by Scott Sigler
4-2
Yall Criminals
3-3
Bord Brigands
4-3
Wabash Wolfpack
3-3
Neptune Scarlet Fliers
2-4
Alimum Armada
2-4
D’Kow War Dogs
2-4
Isis Ice Storm
2-4
Jang Atom Smashers
2-4
Themala Dreadnaughts
2-4
Sheb Stalkers
0-6
Coranadillana Cloud Killers
2-4
Shorah Warlords
0-6
D’Oni Coelacanths
0-6
McMurdo Murderers
THE DOOR TO YOLANDA’S CABIN OPENED. Quentin adjusted the strap of his shoulder sling, then stepped inside.
Images of his teammates floated in the middle of the room, lines of light leading between them, or to bits of text, or to paused holos showing scenes of flaming buildings, or to sentients Quentin didn’t recognize. System police, perhaps, from various regions. Floor to ceiling and wall-to-wall, Yolanda had filled her cabin with information.
She sat in the middle of the floor, cross-legged, staring up at all of it. The furniture had been pushed to the sides of the cabin, making more space for her tangled web of data.
“Yolanda, what is this mess?”
“This mess—” she said, then reached, grabbed an image of Virak the Mean and moved it to the left, the lines connected to him moving with it “—is how I do my job, Barnes.”
He scoffed. “Give me a break. This looks like your holotank overdosed on estarex and threw up all over the place. No one could make sense of this.”
She stood, shook her head at him.
“And if you handed me the Krakens playbook, think I could figure out the offense in the first five seconds?”
“I see your point. Where’s Whykor?”
Yolanda pointed to a couch pushed up almost against the wall. “Right there. He said he’s almost done.”
Quentin walked to the couch and peered over it. Wall panels had been removed, revealing a space behind them. A computer deck lay on the floor, cables running from it into the spaces, clamped onto various conduits and fixtures within.
“Whykor? You in there?”
The Worker’s head peeked out. Dust bunnies clung to his furred pedipalps.
“Hello, Mister Barnes.”
“What are you doing to our ship?”
The Worker stood. “This is how I accessed the Touchback’s databases, Mister Barnes. This ship is old, and the internal systems are rather outdated.”
The bad lifts, and now this?
“I don’t understand how that’s possible,” Quentin said. “Gredok spends a ton of cash on this ship.”
Whykor’s pedipalps quivered. “This is a fifty-year-old vessel. It would be impossible to fully update the internal security to modern standards, if Gredok even tried, which I assure you he has not. The conduits running alongside the passenger cabins were of the highest-grade military shielding five decades ago, but now, they are easy to access. Achmed-class ships were never intended for civilian use, you see.”
Quentin again looked down at the mess of wires. “Meaning you can do ... what?”
“Access the ship’s main system,” Whykor said.
“You’re kidding.”
“I do not kid, Mister Barnes. The internal systems have a decent degree of software security, but with the budget I have from Commissioner Froese—” he pointed to the computer deck lying on the floor “—this equipment allowed me to access whatever I wanted. If I had next-generation equipment — beyond even Froese’s budget, I’m afraid — I could seize control of the ship’s internal systems right from here. Fortunately, all I needed was access to the communications logs, which I have.”
“Someone could take control of the Touchback? From anywhere on the ship?”
“From the passenger cabins, mostly, Mister Barnes. Common areas have a different configuration. As I said, it is a design flaw in the Achmed-class schematic.”
“Maybe I should tell Captain Kate about this.”
“I would recommend it,” Whykor said. “However, please do so after Yolanda and I have finished our work.”
Quentin looked around the cabin again, wondered if Yolanda’s crazy display was actually her method of working through the possibilities, or if it had just been a way to hide Whykor behind the couch.
All those floating faces: Virak, Becca, Bud-O-Shwek, Shayat the Thick ... Michael Kimberlin. Could it really be Mike? Could he have done such horrible things?
