.”
Quentin felt a flutter of hope; this was just another kind of negotiation. Money he had.
“The CMR isn’t paying you, Sandoval? What, you’re just a patriotic citizen serving the Creterakian Empire out of the goodness of your heart?”
Sandoval laughed. “Not in this lifetime. Yes, they pay me, but we have another saying back in the African States. Want to know what that one is?”
“I’m on the edge of my seat with anticipation.”
“Why get paid only once when you can get paid twice for the same job?”
“Sounds a little long for a folksy saying,” Quentin said. “You sure you didn’t just make that up?”
“Sayings have to start somewhere, don’t they?”
Quentin grabbed a chair and sat. He calmed himself, controlled his breathing and heart rate.
“Why would I pay you? I won’t go bar hopping again anytime soon, so I doubt I’ll need further rescuing.”
“You’ll pay me because of what I can tell the CMR,” Sandoval said. “They are so afraid of how fast your church is growing that they’ll authorize an assassination order on you if it exceeds a hundred million members.”
“It’s not my church,” Quentin said. He hoped being calm about the assassination order — even a little dismissive of it — would help. If he showed no fear, that might take away some of Sandoval’s perceived power. “The church has my name, but I’ve got nothing to do with it.”
The reporter shrugged. “I’m not sure the bats care.”
Quentin shrugged. “Whether they do or they don’t, it doesn’t really matter, because the CoQB is nowhere near a hundred million members. I don’t know much about it, but I’ve heard it’s got around sixty-five million. I think I’m safe for a little while.”
Sandoval’s eyes narrowed; Quentin sensed his annoyance.
“Don’t he to me again, Barnes. I’m not one of your moron teammates that you can play little mind games with. I actually am a reporter. A good one. I know how to dig for information. I know how to find the real story, things like, oh, I don’t know ... Richfield’s little visit to the Touchback?”
The brief negotiation was already over. If Sandoval knew about that meeting, Quentin had to assume he also knew about the numbers Richfield had discussed. With one word to his bosses, Sandoval could sign Quentin’s death warrant.
“You said something about money?”
Sandoval smiled. “There we go, was that so hard? All I want is a little slice of that good fortune you got from being born a goddamn genetic freak. How much will you make this year?”
Quentin thought about low-balling the number, but Sandoval’s only job — as a reporter, anyway — was covering the Krakens. Quentin couldn’t take the chance that he didn’t already know the answer.
“Sixty-five million,” Quentin said. “But after my agent’s fifteen percent, and taxes, I get to keep thirty-three million.”
Sandoval shook his head. “The tax man, always there with his hand out. I feel your pain, my friend. Sadly, I’m going to add to it, but only a little. I’ll take eleven million. See? Just a third, because I’m a helluva nice guy. I’ve got an unnamed account at a Tower bank. You know how lax the Republic is with their financial system.”
“I get paid per game,” Quentin said. “I don’t have eleven million just sitting around. If I get paid per game, then so do you, you piece of garbage.”
Sandoval slowly raised a hand, fingers outstretched. He made a fist, opened it, made a fist, opened it: as he did, Quentin heard the tiny whirs and clicks of machinery.
“I can kill you right now, Barnes, and not a thing will happen to me, because I’ll tell the CMR what I know and say you tried to take me out.”
Quentin laughed. He couldn’t help it.
“If you kill me, you won’t get anything. And when I’m gone, I imagine the CMR won’t need to pay you quite as much as they do now. Unless the Church of Don Pine is approaching a hundred million?”
Sandoval’s smile faded. He lowered his hand.
“Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“Don’t take it as too much of a compliment,” Sandoval said. “There’s still a lot of headroom there.”
Quentin stood. “So do we have a deal?”
“Almost. You need to understand something. I know you want to get out of here and check on your friends, so you’d probably agree to anything. But this deal sticks, Barnes. If you think you can get out of it by tattling to Gredok, or the commissioner, you won’t like the results. I’ve got reports filed away that will automatically go to the CMR if anything happens to me. And if later on you decide not to pay me? Then I’ll report to them personally. You’re still rich ... just a little bit less so.”
He grabbed the door handle, stopped, then smiled over his shoulder.
“See you at the next press conference,” he said, then opened the door.
The two HeavyKi were standing there, a wall of flesh blocking the way.
“Get back in here,” Sandoval said. “Let’s get you two paid. Barnes, you can leave now.”
Quentin took off like a shot. Choto was still on the deck, but sitting up, a bloody Yassoud and a battered Pishor at his sides. Cliff Frost towered over them, glowering at the crowd as if to scare off any further threats. Two Human constables were there as well, probably trying to find out what had happened.
Quentin ran to his teammates.
“Is everyone okay?”
Yassoud pulled Choto to his feet.
“As soon as we see Doc Patah, we will be,” Yassoud said. “Broke my ribs for sure.”
Quentin slid his arm around Choto, carried the Warrior’s
weight.
“Cliff, where’s John and Ju?”
“Passed out in the limo,” the HeavyG said. “They’re fine.”
Quentin felt a flood of relief wash over him. Money he could replace, friends he could not.
The constables asked questions, but Quentin and the others ignored them. GFL players had diplomatic immunity and couldn’t be detained unless there was a felony; a bar fight didn’t count. There was also no sign of the attackers — they must have cleared out while Quentin was talking to Sandoval.
“Let’s get to the limo and get out of here,” he said. “I’ve had my fill of Neptune.”
QUENTIN SAT AT A TABLE in the Touchback’s dining deck, staring at the heaping plate of food before him. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he had to eat; maintaining the proper level of protein, carbs and calories was just as important to his training regimen as running, lifting and stretching.
If last night’s fight was the reason for Quentin’s diminished appetite, it didn’t have the same effect on Ju. Ju sat across the table from Quentin, gnawing big chunks from the roasted thigh of some animal (a pig, maybe, or a bressler, Quentin wasn’t sure which). Grease dribbled down his chin and onto the napkin tucked into his shirt. The shirt read: Ma Loves Me Best.
Michael Kimberlin sat on Quentin’s left, methodically working away at a small mountain of hamburger and mashed potatoes. Everyone had heard about the assault. While no one seemed to know of Sandoval’s involvement, the telling of the tale from Choto, Yassoud and Pishor made everyone understand that the attack had been organized and aimed at Krakens players. Kimberlin hadn’t asked if he could join Quentin at the table. The big HeavyG had simply sat, sending a clear message that he no longer cared what Quentin wanted: Mike was getting involved, and that was that.
On Quentin’s right sat Choto. The big Warrior had a blue bandage around his neck and an ice pack resting against the top of his head, held there by some kind of white wrap that circled under his tiny chin. He looked like he was still hurting; he also looked ridiculous. To Ju’s left sat Becca. She ignored her food and kept staring at Quentin, to the point where he felt uncomfortable. Like Kimberlin, she didn’t seem to care anymore about what had happened in the recent past — the attack had instantly changed everyone’s priorities. The whole team seemed on high alert.
