by Scott Sigler
Quentin stared into those lifeless eyes.
“I know now,” he said to the dead man. The dead man didn’t answer.
Blackness swept over Quentin, a welcome, much-deserved, much-beaten-into-him drop into unconsciousness, but a wet, rattling sound brought him back.
He tried to stand, still couldn’t manage it, so he crawled instead, crawled across the floor to Hokor the Hookchest.
“Coach, I’m here. Hold tight, I’ll get some help.”
The Leader shivered uncontrollably. Blood coated his black Krakens jacket. His pedipalp and middle arms were drawn in tight to his sides, making him look like a bumblebee that had just rolled to its back and was about to die.
Hokor started coughing. He stared straight up at the ceiling. For a moment, Quentin expected the coughs to kick out droplets of blood. When they didn’t, he felt a quick surge of hope — a hope that was dashed when spots of blood appeared somewhere else: inside the softball-sized cornea.
Quentin had no idea what to do. He put a hand lightly on Hokor’s chest.
“Coach, come on”
The lids blinked once, twice, a third time. Through the cornea, Quentin could see the little discs that lined Hokor’s eye cone, the cone that seemed to go back much farther than the head would allow.
“Barnes, are you out of danger?”
“Yeah, Coach, I’m fine.”
“Your face ... Humans are ugly to begin with, but now ... how unfortunate.”
For a moment, Quentin saw a reflection of himself in Hokor’s cornea: face sheeted with blood; nose broken, resting more on the side of his face than the front; lower lip swollen horribly; tooth missing, again, but he didn’t care about that now.
“Barnes, I am afraid I will not be able to coach you in the Galaxy Bowl.”
“Shut up,” Quentin said. He felt the tears coming, felt a hammer twisting in his chest. “Doc Patah will fix you up. All I have to do is get you to the rejuve tank — there’s got to be first-aid steps in the computer. Just hang tight.”
Quentin reached under Hokor, lifted him gently, but even that slight motion made the Leader squeal in agony.
“Sorry, Coach! Just hold on.”
Quentin forced his legs to obey. He carried Hokor into the central dressing room; Hokor cried out with each step. Quentin could feel the broken parts of his coach (how could any living being be this light?) beneath the Krakens jacket and the fur.
The aft doors open and he carried Coach into the corridor. Virak was still down, still in a wide pool of blood: Quentin had to help him as well. Yes, help Virak, but Coach first, he couldn’t lose Coach ...
Into the training room. He carried Hokor to the first rejuve tank.
“Barnes, set me down.”
Quentin carefully rested Hokor on a training bed, then examined the rejuve tank’s controls.
“Barnes ... too late for that.”
A sense of utter finality to those words — inarguable, unavoidable.
Quentin turned back to the table. Hokor lay there, battered, broken, bloody and shivering. More blood flecks inside his cornea now, making it a red color that Quentin wouldn’t have associated with any mood or emotion, because that color meant only one thing.
Quentin couldn’t stop the tears from coming. He didn’t sniffle, his swollen lip didn’t quiver, but tears flowed down his face all the same.
“Dammit, Coach ... you should have listened to Gredok. You should have gone to the shuttle.”
“I had to come help you,” Hokor said, his voice a paper-thin hiss of air. “Gredok is a criminal ... he is not a true leader. He is not like you and me — he will never understand what it means to be part of a team.”
Quentin took Hokor’s hand in his own. The fur was cold with blood. No strength in that hand, just enough to squeeze lightly, just enough to say: you are my friend, and I will miss you.
“You saved me, Coach. If you hadn’t come, Sandoval would have killed me.”
Hokor’s body shuddered again. More blood splattered inside the cornea. Then, he stopped shivering, seemed to relax.
“Football was my life, Barnes. Whatever it takes ... get me my second championship.”
Coach Hokor the Hookchest convulsed one last time; he lay still.
The gleam in his eye faded, darkened, then went out forever.
“YOUNG QUENTIN, I have to consult with the doctors on the Regulator,” Patah said. “I will be back momentarily.”
