by Scott Sigler
He actually believed what he was saying. Behind him, Sandoval smirked.
“Kopor is dead, Jason,” Quentin said. “Your bomb killed him.”
“What?” Procknow shook his head harder. “Don’t try and mess with me, Barnes, that was just flash-bangs.”
“He’s dead. So is one of Gredok’s bodyguards. Just flashbangs?” Quentin held out his left arm, showed the bloody shard sticking out of it. “Do flash-bangs make shrapnel like this?”
Procknow stared at twisted bit of metal. He turned to face Sandoval.
“You told me they were just flash-bangs! You said no one would get hurt! You said we had to make sure Barnes didn’t play!”
Sandoval made a face like the news surprised him. He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“Oh, dang, that’s right — I did say we were just going to hurt him. I forgot I told you that. But it all works out, big guy, because as forgetful as I am, there’s something that I do remember. Know what it is?”
Procknow shook his head.
Sandoval smiled. “Where you keep the gems they paid you.”
The reporter’s right arm snapped out, the hand a flat blade, the motion so fast Quentin barely saw it. The tips of his fingers jabbed into Procknow’s thick throat: a surprisingly delicate crunch, the sound of a glass lamp falling only far enough to crack, not shatter.
Procknow was as good as dead. Quentin knew it instantly.
The HeavyG’s knees wobbled. Just as he started to sag, Quentin swung the pipe in a vicious right-to-left arc. Procknow dropped in a heap, the pipe blurring right over where his head had just been and clonking Sandoval in the left temple. The reporter fell to his right, back into the lift.
Quentin stepped to the open lift door, ready to rush in and hit Sandoval again, but stopped — the man was already struggling to his feet. Sandoval’s body wasn’t fully obeying his commands, but his eyes were angry, sharp and focused. The shot he’d just taken should have killed him. Did the mods make him unbeatable?
The lift doors slid closed.
The doors, they get stuck ...
He jammed the pipe into the space between the door and the housing. He shoved it in as far as it would go, then gripped the free end with his right hand and leaned back with all his weight. The pipe groaned, metal against metal, then bent. Quentin let go: the pipe didn’t move, it remained jammed in the door.
Maybe that would buy a few seconds. A slam against the inside of the lift doors made him jump in surprise. He ran into the stairwell.
“Bobby, come on!”
The burned-faced man shook his head. Pain pinched his features, but he was ready to do his job.
“Gredok told me to stay, Mister Barnes, make sure he wasn’t followed. Go!”
Quentin started to protest, but if Bobby made the decision to stay, there wasn’t time to argue about it: Quentin wasn’t going to die for the man.
“Just run,” Quentin said as he started down the stairs. “That guy is modded all to hell!”
Bobby nodded — thanks for the concern — then looked to the stairwell door, ready to shoot.
The pounding from inside the lift reverberated through the stairwell as Quentin descended. His limp left arm messed with his balance. First aid or no first aid, he needed to pull that shard out of his forearm.
He stopped, grabbed the bit of metal with his right hand, and yanked it free with a fast tug. Blood flowed freely. He tossed it aside, metal skittering on metal, then held the wound tight as he started down again.
Quentin reached Deck Zero. Hokor was waiting for him, holding open the stairwell door. Blood covered the black-striped yellow fur of his hands and arms.
Gunshots from above, echoing down the stairwell from eighteen flights up. Quentin paused for a moment, hoping it was over.
Then, the sound of footsteps on metal stairs — footsteps that moved too fast to be from a normal Human.
Quentin nudged Hokor into the corridor, stepped in himself, then quietly shut the stairwell door. Maybe Sandoval would guess wrong and get off on Deck One. Anything to buy some time.
He and Hokor ran down the long hall toward the locker room. Hokor couldn’t hope to keep pace, so Quentin scooped him up with his right arm and sprinted. They were directly under the practice field; Quentin wondered if Becca was above him, if she was okay.
They passed by Doc Patah’s training room on the right and reached the locker-room door, which was closed. Quentin slowed, not knowing if the automatic door was shut off, but it hissed open, half sliding right, half sliding left, and they ran through into the central locker room.
