THE ALL-PRO (Galactic Football League)

by Scott Sigler

  Hurt radiated off of the two Ki. They stared at the board for another minute, then together they turned and scuttled toward the door.

  Quentin watched them go. Just like that, four careers had ended. Someday, he would be staring at that board, looking for his name over and over again. And no matter how many championships he won between now and then, it would crush him.

  He walked to the Human locker room. Teams changed. That was life. What mattered for now was that the Krakens were his team. His coach believed in him. His team owner backed him up. All his friends were here and soon the galaxy would see that the Krakens were a team to be feared.

  The only variable was time.

  • • •

  THE GRAV-CAB STOPPED in front of John Tweedy’s apartment building.

  This time, however, Quentin wasn’t there to see John.

  Choto the Bright stepped out of the cab, looking up and down the street as he’d done dozens of times before. That was also the same, but also different — now he was looking for reporters.

  Choto leaned back into the cab. “It is clear. Come on.”

  Quentin got out, trying to ignore Choto’s coldness. Their friendship, their bond as teammates, it felt weakened if not gone altogether. Quentin’s insistence that the Quyth Warriors accept Tara the Freak had strained relationships to the point of breaking. He hadn’t thought it would be easy to integrate the Warriors, but even so he’d drastically underestimated the cultural response.

  Pizat the Servitous waited by the open door.

  Quentin and Choto walked inside. The door shut behind them. Choto immediately moved to a lobby chair. He pulled an object out of his pocket. The linebacker spent most of his money on historically accurate reproductions of ancient dead-tree books. Choto sat and started reading — now that he had done his job and seen Quentin safely inside the guarded building, he was done.

  “Mister Elder Barnes,” Pizat said. “Welcome back. We are honored to have you as always. Shall I ring up to Mister Tweedy?”

  Quentin shook his head. “I’m not here to see John. What apartment does Don Pine live in? And don’t call him to tell him I’m coming up. This visit is a surprise.”

  • • •

  QUENTIN IGNORED THE BUZZER. He wanted to hit something. Banging his fist on Don Pine’s apartment door did little to diminish that urge.

  “Don! Open up.”

  No answer. He banged again. “Open the damn door, Pine! We need to talk.”

  Quentin had waited for days for Pine to come and apologize, to take responsibility. That hadn’t happened. Pine should have talked to the press, taken the blame for the things that he had done, the things that had turned Quentin into a media pariah. Quentin shouldn’t have had to seek Pine out.

  At the same time, Quentin could try to guess Pine’s state of mind. If Quentin had done something for which, say, John Tweedy had taken the blame, then John got into trouble for it, Quentin would have felt shame and guilt. Don had to be feeling those things right now. Maybe it was hard to face a friend when you had done that friend wrong.

  Quentin focused on that thought, tried to calm himself. This had to be difficult for Don. He probably thought Quentin wanted to kill him. As soon as Quentin could show Don that there would be no retribution, no hatred, then Don would obviously do the right thing.

  The door opened. Don wore a strange apron-thing, splotched with bits of color both wet-new and faded-old. His face showed his age now more than ever, a haunted look in the eyes that revealed his pain, his guilt.

  Don stepped aside and held the door open. Quentin walked in.

  The apartment design was identical to that of John’s — a long entryway that led to a living room beyond. In that living room, paintings covered the walls. Only a few were framed. Most were rectangular canvases resting on the floor, hung at odd angles or tacked up haphazardly. All of the paintings showed images of football players. Some were quite striking. Hard, abstract lines seemed to be colored gibberish, but almost immediately Quentin recognized John Tweedy, Michael Kimberlin and several other players. Other paintings showed grotesque versions of a Human face — blue skin, staring eyes, dark shadows.

  Self-portraits of a man that didn’t like himself very much.

  A new painting, gleaming wet, sat half-completed on an easel in the middle of the room. Only the outline and the eyes were done. So dark. The same haunted expression Quentin had seen when Don opened the door.

  “You’re a painter?”

