by Scott Sigler
“A ... floating turd?”
“That might be too nice a term,” Danny said. “It’s spoiled Whitokian guts processed into a digital form and turned into a legal document. Trust me on this one, buddy.”
“Well, I know it’s not good, but ...”
“Not good? The salmon I had for lunch was not good, guy. Your contract? It’s atrocious, flagitious and abysmal. An athlete of your caliber needs to be properly compensated for the danger he faces, wouldn’t you agree?”
Well, yeah. Danny was right about that. Quentin was in danger. On every single snap of every game, his health, his career and even his life were at risk.
Quentin nodded.
“You could suffer anything from abrasions to deformations to decapitations, buddy,” Danny said. “And for this brave effort, this stalwart endeavor, this soldiering leadership, you make league minimum? Is that right, Quentin? League minimum?”
“Uh ... yes, Mister Dolphin.”
“Danny.”
“Danny, right, sorry.”
“League min-eh-mum!” Danny laughed a somewhat disturbing combination of barking squeals and a rich, artificial human tenor.
“I tell you, guy, this whole contract of yours makes me angry. It makes me enraged, deranged and estranged. But I can get this fixed up for you, buddy. Gredok the Splithead wants to play hardball? I can make him regret it. Trust me on that. His compensation is defamation, his pay is no-way. You’re a free agent at the end of the year, so if you sign with me, we can get you what you deserve. He wants to play rough? No problem, I’ll show him how we do things a hundred meters deep.”
Quentin gathered that was a figure of speech, although he had no idea what it really meant. “So, uh, Danny ... how exactly do we play hardball with a gangster that can have sentients killed whenever he feels like it?”
Danny’s squealing laugh filled the room again, made the glass table vibrate. “Simple, guy. We fight fire with fire. We put him in a bidding war with other gangsters that can also have sentients killed whenever they feel like it.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “And how do we do that?”
“You’re a free agent at the end of the year, buddy. That means we go out and talk to other teams.”
“Talk to them about what?”
Danny stared, then laughed again. He turned to face Yitzhak. “Zackie, baby, is this two-legger messing with me? Because if he is, he’s hysterical!”
Yitzhak shook his head. “He’s not messing with you. Get used to it, Danny — when you’re dealing with Quentin, what you see and what you hear are what you get.”
Danny turned back to Quentin. “We talk to the other teams, buddy, about playing for them. If Gredok doesn’t want to take care of his star quarterback, maybe that star quarterback lines up under center next year in something other than a Krakens jersey.”
Quentin sagged back into his chair. He’d always known that being a free agent meant you could play for other teams. Logically, he’d known that. But emotionally? Emotionally, he’d never really considered that he would ever wear anything but the Orange and the Black.
“I don’t know, Danny. I think we’re building something great here.”
The silver hands lifted, palm up, then set back down — Danny’s version of a shrug. “You’re the client. If you want to end up in Ionath, that’s where you end up. But if you want to get properly compensated for putting hundreds of thousands of sentients in the stands, for making billions tune in to watch, for risking your life and limb not just in games but in practice, then I need negotiating power. If High One wants you in Krakens orange next season, guy, then you have to trust his teachings and know everything happens for a reason.”
Quentin stared at the dolphin’s black eyes. Stared hard. “Danny, do you actually think the High One has anything to do with this? Or are you just telling me what you think I want to hear so we’ll ... I don’t know ... bond or something.”
Danny paused. Quentin thought about his holo in the waiting room, how Danny had somehow picked exactly the picture that would make Quentin feel at home. And now Danny was referring to the High One, probably trying to make Quentin relax that way as well.
“The High One has everything to do with this, buddy,” Danny said. “Just not in the way that you think. You need a negotiator. When it comes to negotiation? I am the shucking High One.”
The statement was damn near sacrilegious. But instead of angering Quentin, it made him smile. In a room like this, Danny Lundy was just as cocky as Quentin was on the field. Maybe that was yet another affect to make Quentin feel comfortable, but whether it was fake or not didn’t really matter — because it worked.