“Who are you staring at?” Yolanda said. She walked over quickly, tried to see who Quentin was eyeballing, but he looked away.
She grabbed his arm, her face alive and blazing.
“Barnes, you think you know who it is!”
Quentin kept his expression blank, used all the skills he’d learned in his mental battles with Gredok to hide his lie.
“I’m not a cop,” he said. “Or a judge, or anything like that.”
“Come on,” she said. “Every bit of information helps.”
He could tell her his suspicions, but what if he was wrong? What if he cast doubt on Kimberlin and it turned out to be someone else? Without Kimberlin at right guard, the Krakens weren’t the same team. He couldn’t jeopardize that... if it turned out Kimberlin was the bad guy, sure, Mike had to face the music. Quentin just prayed that it was someone else — and he felt no small amount of shame for hoping that someone else wasn’t a starter.
He crossed his arms. “I have nothing to say.”
Yolanda huffed in disgust.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Barnes,” she said. “Those messages did come from the Touchback. Whykor found the signature of the device in question in the ship’s outbound communication records. One of your precious friends is a killer.”
To some degree, Quentin had already accepted that eventuality. It didn’t make confirmation any less hard to hear.
“But you still can’t read the messages,” he said.
“Correct,” Whykor said.
“What about the device itself?” Quentin said. “Could we search for it, maybe room by room?”
“The work I just completed indicated the device is a Grade-7 crystalline crypto-relay, phases sixteen through nineteen, with an Edwinian processor. These devices are both rare and extremely expensive. They are small enough to be hidden in just about anything, or easily carried on a sentient’s person.”
Yolanda put her hands on her hips, glared at the Worker. “After all of this, you’re telling me we can’t even find the damn thing?”
“I did not say that, Miss Davenport,” Whykor said. “I just isolated the device’s core identifying signature — what the Quyth would call the corneal map, or what Humans refer to as a fingerprint. When we come out of punch-space at Ionath, I can send a signal containing that signature. It doesn’t matter if the device is in active or passive mode — it will recognize that signal and respond with an identifier ping, indicating it is ready to receive an encrypted message. We will instantly know the location of the device.”
Quentin waited, expecting Whykor to say more, but the Worker just stared out with his one big eye.
“That can’t be all there is to it,” Quentin said. “You just send the signal and that’s it?”
“Correct,” the Worker said.
Yolanda glanced quizzically at Quentin. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was: it seemed too easy.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Quentin said. “No insult intended, Whykor, you’re smart and all, but you don’t strike me as some kind of computer master or secret spy. Know what I mean?”
“Yes, Mister Barnes, I believe so. While I’m very good at what I do, you are saying there are those with far more expertise — and someone in the ZG should know that such experts are out there.”
Yolanda sh
rugged. “Well, as long as I get the person responsible, what’s the point in worrying about that?”
“The point,” Quentin said, “is that the only reason Whykor found the device is because someone has been using it for five years. If this is some secret terrorist, wouldn’t they know enough to switch things out? Know they might become exposed if they keep using the same equipment?”
“Not necessarily,” Yolanda said. “Remember, this organization regularly gets sentients to strap bombs to their bodies and blow themselves up, so some of them aren’t that smart to begin with.”
Quentin thought about his teammates, the twenty-nine players that had been with the Krakens during the time in which the messages had been sent. Some were smarter than others, sure, but offenses and defenses were so complex that a truly stupid sentient couldn’t hope to process them.
“Still doesn’t add up,” he said. “Even if a player was that dumb — which I doubt — I’d think they’d have handlers or something. An asset like a GFL player that can go from system to system with diplomatic immunity ... you’d be careful to protect that.”
“Perhaps it is due to the cost,” Whykor said. “As I mentioned, a device like this would be prohibitively expensive. Perhaps they couldn’t afford to replace it?”