  “Can’t put one past you, Quentin.”

  Quentin turned to look at his mentor. “This is why you don’t have anyone over? You embarrassed about this or something?”

  Don shrugged. “My space is my space. I don’t need to justify it to anyone. But ... yeah, stuff like this, it’s not really how the team sees me, you know?”

  Quentin nodded. The team didn’t see Don like this at all. They saw a champion, a leader, a man that exuded confidence and support at all times. Quentin instantly understood why Don didn’t invite anyone in — team leaders weren’t supposed to be cauldrons of self-hatred.

  “Well? Did you read Yolanda’s article?”

  Don nodded.

  “You see the press conference?”

  Don nodded again.

  Quentin waited, trying to be patient. It wouldn’t be easy for Don to step up and reveal that he had been the one shaving points, throwing games, selling out for Mopuk the Sneaky.

  Don said nothing.

  “Don, it’s time. You have to come clean.”

  Don closed his eyes. His fingertips pressed hard into his temples, circling there like small drills trying to punch through his skull and into his brain. A bit of black paint on his left index finger smeared across his left eyebrow.

  Still Quentin waited. Patience. No need to rush things, no reason to lose his temper.

  His friend didn’t say anything.

  “Don? You okay?”

  The older quarterback shook his head. “How can I be okay? That article crucified you, man. It’s my fault.”

  “Only the drug-smuggling part,” Quentin said. “And the gambling. And throwing games.” The words didn’t sound as helpful as he had thought they would.

  “I feel real bad,” Don said. “Honestly, Q, I can’t even tell you how awful I feel about all this.”

  Don stopped rubbing his temples and stared at the floor. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. It took Quentin a moment to read Don’s body language. He’d never seen Don act like this before, never seen him act ... indecisive.

  Quentin waited. Tense silence filled the room. Don looked up, met Quentin’s eyes for a moment, then he looked away, staring at one of the self-hating paintings on the wall.

  Quentin felt a crawling feeling of shock. Slowly, not wanting to believe it for a second, realization set in.

  “You’re not going to fess up? You’re not going to tell Yolanda?”

  “Like that bitch would do anything to fix this.”

  “Fine, then not her. Anyone else. There’s a hundred reporters waiting to hear the truth, Don.”

  Don’s eyes flicked to another painting. An older painting, brighter, with bolder lines. An abstract quarterback wearing silver, gold and copper. Don Pine back in his championship days.

  Quentin realized he was breathing heavier, that his temper was rising. He calmed himself, tried to think. He had risked his career to save Don’s. Quentin had risked his life. That dark secret had been fine as long as it remained a secret, but now the story was out. Out and with the wrong man taking the rap. Don would snap out of this any moment, he would step up and do the right thing. He had to.

  “Don, you’re going to tell someone, right? You’re not going to leave me hanging. Right?”

  Don said nothing.

  Quentin’s chest seemed heavy. It ached. He’d never felt anything like this before. He’d never really had friends back on Micovi. Other than Mister Sam, Don Pine was the first person Quentin had truly trusted. Don’s mentoring, his pa
tience, those things had helped make Quentin the player he was today, the leader he was today. Yet this mentor, the man who had risen to the pinnacle of their profession, he was turning his back on real leadership — the leadership of responsibility.

  “I don’t believe it,” Quentin said. “You’re not going to tell the truth.”

  Don shook his head. “I can’t, Quentin.”

  “You can’t? No-no-no, old man, you won’t. You’re really going to hang me out to dry?”

  Don turned, the pain in his soul etched on his expression. “Quentin, you gotta understand. I’ve only got a year or two left. If this gets out now, my career is over.”

  Was this level of betrayal even possible? “What about my career?”

  “You’re the starting quarterback! Gredok is standing up for you. This is your team, man.”