“Danny, I’ve never worked with a fish before.”
“Cetacean,” Danny and Yitzhak said together.
Danny’s mechanical rig sprayed a fine mist onto his rainbow skin. “Fish are food. I’m a mammal, guy. Warm blood and a big brain.”
“Cows are mammals,” Quentin said. “Aren’t they food?”
Danny’s blow hole let out a hiss of annoyance. “If you find a cow that can give you a record-setting contract, I suggest you sign with him.”
Quentin laughed. “Point taken. But like I said, I’ve never worked with a ... what was it again?”
“Cetacean,” Danny and Yitzhak said together.
“Right. I’ve never worked with a Cetacean before. Don’t you think someone with my religious background might be better off with a human agent?”
Danny shook his head hard, a motion that made his entire seven-foot body lurch and scatter water droplets onto the floor. “When it comes to business, buddy, Cetaceans are where it’s at. You could go Human, or Ki, or even sign with that talking cow if you find him, but no matter what you do, you won’t get the kind of personal service, the kind of dedication that my species brings to the table. It’s genetic with us. You sign with me, I’m not just an agent — I’m your protector, your champion, the sentient that knocks the living hell out of everything that opposes you. I’m unstoppable, unflappable and far from a gamble. Others might tell you they will land you the contract you deserve? Not me, guy. Danny Lundy gets you the contract that you’ve earned.”
Danny seemed to know all the right words. Athletes were always talking about what they deserved, like the universe owed them for having been born with physical gifts. Quentin didn’t buy into any of that. All the gifts in the world didn’t matter if you didn’t work your ass off to develop them and at the end of the day, even that didn’t matter if you didn’t win.
Life wasn’t about deserving anything. It was about earning everything.
And if Danny had said those words because they were what Quentin wanted to hear? Well, at least that meant this Cetacean was one hell of a researcher.
Quentin stood and extended his hand. “Danny, I’m in. Let’s see what you can do.”
• • •
THE FIRST DAY OF A NEW YEAR. At least it was back on Earth. The concepts of “years” lost all meaning in a galaxy filled with over fifty inhabited worlds, each world with its own orbit around its own star. Quentin didn’t care about “galactic constant time” or the Creterakian’s unified calendar — football seasons operated based on Earth years, so that was the only system that mattered.
January 1. Less than a month to opening day — Sunday, January 27, 2684.
He walked into Ionath Stadium’s locker room, his chest buzzing with the feeling of possibility, of potential. He’d been gone too long. It felt different this time. The Krakens weren’t outsiders anymore, they weren’t the underdogs, they wouldn’t measure success by just avoiding relegation.
No. Not this year.
This year, they were going for it all.
The Ionath Krakens are on a collision course with a Tier One championship. The only variable is time.
The central locker room. Here the entire team gathered before taking the field, or to review Hokor’s Xs and Os on the holoboard. Empty, of course, because he was two hours early. He
was the first one to arrive. Quentin knew that to lead meant setting an example of hard work, of dedication.
Four doors lined the room, each marked by a species-specific icon, each leading to a species-specific section where the players could prepare as suited their kind. No, not four doors ... five. Quentin saw that now — in addition to icons denoting Ki, Sklorno, Human and Quyth Warrior — there was one marked for the HeavyG. That had been added sometime during the off-season. The GFL’s HeavyG players kept pushing the concept that they were not just big Humans, but a separate species that deserved species-level recognition.
Yet another wall built up between teammates. Well, Quentin could break down that wall, at least on the football field. His teammates would be Krakens first, individual species second.
Before entering the Human locker room, he paused for a long look at a new mural. The painting represented the team’s namesake. It matched a similar painting in the locker room up on the Touchback. A brightly colored, six-tentacled monster rose up from a red ocean to attack some unseen prey. The rows of backwardcurving teeth promised a quick death to that prey — quick, but far from painless. A single huge, green eye glowed with anger, with hunger.