“Four tactical fighters attacked us off of Yall,” Quentin said. “Plus the pocket carrier that brought them. Is this device as expensive as a fighter?”
Whykor thought for a moment. “The G-98s that protect the Regulator are a few generations behind what the Creterakian fleet has but still cost around two hundred million credits each. The device might cost as much as one fighter, possibly two, but not four, and most certainly not also a pocket carrier.”
Yolanda shrugged again. “So?”
“So the Guild has money,” Quentin said. “You’ve got an agent in a valuable position using the same device for far too long, and the Guild won’t give a replacement?”
Yolanda looked annoyed. Her attitude bothered Quentin; she spoke of how she wanted justice, how she wanted the right person caught, but it was becoming apparent that what she really wanted was her story — and the sooner, the better.
“The bad guy has an old piece of gear,” she said. “So what? He’s still using it to talk to the Guild, Quentin — what’s your point with this?”
Quentin didn’t know if he even had a point. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Neither does blowing up innocent sentients,” Yolanda said. Intensity radiated off her. This was her moment; she wanted her story. “Send the signal now, Whykor. Let’s see who it is.”
Whykor’s fur fluffed, then quickly settled back down.
“As I said earlier, Yolanda, we have to wait until the Touchback comes out of punch-space to send the signal. We will be out in a few hours and arrive at Ionath.”
Quentin thought he saw a curling strand of red-orange on Whykor’s eye. The color of shame? What would he be ashamed about?
Yolanda threw up her hands in exasperation. “So close. I can’t wait to find out who it is. Three years I’ve been working on this. And just a few more hours until we know. It’s probably for the best anyway. Froese told us he’d be waiting at Ionath with a squad of Ionath System Police to take the jerk into custody. That will be sweet, won’t it, Whykor?”
“Absolutely,” the Worker said. “Sweet indeed, Yolanda.”
Another flash of red-orange on Whykor’s cornea, and this time Quentin was sure of it. Red-orange, a certain twitch to the pedipalps ...
Whykor is lying, no question. But lying about what?
Quentin had no idea, but the Worker’s body language told him he’d find out very soon.
QUENTIN CONCENTRATED, tried to breathe as the reality wave hit. He knew he was being watched: by two people who thought this was funny and one who thought it was a story angle.
“Dangit,” John said. “The one time I bet on him to cough up a lung, and he doesn’t even get a dry heave. I hate double or nothing.” He once again offered the golden bucket to Quentin. “Q, you sure you don’t need this?”
“I’m fine,” Quentin said. Maybe he was too distracted about what would happen after this punch-out to be sick. “You shouldn’t have bet against me, John.”
Ju grinned wide, patted his own stomach. “But he did bet against you, Q. A double-or-nothing bet. You know, John, you can still win it all back if we go quadruple or nothing when we travel to OS1 in Week Ten.”
“Puking or non-puking?” John said.
Ju shrugged. “Your choice. But choose wisely.”
QUADRUPLE SOUNDS EXPENSIVE scrolled across John’s face. He offered Quentin the puke bucket once again.
“Hey, Q, want to have lunch with me? How about a nice, greasy pork sandwich served up in a dirty toilet?”
“I eat with the Ki,” Quentin said. “You’re not going to make me ill talking about nasty food.”
Yolanda shook her head in amazement.
“I’ll never understand how grown men are so obsessed with bodily functions.”
She was just making small talk, waiting for the inevitable. She didn’t have to wait long.
Ju pointed out the viewport. “The Regulator again,” he said. “Looks like your ride is here, Yolanda. Aren’t you fancy.”
“Attention, all players, report to the shuttle bay,” Captain Kate said over the speakerfilm. “I repeat, all players.”
“Weird,” John said. “Not first-shuttle passengers only? I guess they came for your mods after all, Q.”
“Wasn’t funny before, not funny now,” Quentin said. “Go on ahead, guys, I need a quick word with Yolanda.”
John and Ju left the observation deck.