Quentin nodded once, his chin dipping into the rejuve tank’s pink fluid when he did.
Patah fluttered out of the training room.
The tank’s warmth soothed Quentin’s shoulder, but it did nothing for his soul.
He had taken a sentient’s life. Hokor the Hookchest was dead. So was Kopor the Climber. So was Procknow. So was Gredok’s HeavyKi bodyguard. Bobby Brobst, too, courtesy of a bullet in his brain: Sandoval had stood over him, shot him from only a few feet away.
If Quentin had told Gredok about Sandoval, or told Froese, would the Coach still be alive? Would Kopor? Or, would Quentin be the one who had died?
Thinking about the possibilities was driving him crazy.
And that wasn’t the only thing grinding at his thoughts: there was something wrong with his left arm. Something very wrong. This wasn’t a shattered pinkie, a broken bone, a cut artery or torn skin ... this was a kind of pain he’d never felt before.
Three of the medbay’s five rejuve tanks held occupants: one with Quentin, one with Nancy Wolf, one with Virak the Mean.
Froese’s white-suited shock troops, Creterakians included, had come in hard, responding to Captain Kate’s distress call. They had swept the ship for explosives and weapons. As far as Quentin knew, Froese’s goons were still onboard — which was interesting, because Gredok the Splithead was not.
Quentin had heard the team owner was on the Regulator, but he didn’t know for sure. The little coward. Was the overall situation Quentin’s fault? Sure, but was that last bit of what went down Gredok’s fault?
Yes. Absolutely.
Nancy Wolf was still unconscious. She was going to be fine, apparently, but it had been close. Patah had patched up her wound. In a few days, she would be okay, as long as she didn’t do anything too strenuous too soon.
Virak sat deep in his tank’s pink fluid, only his head visible, his half-lidded eye staring out blankly. He was taking Hokor’s loss hard.
Quentin stared abstractly at the holotank screens showing the wounds and vitals of the three patients, but he didn’t really see those things: he saw that dead look on Sandoval’s face, the way the man collapsed on the floor like he had no bones at all. Quentin knew he’d see Sandoval’s face over and over again, maybe for the rest of his life.
Procknow had betrayed the team. What was Kimberlin’s role in all of this? Maybe he had nothing to do with this attack, but if Quentin had turned in both Procknow and Kimberlin, Coach would still be alive. And why, after all the death, after everything that had gone down, was Quentin still not telling anyone Kimberlin’s secret?
“It is my fault,” Virak said.
Quentin laughed, a dark thing.
“Hardly,” he said. “You had nothing to do with this.”
“My fault,” the Warrior repeated. “If I had shot Sandoval before he shot me, Coach Hokor would be alive. You would not be in that tank. And Gredok would be here, with us, instead of abandoning us.”
There was plenty of blame to go around, but none of it belonged to the linebacker.
“You tried,” Quentin said. “You were brave. You followed your orders.”
“Which you told me not to follow. I wanted to listen to you ... but I had to obey.”
Choto had once tried to explain to Quentin about a Warrior’s need to protect his Leader, his shamakath. Quentin understood logically, if not emotionally. That instinct wasn’t like a Human dutifully following orders: with the Quyth, it was much more an obsession, even a biological compulsion.
Virak’s eye swirled with r
ed-orange: shame. Even beyond the loss and the crushing feeling of emptiness, Quentin’s heart broke for his teammate.
“It’s not your fault, Virak. None of it is. You have to trust me on that.”
“I am upset for another reason,” the Warrior said. “I have been ... cruel to you. And yet, you came back for me.”
Quentin’s choices had gotten sentients killed — he couldn’t handle any kind of praise.
“We’re teammates, Virak. You would have done the same for me.”
“No, I would not have.”
A moment of silence followed. Quentin knew Virak was telling the truth. The Warrior worked for a liar, and yet didn’t have it in himself to lie at all.
“Not unless Gredok ordered me to,” Virak said. “That is why I am struggling to understand. I would have left you, Quentin, yet if you had not come back for me, Sandoval would have put a bullet in my head as he did with Brobst.”
