by Scott Sigler
Quentin had never seen a Leader participate in any athletic event, let alone wear armor into a dangerous contest. And The Reef? He’d never heard of it.
“Somalia, where did the announcer say the Stompers were from again?”
“A crazy place,” she said. “The Reef is a huge-huge artifact on the galaxy’s edge. Bigger than four or five planets combined or something. We played a show out there.”
“Galaxy’s edge? How many punches to reach that?”
Somalia’s eyes narrowed as she thought. Quentin found the look incredibly attractive.
“Twenty-four, I think,” she said. “Yeah, twenty-four punches, one way. Took us three weeks of travel to get there.”
By Quentin’s count, that would be forty-eight punches worth of motion sickness. Not a good time. “That’s a really long trip. How many shows did you play?”
“Just the one.”
“You did forty-eight punches for a single show?”
“We played a private party for Mary Garrett. She’s rich-rich like we could never taste. We made more money on that show than the rest of the tour combined.”
Somalia, it seemed, traveled even more than Quentin did. Endless trips through punch-space to perform in front of thousands of sentients. In that regard, they had much in common.
The holodisplay zoomed out to give a larger view of the spiderish monstrosity. It had to be twenty feet high, with a mouth full of long, inwardly curved teeth. Quentin realized that the creature really only had four legs — the other two were pedipalps, perhaps five feet long and tipped with claws the size of butcher knives.
NIGHTMARE BEAST, 6,871 KILOS
“Damn, that’s big,” Quentin said. His eyes flicked to the scratched crysteel walls, a small part of him wondering if they actually could restrain such big beasts.
Two smaller creatures walked out of the double doors. Four long legs supported a thick body with a stubby neck extended up from the front. Shorter pedipalp arms hung from the sides of a sleek, one-eyed head.
POTOL THE HALF-WIT / SPIDER-BEAR / 614 KILOS
YOPAT THE CRAZED / SPIDER-BEAR / 734 KILOS
“Sweet!” John shouted. He stood up in his seat and pounded his fists against the crysteel. “Come on, Pete! Eat those ticks up!”
The racial insult drew glares from the Quyth Warriors, Workers and Leaders, seated nearby, but none of them said a word.
The two teams of horrific mounts lined up on either side of the floating platform. The wheel started spinning. A hush fell over the crowd. A stiff flapper at the top of the wheel clacked against posts ringing the wheel’s outer edge, the sound magnified by the stadium’s speakerfilm. The clacks slowed as the wheel did, until the top flapper pointed to a slice labeled dismount.
John jumped up and down. “Super-sweet! You’ll like this one, Q. The goal is to tear the other jockeys off their mounts. Last team with a mounted jockey wins.”
The trumpeters let out a bah-bah-bahhhh blast. Monsters from both teams returned to the wall near their respective doors. The wheel platform slid back across the field and into its space below the rows of fans. Arena walls slid back into place.
The game was about to begin.
“Q, get ready,” John said. “Get ready for some Dino-shucking-lition!”
Quentin nodded but wasn’t sure if he was ready at all. The city of New Rodina wasn’t that far away — what if one of these creatures ran wild through the streets? There would be panic, carnage.
The trumpets sounded another five notes, bah-bah-bah-bah, BAHHHH! and the match was on. The Tyrannosaurus rex rushed straight forward. Its speedy teammates sprinted single file to the right, following the oblong wall’s long curve. Their path would bring them directly under Quentin’s seat. The blue-armored Stompers seemed to pause for a second, reminding Quentin of the way he looked at a defense just before the snap, then they shot forward, monsters scuttling on four huge legs. The Nightmare Beast led the charge, flanked on either side by the two Spider-Bears.
John slapped the glass. “They’re going after Pete! Come on, Pete! Take ’em out!”