Yolanda was trying to hide her excitement — trying, and mostly failing.
“Game time,” he said. “You ready for this?”
She let out a big, long puff of air, then nodded. “Three years worth of work,” she said. “This is the moment where it all comes together.”
Quentin could relate — he remembered how he’d felt lining up in the tunnel for that first playoff game against the Wabash Wolfpack, a goal he and the Krakens had worked three years to achieve. Now one of the players who’d achieved that same goal was about to be taken away, probably for good.
“Let’s find Whykor and get to the shuttle bay,” he said. “Time to get this over with.”
QUENTIN STOOD next to Yolanda and Whykor. The entire team had gathered as well, along with Coach Hokor and Captain Kate.
The orange and black Krakens shuttle was there, but so was a white one with the blue, purple and white GFL logo covering the side.
The Krakens players waited silently. They didn’t know what this was about, exactly, but they knew it couldn’t be good.
Patah had let him take off the shoulder sling. It was nice to be free of it. Quentin hated any reminder that his career was always one hit away from being over.
The shuttle door opened on its bottom hinge, lowered to the deck. Two power-armored Sklorno stepped out first, then Leiba the Gorgeous, holding his stun-stick. Last out: Commissioner Rob Froese and Gredok the Splithead.
For once, Gredok did not speak first. He calmly stepped to the side, leaving the floor to the commissioner.
“We need to speak to one of your players,” Froese said. “Whykor, do it.”
The white-furred Worker raised a pedipalp, palm up. A single icon floated above it: a slowly spinning red star. With his other pedipalp, he reached out one finger and poked the icon.
There was a pause, then a muffled beep from among the players. The Krakens glanced at each other, then down as it beeped again. Quentin craned his neck to see who it might be. He spotted Kimberlin, who looked aghast. Another beep — only it wasn’t coming from Mike: the players closest to him were looking at someone else.
Leiba moved toward the sound, the power-armored Sklorno flanking him. Krakens scurried out of their path.
There was one more beep, then the players cleared away from the only person
who didn’t move at all, a person who just stood there, head down.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Yolanda said.
She sounded almost disappointed.
Standing there, suddenly all alone, with a final beep coming out of his pants pocket, was Yitzhak Goldman.
“Shuck me,” Quentin said.
Leiba and the two armored Sklorno surrounded him.
Froese waved a little hand inward. “Come on, Goldman. Let’s go.”
Yitzhak looked around, perhaps wondering if he could make a break for it, but like Dan Campbell three seasons earlier, he knew there was nowhere to go.
“My kids,” he said. “My wife.”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” Froese said. “Let’s just get you out of here nice and calm.”
John Tweedy stepped forward, nostrils flaring, muscles flexing.
“You ain’t taking him anywhere, shorty. No way Yitzhak has mods.”
Froese paused, caught between instantly responding to this challenge to his rule and obvious sympathy for John’s faith in his teammate.
“Stay back, Tweedy,” Froese said. “This isn’t about mods.”
“He doesn’t have any,” John said. He turned, looked at Quentin. “Tell him, Q! Tell Froese that Zak is clean!”
Quentin didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. John’s face creased with confusion and heartbreak — he’d expected his brother to instantly back his play.
This was wrong, all wrong. There had to be something else to this — Yitzhak couldn’t be a terrorist.
Quentin quickly scanned the players; so many expressions of anger, of concern for Yitzhak. And then Quentin saw Kimberlin, those same emotions visible but also one more: fear.
And then Quentin understood — only one of them carried the transmitter, but both of them were in on it.
Kimberlin stepped forward. “This isn’t going to happen,” he said. “Zak’s not going anywhere.”
Ju stepped out of the pack, his hands flexing into fists as he inched closer to one of the armored Sklorno.
“Zak isn’t some rookie fresh from the combine,” Ju said. “Nobody is taking our teammate.”
Other voices grumbled in agreement.