Doc Patah fluttered into the training room, ending the conversation. His skin looked paler than normal, clung tightly to cartilaginous ribs that moved in and out with irregular, stressed breathing.
Quentin’s left arm twinged, a bright stab that shot from his forearm to his armpit.
Please tell me I’ll be fine, please ...
“Young Quentin, I have consulted with my colleagues from the league, and they agree with my findings. I know you have been through an ordeal this afternoon, so perhaps we could discuss it later.”
Quentin sank a little lower in the pink fluid. It covered his chin, his jaw.
“Just say it, Doc.”
His own voice sounded distant, hollow.
“Perhaps later is better, young Quentin. In private.”
“Virak is my teammate,” Quentin said. The words seemed to come from somewhere else, from someone with barely enough energy to breathe. “Just say it, Doc — I won’t be able to play in the Galaxy Bowl, even if it’s postponed.”
Doc hesitated, unsure of what to do.
“It is worse than that,” he said finally. “You have ... it is better if I show you.”
Quentin had a moment to wonder what could be worse than missing the Galaxy Bowl, then the significance of what that might be set in.
No ... this couldn’t be happening.
Doc Patah flew to a holotank, moved it closer so Quentin could see it without sitting up. Doc called up an image, a representation of Quentin’s left arm: no skin, muscle done in translucent red, bone in translucent white, dense threads of nerves in shades of yellow. Some of the nerves, however, were orange.
“You have severe nerve damage in your left arm.”
“So fix it,” Quentin said. “That’s your job.”
“I cannot. No one can.”
Quentin felt cold. Cold and furious. He wanted to shoot Jonathan Sandoval all over again.
“Young Quentin, if there was anything that could be done, I would do it. Please understand that I am an expert on these types of injuries.”
“Like you’re an expert on concussions?”
Patah’s sensory pits pinched tight, held that way for a moment, then relaxed.
“No, not like my so-called diagnosis of your concussion,” he said. “I have not discussed this with Gredok. I’m not saying this because of pressure from him, Quentin, or from anyone else. This is real. If you doubt me — which I would fully expect, considering my past behavior — the league doctors will come to the Touchback and confirm what I am telling you.”
Maybe instead of wanting to shoot Sandoval again, Quentin wanted to shoot Doc Patah. Maybe he wanted to shoot anyone. This wasn’t happening, Patah was a hack, he—
Another blast of pain rocked Quentin’s arm.
“Doc, you got to fix me up. Drugs, nerve blocks, cut the damn thing open if you have to, but fix me — this is the Galaxy Bowl we’re talking about.”
“And you will not be playing in it,” Doc Patah said. The mechanical voice coming from his backpack grew more analytical, firmer.
“The damage to your arm involves the palmar branch of your median nerve,” Doc said. “It was severed by the shrapnel. I have repaired it, but it will never be the same. You will regain normal range of motion, perhaps even tomorrow.”
“So if I’m all better tomorrow, what’s the damn problem? Why are you scaring the hell out of me?”
“You will not be all better,” Doc said. “I am one hundred percent convinced that your fine motor control will be severely compromised. Your throws will have no accuracy. Your hand strength will also be reduced to the point where you will be likely to fumble if hit. I’ve seen similar damage before, Quentin — no one comes back from an injury like this.”
No one comes back. Quentin looked at the holotank. The angry orange nerves glared, blazed a message of doom. His chest felt empty. His stomach wasn’t there at all.
“I’m different,” Quentin said. “I always come back from injuries. I can play, Doc.”
A ripple washed over Doc’s taut old skin. His wings stopped undulating. He started to drift toward the floor. Then, the wings flapped, with purpose, and he rose back up again.
“Quentin, I am not making myself clear. This is more than the Galaxy Bowl. There is no recovery from an injury of this kind. You will never again throw with any degree of accuracy, let alone the pinpoint targeting that made you what you were — your career ... is over.”