The kraken.
A native species of the planet Quyth, nicknamed after a creature from Earth mythology. Violent, powerful, unstoppable — the perfect symbol of a championship football team.
Quentin nodded to the painting. He turned toward the Human locker room but stopped when he heard the new HeavyG door open. Rebecca Montagne walked out. She was already dressed in her armor and orange practice jersey. Her long, silky black ponytail hung down to the small of her back. In her left hand, she held her helmet by its facemask. Tucked in the crook of her right arm? A football.
She stopped in her tracks, dark eyes wide as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. But she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was doing the same thing as Quentin, arriving early for practice.
Not just early — she was there before he was.
“Hello, Quentin.”
He glared, angry at her for spoiling his need to be there first, angry at himself for allowing that to happen.
“Hi,” Quentin said.
They stared at each other.
She cleared her throat. “I haven’t seen you since the Dinolition match. Did you ... have a good off-season?”
She wanted to make conversation?
“Sure,” he said. “It was fine.”
She nodded, tried to smile, but it must have felt as awkward as it looked. “How is Somalia?”
“Good, I guess. She’s back on tour. I haven’t heard from her in a few days.”
Becca huffed. “Because there’s no photo ops for her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m just ... surprised you haven’t been talking to her every day. That’s all.”
“I’ll talk to her soon. Is John here?”
Becca shrugged, the motion lifting her heavy shoulder pads in a comical way. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”
The comment drew an odd, surging feeling in his stomach. Well, if she wasn’t seeing much of John, then that was good for the team, right? Teammates dating ... that could only end badly.
“You’re here early,” he said.
She nodded. “Always.”
His anger and annoyance returned. He pointed at the football in her arm. “Don’t be getting any ideas about throwing that thing, rookie. Your quarterback days are done.”
Her eyes narrowed. The softness of her face, her feminine expressions — those made it easy to forget that she was a professional fullback, as tough a player as anyone else on the roster. Easy to forget, but her scowl reminded him instantly.
“I’m not a rookie. This is my second year. I’m your starting fullback. I’m one of the sentients that protects you on that field, you jerk. And I’ll get any ideas I want.”
She’d shown great promise last year, her first in upper-tier ball. Pretty impressive considering she’d been a quarterback for the Green Bay Packers of Tier Three. Amazingly athletic, tough as a battleship rivet, she’d gone from third on the depth chart — behind first-string Tom Pareless and second-string Kopor the Climber — straight to the top spot. Becca “The Wrecka” Montagne, starting fullback for the Ionath Krakens.
You could take a player out of the quarterback position, but you couldn’t take the quarterback position out of the player. She played hard, did her job, but she wanted what Quentin had.
“Listen, Montagne, I’m not going to tolerate anything that will confuse the team this year, so any idea you have of playing quarterback is— “
“When I want your job, you’ll know it, Barnes. And if that happens? Get ready for the fight of your life.”
She whipped the ball. It hit his stomach a moment before he got his hands up to trap it there. She scowled at him again, then turned and stomped out of the central locker room, headed toward the field.
• • •
THE HUMAN LOCKER ROOM was all smiles. Men who hadn’t seen one another in months greeted their teammates with the excitement of a shared season to come. Already dressed for practice, Quentin welcomed each player. He shook hands with Arioch Morningstar, the quiet, shy kicker; with Yotaro Kobayasho, the bleach-white number two tight end; with the black-haired Samuel Darkeye, John Tweedy’s backup at linebacker.
Donald Pine and Yitzhak Goldman, Quentin’s backups, walked in together.
Zak let out an overly dramatic sigh of surprise. “Q, you’re early? Gosh, what a surprise.”
“Turning over a new leaf,” Quentin said. “How’s the family?”