Inside waited Virak, still effortlessly holding Gredok, and Haney, still struggling to carry Nancy’s mass. Haney’s chest heaved from exhaustion.
They stood by the holoboard. Past them was the forward entrance to the locker room. That door opened to a short hall ending in a single flight of metal stairs that led up to the Touchback ’s main corridor, which ran from the practice field’s orange end zone to the loading dock.
“Barnes, put me down,” Hokor said.
Quentin did.
Gredok hopped down as well. He pointed at Haney.
“Get Wolf to the loading dock.”
Haney readjusted Nancy’s weight, then lumbered to the forward door. It hissed open and he went through.
Gredok quietly said something to Virak.
“Yes, Shamakath” the Warrior said, then walked toward Quentin. Quentin didn’t understand what was happening until Virak brushed past, headed for the aft door.
Quentin grabbed his middle arm, stopping him.
“Virak, don’t go back there! It’s Jonathan Sandoval. He’s modded and dangerous. I think he got Bobby — we all have to get out of here.”
Virak looked back to Gredok.
“Follow my orders,” the gangster snapped. “Barnes, you will come with me. Virak will buy us time to get to the shuttle.”
“But he doesn’t stand a chance!”
Quentin’s left arm dangled, limp and useless but still loaded with ripping pain, specks of fire tingling through his bones. He and Virak together might take Sandoval, but with this arm, Quentin was useless in a fight.
“Virak, go,” Gredok said. “Your cowardice shames us both.”
That was all the motivation the Warrior needed: he yanked his arm free. He took three steps toward the aft door, then another Leader’s voice boomed through the locker room.
“Virak, stop!”
For years, Quentin and Virak had followed their coach’s commands; Hokor’s voice had an automatic effect.
Virak stopped.
Hokor stepped face-to-face with Virak.
“Shamakath, Virak needs to come with us,” the coach said. “We can all make the shuttle.”
Gredok’s middle right hand shot up, a stubby fist smashing into Hokor’s sternum. The coach let out a little whine, then fell in a heap on the floor.
“You dare tell me what to do? Get to the loading dock, now! And Barnes, come here. You are irreplaceable. Virak will do his job. Virak, go take care of that yakochat.”
“Don’t do it,” Quentin said. “Ignore this shamakath nonsense. If you go back there, you’re dead. You’re a sentient being — make your own choices!”
Virak’s eye swirled black. He pulled the bulky pistol from his waistband, then sprinted out the aft doors and into the long corridor. The door hissed shut behind him.
Would the gun be enough? Bobby had had a gun, and Sandoval had obviously gotten past him ... did Sandoval now have Bobby’s gun?
Virak was in danger, and it wasn’t his fault ... Quentin had to help him.
He stepped toward the aft door.
“Barnes, I told you to come here” Gredok said. “Virak is doing his duty so that we can escape. I order you to come with me!”
The door hissed open. Quentin stopped.
What are you doing, Quentin? Go to the shuttle, get away. Virak hates you. He’d beat you senseless if he could. What’s it going
to help if you die, too?
It wouldn’t help anything, and going after Virak was just plain stupid, but Quentin couldn’t help it.
He turned to face Gredok. Hokor was struggling to his feet; the blow must have really done a number on him.
Quentin pointed to the locker-room’s forward door. “Gredok, run if you want, or—” he pointed right, to the open entrance to the HeavyG dressing room, then left, to the open entrance of the Sklorno dressing room “—just hide if you don’t think you can make it, but either way? You’re a coward. Shuck you.”
Quentin turned and ran down the corridor after his teammate.
QUENTIN HADN’T TAKEN FIVE STEPS before he heard a flurry of gunshots coming from the training room on his left. Something heavy crashed into something heavier, then Virak the Mean stumbled out of the open entryway, hit the wall opposite, and slid down into a heap, leaving red blood smears trailing down the white surface.
The Warrior rolled, slightly, side to side, fresh wetness spreading across two spots on the chest of his black jersey. The big HeavyKi pistol was still held loosely in a pedipalp hand.