Pete’s Tyrannosaur closed the distance, its big body moving with a grace and speed Quentin hadn’t thought possible for a creature of that size. The two smaller Quyth mounts ran ahead of their bigger teammate, first angling out, then back in to attack Pete’s flanks. Quentin saw the red-armored Ridgeback speedsters break off from the wall, running three abreast, trying to come in from the rear but they would be too late. While he’d never seen the game, Quentin instantly understood what had happened — the Ridgebacks had split up, hoping to draw the smaller Quyth mounts away from Pete. The Stompers hadn’t taken the bait — instead, they focused their attack on the now-isolated T. rex.
Would they take Pete out right away?
The two largest creatures on the pitch came hurtling at each other. As the smaller Quyth mounts closed in from the sides, Quentin saw the big Nightmare Beast slow, just a bit, almost flinching away from the impact.
Lances snapped off of hard armor. The Tyrannosaur lowered its head and smashed into the Nightmare Beast, a high-speed concussion of armor and flesh some 12,000 kilos strong. The crowd roared in satisfaction, a blood-lust scream similar to what Quentin heard when he was on a football field. Bits of armor, both Ridgeback-red and Stomper-blue, broke off and flew like brightly colored shrapnel, falling to the pitch and skidding across the dirt surface.
The Nightmare Beast stumbled to the side. The T. rex struck, opening its gaping mouth and reaching for the blue-armored jockey. Such speed from something so big. Quentin’s breath locked in his chest.
John screamed in time with the rabid crowd: “Eat him up, eat him up, rah-rah-rah!”
Mouth wide, wet-white teeth flashing in the afternoon sun, the T. rex’s jaws bit down on the Quyth Leader jockey. Just as they closed, Quentin saw the Quyth Leader’s blue armor shift, compressing somehow into a smaller, rounder shape. The T. rex’s teeth snapped together and the Quyth Leader vanished somewhere inside that huge mouth.
The two smaller Spider-Bears attacked. One jumped at the T. rex’s throat, wide mouth and curved jaws punching into the red neck-armor. The other Spider-Bear went high, leaping fifteen feet into the air to land on the T. rex’s back. Four long legs bowed out at the joints, lowering the creature’s center of gravity and letting it scramble up the moving T. rex’s long neck.
“Pete, look out!” John screamed as if the jockey could hear him ninety meters away over the roar of forty thousand fans.
Pete reached down to the side of his saddle and pulled something free. He stood and turned, his feet balancing on the saddle, one hand holding the T. rex’s reins, the other holding a war-hammer almost as big as he was.
The scene held Quentin fast — the T. rex thrashing from left to right, a Spider-Bear trying to cling to its neck from below, a second Spider-Bear rushing up its back to attack an armored little man brandishing a hammer.
Pedipalps reached for Pete, who suddenly dove to the left, off the T. rex. Quentin expected him to plummet twenty feet to the ground, but Pete was still holding the reins. The motion brought Pete swinging underneath, left hand holding the reins, right hand swinging the hammer. The hammer’s big head smashed into the dangling Spider-Bear’s rider, knocking him off his mount to crash to the pitch below.
John jumped up and down. “That’s two! One more!”
It had all happened in the span of a few seconds, from the first crash to Pete’s action-hero swing. The Ridgeback speedsters closed in, two of them actually leaping up onto the T. rex’s back to attack the Spider-Bear still crawling up the big neck. With almost a thousand kilos on its back and a red-armored midget swinging from its reins, the T. rex stood tall and let out a roar that made Quentin’s stomach quiver. The Spider-Bear tried to cling tight, to hang on to the suddenly vertical neck, but both red-armored speedsters bit down on its legs and dragged it free. Armor spinning and blue blood spurting in long streaks, the three smaller creatures crashed hard to the dirt
pitch. The impact seemed to stun mounts and jockeys alike.
The third Ridgeback speedster, however, had been waiting. It closed in like a blur, bit down on the blue-armored rider and yanked him out of his saddle. A flick of the head sent the Quyth Leader flying thirty feet into the air. A fall like that could easily kill a sentient, but at the apex, Quentin saw the Leader’s armor shift into a blue ball. As that ball plummeted toward the ground, it slowed, small, hidden rockets shooting out little cones of flame. It hit without much velocity, then rolled to a stop.
“This is horrible,” Somalia said. “I love it! Becca, do you like the game?”
