by Scott Sigler
Tara pointed to the brown-smeared door. “I am worried about George. I did not think he had anyone to help him.”
Quentin nodded. So he wasn’t the only one to sense George’s odd behavior. Odd for George, anyway, and that was saying something. “Did you knock?”
Tara looked down at his middle right arm. He held it away from his body, as if it were diseased. The three-pincered hand showed smears of brown. “I did. He did not answer. I would like to find a place to wash.”
“He didn’t answer. Do you think he’s in there?”
“He is,” Tara said. “Now that you are here, I will leave.”
“You don’t have to,” Quentin said. “Come with us to talk to George.”
Tara looked at Quentin, then turned a bit to look at Choto. “You have help,” Tara said. He walked down the hall, turned a corner and was gone.
“Choto, couldn’t you have said something?”
“I did not insult him,” Choto said. “Perhaps you should be grateful for that much.”
Quentin and Choto moved to the door. The brown smears didn’t quite obscure the door’s number — 814.
“Messal said this is it,” Quentin said. “What’s that brown stuff on the door?”
“I do not know. And I am not going to ask. You can do the knocking.”
“Thanks a lot,” Quentin said. He looked for a clean spot, found one that was clean-ish, then knocked. “George? It’s Quentin. You here?”
No answer.
Quentin kicked the door. “George, open up. Are you here?”
“George is not here,” said a voice behind the door, a voice that sounded exactly like Crazy George Starcher.
“George, I came to talk to you.”
“If the cosmic traveler known as George Starcher were here, he would not want to talk.”
Quentin’s jaw twitched with annoyance. He hadn’t come to this crappy part of town to play games. “Starcher, Choto is with me. If you don’t open this door, we’re going to kick it in, then hold you down and rub your face in whatever this brown stuff is that’s on it.”
Quentin heard running footsteps, then the door opened.
“Come in,” George said.
He wasn’t wearing any face paint. His eyes looked tired, bloodshot and marked by dark circles. Quentin realized, suddenly and with instant shame that George usually looked just like this whenever he wasn’t wearing face paint. Quentin had seen it, but hadn’t registered it, had never thought to ask if George was okay. Quentin had been too busy — or too self-involved — to either notice or care.
George wore a long, tan, fuzzy tunic, the kind of thing they wore in the League of Planets. He wore pants of the same material. He was barefoot. Black smears streaked his face. He was holding a charcoal pencil, his fingers and hand darkened with dust.
“Starcher, you look like crap.”
George shut the door, then stared with a haunted expression. “And you look quite fancy.”
“Uh ... I have a dinner with Gredok and the Tweedys and my dad. To celebrate the win.”
“I wasn’t invited,” George said. “Quentin, what do you want? I am very busy.”
Quentin looked around the apartment. It was empty. Not a stick of furniture to be seen. Not even a holotank. There was only a woven mat lying on the floor, presumably where George slept. Next to it, a Krakens gym bag and a half-full orange sack, also decorated with the Krakens logo. Quentin recognized the orange sack as the kind Messal’s people took away to do laundry. At least George was keeping somewhat clean.
The spotless floor gleamed with polish. The blank walls seemed dingy, though. Something about them looked strange, some kind of odd pattern.
“Yeah, George,” Quentin said. “Looks like you have quite the to-do list this afternoon.”
George stared, waited. It was almost like he was looking through Quentin, to some unseen point beyond. Far beyond.
“George, I’m worried about you,” Quentin said. “You haven’t been acting like yourself lately.”
“I’ve been in Ionath a season and a half,” George said. “I’ve seen you twice outside of the Touchback and the stadium. You’ve never invited me out with you and John, never had me over to your apartment or your yacht. How would you know what myself acts like?”
Quentin heard the words — his mind transposed them to standing in the lobby of an apartment building, wondering why Don Pine had never invited him to come visit. Quentin hadn’t been avoiding Starcher, not at all, it had just never occurred to Quentin that they should hang out. Maybe Don’s situation was the same. Maybe it wasn’t any kind of malice or oversight — just a preference to be around the people you wanted to be around. And, maybe, that wasn’t enough if you wanted to be a real leader.