  “The galaxy thinks I’m a scumbag, Don. Sentients are saying—”

  “They’ll get over it,” Don said. “You’re young, Quentin. You’re a star. As long as you keep throwing completions and scoring touchdowns, the galaxy could give a crap if you chop up babies and cook them in a stew.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Look at Ju Tweedy. He’s actually wanted for murder and he’s going to line up on Sunday and play in the biggest sports league that history has ever known. Don’t you get it, Quentin? As long as you do what you can do, it doesn’t matter what people think.”

  “It matters to me.”

  Don stared at him, but couldn’t hold it. He looked away. “Sure, okay, I know it matters to you. But you don’t understand, you can’t understand until you’re standing where I’m standing. At my age, the way I’ve played the past few seasons, a scandal like this means no one will touch me.”

  “But that doesn’t matter! You’re the one who did wrong, not me. Are you going to be a coward, or are you going to face the music?”

  Quentin again waited for an answer, hoping that this time Don would see what needed to be done, that he would do the right thing.

  But Don Pine didn’t waver.

  “I can’t,” he said. “Not now. Not this season. I’m sorry.”

  The coward. How could Don do this? “And what if I tell the media? What if I tell them all about your involvement with Mopuk, how your entire team smuggled drugs to pay off your debt so you could stop throwing games?”

  Don closed his eyes and looked down. “I’ll deny it. And you won’t do that, Quentin. I know you. If you start a he-said, he-said thing, it will mess with team unity, which is already at a breaking point thanks to Tara the Freak. Right now the team is behind you. If you start forcing them to choose between you and me, the team will lose focus. That will cost us games. Not all of them, but enough to keep us out of the playoffs, maybe even enough to put us on the relegation bubble again. You won’t say anything, because as much as your integrity means to you, we both know winning means even more.”

  Quentin’s temper rippled, simmered just below boiling. He wanted to hit Don, to smash the easel over his head, to tear down all these feel-sorry-for-myself paintings and rip them to shreds. And yet, Don was right — as awful as this was, Quentin would rather carry the weight of false accusations than free himself at the expense of the team.

  “I wish I’d never helped you,” Quentin said. “I should have left you broken in that hospital bed, should have let them finish you.”

  Quentin’s hands shot out, grabbed the painting off the easel. He threw it at Don. The wet canvas fwapped against Don’s head, then fell to the floor. Don stared, the dark paint of his self-hatred caked on his face.

  Quentin’s hands balled into fists, but he kept them at his sides.

  He walked out of the apartment, his heavy feet echoing off the entryway walls.

  BOOK THREE:

  THE REGULAR SEASON

  11

  WEEK ONE:

  ISIS ICE STORM

  at IONATH KRAKENS

  JANUARY 27, 2684

  SEASON OPENER.

  Home opener.

  A chance to not only kick off a new era in Ionath football, but to lay some retribution on a team that had ripped them 51-7 the year before. The Krakens had worked all off-season toward winning this game, using last year’s humiliatingly lopsided loss as fuel to work harder, to dig deeper, to get better.

  Outside their locker room, the Ionath Krakens packed into the tunnel. Up ahead, Quentin saw forty-five Ice Storm players at the tunnel’s exit where it opened into the back of the black end zone. He stared at the massed collection of snow-white helmets, metal-blue sword-snowflake logo only on the left side, chrome facemasks catching the tunnel lights. The Ice Storm’s jerseys were white on the shoulders fading to a light blue at the waist, circled by chrome belts. Leg armor gleamed in that same light blue at the hips, gradually darkening in shade until it ended at navy blue shins and shoes. The blue-trimmed chrome numbers on their shoulder pads and backs seemed to dance with life.

  The Ice Storm wore the mostly white jerseys when they played at home. Because the Krakens’ home jerseys were black, the Storm also wore their white gear when visiting Ionath.

  The sight of those white, blue and chrome uniforms, of those players, it filled Quentin with a cold rage. The Ice Storm had finished the 2683 season with eight wins, four losses and a trip to the playoffs. They had lost in the first round to eventual GFL champion Wabash Wolfpack, but that didn’t matter; Isis had made the playoffs — therefore, the Ice Storm players were among the league’s elite.