Becca gave a polite smile, shook her head. “Not sure this is for me. Quite impressive, though, I’ll say that.”
Trumpets sounded, the crowd bellowed.
“First round to the Ridgebacks,” an announcer called, accompanied by a four-note blast from the trumpets. “Both teams return to your section to await the next spin.”
Quentin felt a fist hit his shoulder. John had somehow reached across both Becca and Somalia without touching either one.
“Q! What did you think? Awesome, right?”
Quentin shook his head. “John, that was horrible. That big lizard thing killed that Leader! This isn’t a sport, it’s barbaric.”
John laughed. “Q, it’s okay. Armor turtles up when a jockey is in danger.”
Quentin again gazed out to the pitch. Sure enough, the Quyth Leader’s armor shifted again. The blue ball seemed to unfold and the tiny Quyth Leader stood. His Spider-Bear mount, trailing a stream of blood from its legs, scuttled over to him, picked him up with its pedipalps and placed him back in the saddle. Jockey and mount then ran back to their side of the pitch to await the next spin.
“See?” John said. “He’s fine. They’ll patch up his mount’s legs as best they can, then go at it for the second round.”
“But what about the first one?” Quentin said. “John, Pete’s mount swallowed him!”
John nodded. “Yeah, sure, he got munched. He’s out of the game. His backup has to come in and take over. But don’t worry, Q, Pete’s ride will poop him out in a few hours.”
“He’ll what?”
“Poop him out.”
“Poop him out?”
“Yeah, sure. That or puke him up. Jockey armor has like two day’s worth of oxygen, Q. Just enjoy the next spin.”
Quentin eased back in his chair. He felt Somalia’s fingers tighten in his own. Even with her there, he wasn’t enjoying the show. It was just so ... brutal. Was this how some sentients felt when he played football? When players were knocked out, had limbs torn off ... even died? And yet, just like when he played, the crowd ate up every last minute of it. Was this gladiator sport really any different than his?
“Hey, Mister Barnes.”
The voice came from behind. The kid with the Hullwalkers shirt.
Quentin turned. “Yeah?”
“Sorry about calling you a butt-nugget. Would you sign my messageboard?” The kid offered a small board that already projected a floating image of Quentin’s face, a picture the kid had just taken while Quentin was watching the action down in the pit.
People thought they could take a picture of him whenever they wanted? Did he have no privacy?
No, he did not. Not anymore. At least not while playing in the GFL.
“Sure, kid,” Quentin said and took the board. He started to sign with the tip of his pointer finger when the image on the messageboard wavered. It changed from a picture to words.
FREDERICO SAYS YOU SHOULD GO TO THE BATHROOM, RIGHT NOW. THE OUT-OF-ORDER ONE.
Quentin stared at the board. He’d been sitting here, watching the match for what, a half-hour? And this kid had been a plant from square one?
“Are you gonna sign it, or what?”
Quentin looked up. The kid kept a perfect poker face. Quentin looked back down to see that the message was gone. His picture was back again, with a space for him to sign.
“Yeah, sure.” Quentin signed his name. He handed back the board.
“Thanks,” the kid said. “And the Krakens still suck.”
Quentin nodded, then excused himself to Somalia. He walked to the steps. Two security guards stood up as well.
“Need something, Mister Barnes?”
“Bathroom,” Quentin said.
The security guard put his wrist near his mouth and mumbled something. He nodded at Quentin. “Right this way, sir.”
The guard walked up the sandstone steps. Quentin followed, the second security guard right behind him.
• • •
THE FIRST SECURITY GUARD came out of the bathroom, stepping over the yellow tape running between two orange cones.
“All clear,” he said. “Janitor is in there, but I patted him down. He’s just fixing something. He’s clean. Go on in, Mister Barnes, we’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Thanks.” Quentin stepped over the yellow tape and walked in. From far behind him, down in the stadium, he heard the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd and wondered who had been eaten.
Inside the bathroom, he saw the janitor repairing a nannite hand-cleaning machine. The wall-mounted device hung open, various parts and tanks sitting on towels on the tile floor.