“I’m sorry about that,” Quentin said. “You’re right. I wouldn’t really know how you act. But I do know how you play. And you can’t argue with me that your game has been way, way off.”
George shrugged. “I played well last season. This season, not as well. It happens everywhere I go.”
“But why? There’s no reason you can’t play like you did last year. So you dropped a couple of passes, so what?”
George looked down. He moved his left foot in a small circle, only his bare big toe touching the ground. “It happens wherever I go.”
“Well, you need to stop it from happening, George. We’re building a championship team. You have to play like a champion.”
“Or what?”
Quentin shrugged. “Or you’ll be gone, man. We work in an unforgiving business. That’s why I’m here, to see if I can help. There’s no room on the roster for someone who won’t play hard and right now, you’re not playing hard. If we can’t figure out how to fix that, you’ll be testing your two-year theory with another team.”
George looked up. He wasn’t staring through Quentin anymore, he was staring at him, staring with eyes that seemed lost, hopeless.
“There won’t be a next team,” he said. “I’m too old to start over. Who is going to sign an old tight end that can only play one good season?”
“There’s about a hundred Tier Three teams that would snap you up in a heartbeat.”
George shook his head. “I’ll die before I go back to Tier Three.”
“A wise choice,” Choto said.
Quentin turned. “Choto! Just shut up, okay?”
Choto walked away to look at the apartment walls.
Quentin turned back to George. “Look, Starcher, you can sit here and feel sorry for yourself all damn day and it’s not going to put points on the scoreboard. You’re sad? You feel bad about this? Then fix it.”
“I’ve tried. You have no idea how hard I’ve tried.”
“Well try harder. Whatever this is, it’s all in your head. You get your mind right, George, or we’ll have to find another tight end. Choto, let’s go.”
Quentin walked toward the door. Choto looked at him, then pointed at something on the wall. Quentin walked up, saw what Choto was pointing at.
The pattern on the wall — it wasn’t a pattern at all, it was words.
the chest of the nebula opens up to show the denizens beneath, the calling mouths of the headless minions that carry the spear. the hungry mouths, calling, beckoning to come with them, to dive into their toothy maws and be chewed, torn, ripped asunder and reassembled like the atoms of a collider — to be destroyed and dissipate, to be gathered again like the stuff of a star, to self-ignite and glow anew and burn the darkness itself, that is the old one’s path to cyclic immortality, where death is never death, where life is never life. the void welcomes. the void caresses. the void loves.
Quentin leaned back, took in the entire wall. Covered with words. Crazy stuff, stuff that made face-paint and talking to towels look perfectly sane in comparison.
“Uh ... George? What’s all this?”
“My tapestry,” George said. “I am a conduit for the words of greatness, for the words of worthless worms.”
“Fascinating,” Choto said.
“I believe I have seen and heard all that I am willing to see and hear. Quentin, you are scheduled for your dinner with Gredok. We need to leave. Now.”
George was still standing in the same place, still staring at where Quentin had been standing moments before. Maybe Don Pine had been right after all — maybe George Starcher hadn’t been worth the trouble.
“Okay,” Quentin said. “Let’s go. Starcher, I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but let’s get back on track. The team needs you.”
“As do the Old Ones,” he said. “Goodbye, Quentin.”
“Whatever,” Quentin said, then stepped over a newly fallen Worker bum and out into the hall. Choto followed, shutting the door behind him.
• • •
GREDOK THE SPLITHEAD STOOD on his chair. He raised a glass. The other sentients at the table remained seated. Gredok had to stand on his chair to be able to look down on those that would otherwise dwarf him — Quentin Barnes, Cillian Carbonaro, John and Ju Tweedy.