“Everyone is fantastic. You owe me for that intro to Danny Lundy. I’m going to have to cash in by insisting you come over for dinner. My boys whine at me every day that they want to meet you.”
The thought of spending time with children made Quentin want to lie, come up with some excuse. But, if he could manage dinner with the Ki, then he could handle eating with Yitzhak’s family. “How about you let me take you and the family out on the town?”
Zak’s smile faded, then returned — now fake and forced. Quentin wouldn’t have noticed the difference two years ago. “We’d rather have you over.”
Now that Quentin thought about it, he’d never seen Yitzhak go out. Ever. Maybe that’s what happened when you became a family man.
Quentin didn’t like kids all that much. The idea of sitting in Yitzhak’s place, wherever that might be, for an evening with his wife and boys? Ugh. “Let’s hook that up once the season gets rolling.” He knew full well that he wouldn’t pursue it.
Yitzhak knew it, too. “Sure,” he said. “Once the season gets rolling.”
Zak walked to his locker, leaving Quentin facing Don Pine. Pine, two-time Galaxy Bowl champion, former MVP, former starting quarterback for the Ionath Krakens, now entering his second year as Quentin’s backup. Quentin hadn’t talked to Pine since September, when they’d met with Gredok and Hokor to talk about signing Cheboygan and the others.
“Good to see you,” Quentin said.
“Same here, Q.”
“You also gonna invite me over for dinner?”
Don smiled, his too-white teeth a contrast against his blue face and dark-blue lips. He didn’t say anything, just shrugged, then walked to his locker.
What did that mean? Why did everyone else want to hang with Quentin, but Don Pine did not? Quentin didn’t have long to dwell on it, as number-two running back Yassoud Murphy walked in the door, fists raised high.
“You may all now relax! The Yassoud is here to lead you to the promised land. You are safely in my protection.”
The players waved at ‘Soud. Those close to him patted him on the shoulder. The previous season had been hard on him. He’d lost his starting position to Ju Tweedy, then spent much of the season either drunk, feeling sorry for himself, or both. To see him arrive in such good spirits made Quentin hopeful that Yassoud would contribute this se
ason.
Yassoud’s tight, dark curls hadn’t changed, but he’d modified his signature beard. Instead of one thick, narrow, bound strand that hung down to his sternum, he’d turned it into two thinner ones of the same length — one he’d braided with orange ribbon, one with black.
Yassoud saw Quentin. “Q! How was your off-season?”
“Real good, thanks.” Quentin noticed that ‘Soud seemed bigger than the last time they’d met. “Looks like you did more than drink beer during yours.”
Yassoud laughed, then puffed up his chest in an exaggerated show of arrogance. The muscles in his neck and shoulders twitched. “Oh, yep. You know, been working out, but it’s no big deal.”
He raised his right fist, flexing his arm to show a rippling bicep. Yassoud had always been a specimen, but there was no question that he’d put in a lot of time in the weight room. For someone who was already in prime shape to add that kind of definition, he must have worked extremely hard.
‘Soud looked at his biceps. “Oh, hello. Why, I didn’t see you there. You look marvelous.”
Quentin laughed and pushed Yassoud away. “You’re anthropomorphizing your biceps?”
Yassoud narrowed his eyes, laughed a jock’s laugh of disdain. “Anthro-po-pope-a-what?”
“Anthropomorphize,” Quentin said. “It means, uh, giving Human attributes to something that isn’t a person.”
Yassoud shook his head, his long beard-braids swinging in time. “Now you’re using big words, hayseed? Did you take up Kimberlin on his offer to tutor you?”
Quentin shrugged and looked away, a little embarrassed. He didn’t know why he should feel embarrassed about increasing his knowledge, but he still did. Kind of felt ... off ... to talk about such things in the locker room.
Yassoud seemed to sense Quentin’s discomfort, so he changed the subject. “Well, if you think my beautiful, beautiful arms show the benefits of hard work, just wait until you see Warburg.”