  To be the best, you have to beat the best.

  Out beyond the tunnel in the huge, open-air stadium, Quentin and his teammates heard the Ionath faithful. Over 185,000 sentients screaming a unified pre-game chant.

  “Let’s go KRAK-ens!” clap, clap, clap-clap-clap. “Let’s go KRAK-ens!” clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.

  Quentin shook with anger, with excitement. The ceremony was about to begin, the affirmation of life, of all he was and all he was born to be. High One had created him for this and this alone.

  The announcer’s voice echoed across the field, filtered into the tunnel. As always, announcements came first in the Quyth language, then in English.

  “Hello everyone and welcome to Ionath Stadium. Please give your warmest greetings to today’s visiting team, the Isis Ice Storm!”

  The white-jerseyed team rushed out of the tunnel to the overpowering sound of boos and the sound of some 50,000 Quyth workers scraping their bristly forearm fur together — a chorus of sandpaper on rough wood. There were enough cheers to show Quentin that plenty of Isis fans had made the six-day trip across the galaxy to support their heroes.

  The Krakens moved up the tunnel. Now Quentin could see out into the stadium. One hundred eighty-five thousand fans, beating their feet in place. A rhythmic war-drum that demanded blood. Quyth Workers filled the higher rows, the upper decks. Humans, Quyth Warriors and Leaders packed the lower seats.

  While not as numerous, he couldn’t miss the Sklorno females in the stands, covered head to toe and wearing replica jerseys — Hawick’s number 80, Milford’s 82, Halawa’s 13. Some even wore 84 and 81, the numbers of Scarborough and Denver, who had both been traded to Jupiter. Unlike last year, however, most of the Sklorno fans wore the number of a Human player.

  Number 10. Quentin’s number.

  And the special section, a smaller area enclosed in clear crysteel, packed with bouncing black balls of fur. The Sklorno males, driven so mad by watching the females on the field that they had to be separated from the other spectators.

  All of this, Quentin’s home.

  “Let’s go KRAK-ens!” clap, clap, clap-clap-clap. “Let’s go KRAK-ens!” clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.

  He looked at the field itself. Deep blue, the color of the Iomatt plant’s small, circular leaves. Leaves that smelled like cinnamon. White lines blazed, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the city dome high above.

  The Krakens pressed tighter, waiting for the announcer to call them out. Quentin brea
thed deep through his nose, savored the moment, tasted the emotions.

  John Tweedy on his right.

  Michael Kimberlin on his left.

  The lust for that first snap, that first throw, that first hit.

  His teammates filled the air with palpable aggression, with the glorious promise of heavy violence and primitive release. Finally, after a long off-season, after a brutal practice schedule, after putting his teammates through hell to get ready for this game, Quentin heard the words that sent a charge through his chest all the way down to his armor-covered toes.

  “Beings of all races, let’s hear it for ... your ... Ionath, KRAAAAAA-KENNNNNNNS!”

  Quentin sprinted into the sun’s blazing light and the crowd’s concussive roar. His feet bounced off the orange-lettered black end zone that matched the uniforms of he and his forty-four teammates. As a unit, they shot across the white-striped blue field toward the Krakens sideline.

  The team gathered around Quentin, pushed in and around him like an accreting planet. HeavyG, Ki, Quyth Warrior and Human pressed together. Sklorno jumped on the outside edges or arced back and forth over the entire pile. The players screamed, grunted, chirped, snorted and barked, not with words, but rather the noises of battle, the sounds of war and excitement and the thrill of feeling so utterly alive. The second Quentin started talking, the cacophony dropped to a subtone, a murmuring buzz as the Krakens leaned in to hear their leader.

  “New year,” Quentin said. He took his time, turning to look directly at each teammate. “New year, new destiny. You all know how hard you worked.”

  The soft noises of his teammates grew louder as each of them acknowledged this fact.

  “You paid the price. You paid it with tough wins to end last season. You paid it in practice. And every one of you remembers what the Ice Storm did to us last year.”