From down the hall came the sound of the aft locker room doors hissing open. In case there was any more danger, the locker room had been declared off-limits to anyone other than Patah, the patients, and Commissioner Froese.
“Doc, say nothing about this, to anyone,” Quentin hissed. “Virak, same for you. You both give me your word.”
“You have my word,” Virak said instantly.
Quentin glared up at Patah.
“Young Quentin, I have responsibilities to—”
“Say nothing. Cross me and I’ll kill you.”
Patah fluttered backward a few feet, an automatic reaction.
“I promise,” he said. “I promise.”
Quentin had threatened Patah’s life and had meant it. He was turning into something awful ... because, perhaps, that’s what he needed to become.
Commissioner Rob Froese walked into the training room, followed closely by Leiba the Gorgeous. Froese took in the tanks, eyes lingering on Nancy, then Virak and, finally, Quentin.
“I’m sorry about your coach and teammates,” Froese said. “Coach Hokor the Hookchest will be missed.”
The sincerity in Froese’s voice and eyes made Quentin remember just how great Hokor had been. The psychotic rage that had made Quentin threaten Patah vanished in an instant, washed away in a sudden, overpowering wave of grief.
“Thank you, Commissioner,” Quentin said. “Did Gredok mention anything about a service for Hokor and the others?”
Froese’s face hardened at the mention of Gredok.
“He hasn’t,” Froese said. “Seems he’s upset that Hokor disobeyed him. I’m handling the service arrangements — personally. I ordered their remains taken to the Regulator, in hopes of returning the Touchback to whatever passes for normal following a thing like this. After the Galaxy Bowl, there will be a service for Hokor and Kopor.”
Quentin thought of Bobby Brobst, standing at the top of the stairwell. Hired hand or not, the man hadn’t run.
“What about the two bodyguards?”
“What about them?”
“They died, too. Are their lives any less important than Hokor and Kopor’s?”
“They were gangsters, Barnes,” Froese said. “We’re not going to celebrate them like they were heroes. You want to do that on your own? Be my guest.”
Maybe Quentin would do just that. If it hadn’t been for Brobst buying some time, the service might well have been for Quentin, too.
Froese looked up at Patah.
“Doctor, hit the road.”
“I beg your pardon? I am treating my patients.”
“I need five minutes,”
Froese said. “If you’re gone that long, will any of these three die?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then get out.”
Patah hovered in place for a moment, then silently flew out of the training room.
“We need to talk,” Froese said to Quentin. “There isn’t any time to wait, so we’re going to do this right now. Virak, are you listening?”
The Warrior’s eye glanced over, only slightly, but enough to show that he was paying attention.
“Good,” Froese said. “Barnes, we found two bags of gems on Sandoval, upwards of ten million credits’ worth. We also found a few loose gems hidden in Procknow’s room. We’ve pieced it together — someone paid Procknow to plant explosives. He smuggled them in on his person. Really advanced stuff, small but powerful.”
“Procknow didn’t think the bombs would kill anyone,” Quentin said. “I think Sandoval lied to him.”
“Possibly,” Froese said. “What matters, though, is that someone paid Procknow to not only plant bombs, but also sneak Sandoval deeper into the Touchback during the Media Day craziness. In Procknow’s room, we found the gear Sandoval used to hack into the ship’s systems. It’s high-grade stuff, Barnes — my people haven’t seen anything like it. Neither have our Creterakian military liaisons. I have people trying to find out how much it cost and where it came from, but it’s safe to say the word expensive doesn’t begin to cover it.”
So much for Gredok’s temporary fix. Yet another reason that Hokor was dead — because the team owner was too cheap to do things right.
“Barnes, if I had known that Sandoval was modded up like a damn shock trooper, he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near this ship,” Froese said. “Did you already know about Sandoval’s mods, Barnes?”
Quentin stayed quiet.
“Fantastic,” Froese said. “I know there’s only one way Sandoval could have gotten away with those mods, how the scans ignored him, and that’s if he was working for the Creterakian government. If you know which department he was working for, Barnes, you better tell me now.”
“And if I don’t say anything?”