Out of the training room stepped Jonathan Sandoval. The tall reporter’s left temple — where Quentin had hit him with the pipe — bled badly, oozing from an already-swollen, split lump. He held Bobby Brobst’s pistol.
Before Quentin could move, the reporter aimed the gun at Quentin’s face.
“You really are a dumbass after all,” Sandoval said. “You should have just run. Not that I wouldn’t have found you anyway.”
Quentin took a step backward.
“Don’t,” Sandoval said. He bent and took the gun out of Virak’s pedipalp hand, then tucked it into his belt.
“I’ve got an idea, Quentin. How about we do this the old-fashioned way? Big, strong kid like you ... maybe you can beat me hand-to-hand. If you would have just paid me, I could have kept these mods. I want to kill you with them before I have some underground doc cut them out of me because, after this little endeavor, I can’t exactly go to a real hospital. I want you to know the pain I’m going to feel. But if you come at me, at least you’ve got a chance, right?”
Quentin calmed himself and read his opponent. There was no hope of beating Sandoval in a straight-up fight. Sandoval’s anger permeated his tall body, made his nostrils flare and — more importantly — made his hand tremble. He wasn’t experienced with firearms; he’d taken out Brobst and Virak, true, but this was still new to him.
Quentin took another step backward. The locker-room door hissed open behind him.
Sandoval leveled his aim.
“Dammit, pretty boy, are you gonna make me shoot you?” He sighed, took a step away from Virak toward Quentin. He was trying to be clever, but Quentin could see something else — the man was terrified. Maybe he had actually thought the bombing would be easy, that he could slip in, find Quentin’s corpse, then slip out... but it had all gotten away from him.
Other than pull that trigger, Sandoval had no idea what to do next.
And neither did Quentin. He had to draw Sandoval into the locker room, maybe grab a helmet and use that as a weapon.
Why didn’t you just get on the shuttle, why did you come back here, why why why ...
Now or never.
Quentin turned and dove in the same motion, knowing he was probably going to get shot but not having any other choice. The gun went off behind him, once, twice, then he hit the locker-room floor and rolled over his right shoulder, tucking into a ball, driving his powerful legs down hard and launching himself to the right, away from the door.
The gun went off again: this time, Quentin felt a burning impact on his right shoulder blade.
He landed hard but was up in an instant, sprinting the ten feet to the HeavyG locker room. The gun went off again as he ran through the open door. He heard something crack to his left — he turned a hard right, getting out of Sandoval’s line of sight.
“Damn, you’re fast,” the reporter called out behind him.
Quentin reached into the first locker he found and grabbed the helmet hanging there. The same shape as his, but wider, heavier, built to fit the larger HeavyG head. He tucked his back into the shallow locker, the wooden sides touching either shoulder. Maybe he could get one hit in when Sandoval entered the room, maybe knock him out.
Quentin stayed perfectly still. He’d learned to control his rage; he discovered the same emotional mastery let him push the terror to the back of his mind, hold it at bay while he did what he had to do. He held the helmet in his right hand, up high near his ear, arm cocked and ready to strike.
He saw the gun. Just the barrel, but he swung instantly. The helmet snapped down on the weapon, knocking it out of Sandoval’s hand: it clattered against the hard floor. Quentin stepped out of the locker and reared back for another swing — a fist drove into his mouth, knocking him backward. The helmet dropped out of his hand. He tried to get his feet under him but couldn’t move them fast enough.
He fell hard on his ass.
Through watering eyes, he stared up at Sandoval, who was shaking his right hand.
“Man, that hurt” Sandoval said. “I’ve about had it with—”
Quentin popped to his feet instantly, came forward hard to put a shoulder into the skinny man’s stomach.
Sandoval’s foot kicked out, caught Quentin full in the face, knocking him to the right. Quentin’s own momentum rode him into a locker; he smashed into the wooden panels, snapping them off the wall — quarterback, helmet, pads and panels alike crashed to the floor.
The world faded out for a moment, then back in. Quentin reached down, tried to push himself up but his left arm screamed and gave up instantly, while his right arm felt like it was made of cold meat.