If Quentin hadn’t known Frederico was the janitor, he would have never recognized the man. When in his normal state, Frederico was six feet tall, about two hundred pounds and in his mid-thirties. He always looked like he’d just stepped out of a tough-guy detective holo. The bearded, slouched-over schlub in the bathroom, however, looked like he was pushing fifty and would need a crane to help him stand up straight.
“Excuse me,” Quentin said. “I need to use the facilities.”
The bearded janitor looked up, saw Quentin, then looked around the bathroom, checking to make sure no one else had crept in. Normally, even while in disguise, Frederico looked confident, calm. Now, however, his eyes carried a haunted look, as if there were someone — or something — stalking him.
It had been months since Quentin had seen this man. Months that Frederico had supposedly been out hunting for Quentin’s family. Had the search finally produced results?
“You surprise me,” Quentin said. “I thought this Dinolition thing was legit, but you set up the tickets?”
Frederico shrugged. “Rachel Guestford owes me a favor or three. I had to contact you while you were away from Ionath, make sure no one knew I was trying to reach you.”
That didn’t sound good. Only John Tweedy knew Frederico was working for Quentin. Frederico and Quentin both wanted to keep that information away from Gredok the Splithead.
“Fred, are you okay? I know how much you like to play dressup and all, but is something wrong?”
The janitor nodded. “Yeah. Someone doesn’t want me to find out about your family. I’ve spent the last few weeks ducking some pretty heavy hitters.”
Heavy hitters. And who could that be? The same group that bombed the victory parade? Or maybe sentients who worked for the owner of the Ionath Krakens?
“Who were they? Gredok’s gang?”
Frederico shook his head. “I wish I knew. I can’t say for sure if they’re his goons. And they’re not the only ones. That little reporter piece of fluff was also on Micovi, digging away.”
“Piece of fluff? You mean Yolanda Davenport?”
Frederico nodded. “That’s the one. I was at Micovi Stadium, seeing if the Raiders had any info on your past. She was there.”
“Did she see you?”
Fred laughed. “Quentin, please. I’m a professional.”
“What was she doing on Micovi?”
“Digging into the history of Quentin Barnes, just like me. Just like the heavies I ran into.”
“She find anything?”
“I don’t know,” Frederico said. “I don’t think she found much. She seemed to be looking for real specific stuff, stuff about your time with the Raiders, not about your childhood. The hitters, on the other hand? They wanted the s
ame info I found. They always seemed to be just a step behind me.”
“So ... you did find something?” Quentin waited for him to speak, but the man seemed to have trouble finding the words. “Well? Come on, Fred. Out with it.”
Frederico looked at the ground, shrugged his shoulders. “You sure you want this, Quentin?”
It had to be bad news. But was it all bad news? Was Quentin really alone? He took a breath, let it out slowly and tried to brace himself for the words.
“Yes. I want to know. All of it.”
“Okay,” Fred said. “I managed to find a family record based on DNA. I used some of your blood.”
“You didn’t ask me for my blood.”
Frederico shrugged. “You’re religious. Who knows what you superstitious primitives think is sacred?”
“I bleed all the time on the field, Fred. You really assume I would think blood is sacred?”
“There’s no logic in religion, Quentin. Anyway, if you said no, I would have been out of an option, so I went with it.”
“And where, exactly, did you get my blood?”
“Nanocyte patch back in Ionath Stadium,” Frederico said. “Not hard to come by, Quentin. As you mentioned, you bleed a lot. You knew a guy on Micovi named Sam Sargsyan? Ran a barbecue restaurant?”
Sam Sargsyan. Mister Sam. That brought back memories. “Yeah, what’s he got to do with it?”
“Nothing,” Frederico said. “I met him though. He said you liked to eat. A lot.”
“I weigh almost four hundred pounds, Fred. Of course I eat a lot. You’re stalling. Come on, tell me.”
Fred chewed on his lip for a second, then nodded. “You’re right, I’m stalling. The Purist Nation records are scattershot at best. Their technology is about four hundred years behind everyone else’s, but I found the death record for your older brother.”