“Yeah, you’re fast,” Sandoval said. “But not faster than me. Maybe I should try out for the GFL, huh? Oh, that’s right, I can’t because I’m not a genetic freak like you damn monsters.”
Quentin wouldn’t give up, couldn’t give up. He got to his knees, put his right foot flat, started to rise ...
... and from that position, through the seven-foot-tall Sandoval’s legs, he saw Hokor the Hookchest, HeavyG helmet facemask held in the fingers of his left-middle arm. The coach swung the helmet like he was bowling: the rounded crown almost brushed the floor as it passed between Sandoval’s feet, then arced up and hit Sandoval dead in the crotch.
The tall man grunted in surprise and pain; he half folded, knees buckling, face pinched tight, then he twisted back and to the left: the side of his fist smashed into Hokor’s head, knocking the little Leader to the floor and sending his tiny Krakens ball cap tumbling away.
The reporter turned to go after him, walking awkwardly with his legs pressed together, his expression of agony shifting to one of rage.
Quentin got his other foot under him, pushed his back against the wall and used it to help him stand.
Then he saw it... Bobby’s gun, sitting just right of the entrance, only a few feet away.
“You scumbag Quyth,” Sandoval said. “You hit me in the balls!”
The reporter launched a snap-kick that drove into Hokor’s little body with a muffled crunch — the Leader flew across the floor, landed and flopped, furred body convulsing.
Quentin took one step toward the gun; his leg gave out instantly—
BLINK—
It was like being on the football field ... no noise ... no nothing, only movement, pure and natural and effortless. He fell toward the gun, reaching his right hand out like he was stretching a ball over the goal line.
Sandoval heard him and turned, seemed to move with the same agonizing slowness Quentin felt. Sandoval’s eyes, first locking on Quentin, then on the gun.
Sandoval’s hand shot to his waist to draw the HeavyKi’s pistol.
Quentin’s body hit the floor; his right hand landed on the gun, his fingers closed around the cool metal.
BLINK—
Quentin rolled to his right shoulder, right arm stiff and straig
ht, gun pointed at Sandoval.
Sandoval froze, the HeavyKi’s pistol in his hand but still pointed down.
Quentin hurt all over, far worse than any game he’d played, but he could hide the pain like he’d hid it a hundred times out on the field. There was a man holding a gun, a man who had come to kill him, yet Quentin felt as calm as he did while standing in the pocket.
“Put it down, Sandoval.”
The reporter’s wide eyes revealed much. He knew he’d made a mistake, knew he should have just shot Quentin earlier, and now he had a gun pointed at him. The turmoil of that decision — choosing to punish Quentin instead of just finishing the job — roiled across his face.
“Put it down” Quentin said again.
Sandoval shook his head. Fear on that face, sure, but also a cold determination, and an all-powerful, underlying confidence in his modded abilities.
“I don’t think so,” Sandoval said.
“Know what the difference between us is?”
The reporter slowly shook his head.
“I’ve got a steady hand,” Quentin said.
Sandoval glanced down involuntarily, saw his pistol’s slight shake. His eyes flicked up to Quentin’s weapon. Despite the punch, the bullet wound, the kick to the head, the crash into the locker and using the wrong hand, Quentin’s gun might as well have been forever fixed in place for all it moved.
“Just drop it,” Quentin said, his voice calm and even. “Then get on the floor, face down.”
“What, and lace my fingers behind my head? You watch a lot of movies, Barnes?”
“Enough to know how this one ends.”
Quentin saw Sandoval’s nostrils flare, saw the locker-room lights reflecting off the pulse in his neck. The man was panicking. He was desperate.
“I can’t,” Sandoval said. “You know what they’ll do to me?”
“Whatever it is, you deserve it, and more. Final warning — the next sound you make will be your last.”
Sandoval forced a smile. “You ever killed anyone before, Barnes? You know what that feels like?”
Quentin pulled the trigger.
The gun jumped in his hand.
Sandoval’s head snapped back, then lolled forward. He fell face first, right cheek on the locker room’s tile, eyes wide open and staring. Blood oozed out of a spot in the middle of his forehead. He didn’t move.