A special night: The team owner had taken them out for dinner at an empty Torba the Hungry’s. Empty, because Gredok had that kind of money, that kind of pull. Or, maybe, Torba just owed him. No one here but the Krakens, their owner and the six dangerous sentients that stood in each corner of the main dining room. Four were Gredok’s private guard — a Ki, a massive HeavyKi, a fully robed Sklorno female and Bobby Brobst, the Human that seemed to be Gredok’s main bodyguard. All four wore expensive clothes. They stood there like polite, dangerous statues. The other two bodyguards? Choto the Bright and Virak the Mean. Quentin felt strange eating and drinking while his linebackers just stood there, once again guards and not football players, but that was not a battle to be fought at this time.
Candles flickered on the table and from the chandelier hanging overhead. The table groaned under the weight of so much food — beef, fish, something that might have been pork sausages, strange-but-tasty vegetables, bowls of spindly things that only Gredok and John ate and several bottles of wine in various stages of emptiness.
Cillian sat on Gredok’s left, then Quentin, then Ju and finally John on Gredok’s right. A good-sized table made small by platter after platter of food.
“A toast,” Gredok said. Quentin, Cillian and Ju lifted their glasses. John raised his last, pausing long enough to grab a handful of spindly things and shove them into his mouth before he did.
“John,” Gredok said, “you are truly an icon of your species.”
John gave a thumbs-up and smiled wide, his open mouth chewing away on whatever those disgusting things might be.
Gredok raised his glass higher, addressed the entire table. “I find this Human tradition of a salutation marked by swallowing a beverage a suitable way to convey my satisfaction. For fifteen years, Gloria Ogawa has laughed at me. Content with her little fiefdom on Fortress, she mocked me, she mocked the Krakens. But no more. We are six-and-two. We have beaten the undefeated defending champions and I — finally — had the satisfaction of seeing Gloria Ogawa burn with anger and embarrassment. I toast to my team.”
Gredok drank. The others followed suit.
John pointed at a crust of bread on Gredok’s plate. “Hey, you gonna eat that?”
Gredok stared at him, then sighed. “No, John, I’m not going to eat the food that is sitting on my plate. Please, help yourself.”
“Kick ass,” John said, grabbing the bread and popping it into his mouth.
Gredok clapped his pedipalps. His eye tinged black. A red-jacketed Quyth Leader ran into the room.
“Yes, Shamakath?”
“Torba, you clearly have not brought enough food. My linebacker is hungry. Perhaps you should do your job.”
“Yes, Shamakath! One billion apologies!” Yorba ran for the kitchen. “Food! We need food!”
Seconds later, the kitchen door opened and two white-uniformed waiters rushed out, one a bearded Human man, the other a Quyth Worker. They each carried two heaping plates. Finding a place on the packed table was difficult, but they managed to arrange the four steaming dishes close to John.
John smiled and rubbed his hands together. IN THE MOOD FOR FOOD scrolled across his face.
Ju tossed a roll that bounced off of John’s face.
“You got no manners,” Ju said. “Ma would so yell at you.”
“No, you got no manners,” John said.
“Oh yeah? Well, you have a negative amount of manners.”
“Oh yeah?” John leaned forward. “Well, you have—”
“Guys,” Quentin said. “Can I make a toast?”
John and Ju looked at him, then relaxed. Quentin wasn’t about to let the Tweedy brothers’ stupidity ruin such an amazing dinner.
Quentin started to stand, then checked himself — if he stood, he’d be three feet taller than Gredok and Gredok was the boss. This was about respect where respect was due. Quentin remained seated. He lifted his glass.
“I would like to give a toast to our team owner.”
Cillian and Ju raised their glasses. John reached for the spindly things again, but Ju slapped his hand. John glared at his brother, then leaned back and raised his glass as well.
“This is just the beginning,” Quentin said. “Beating the Wolfpack showed the galaxy that we are for real. We have a great squad and we owe that to our owner. Sir, you have done whatever it took to field a championship-caliber team. For that, I say I am happy to be part of it. And personally, you have done more for me than I can say. I look forward to a decade of greatness.”
Quentin lifted his glass higher, then drank. He didn’t like wine, but on this night, it tasted just fine. The others drank as well.
Cillian set his glass down and leaned back. “Wow, Gredok, thank you for this.”
“A trivial gesture,” Gredok said. “Your offspring’s performance was of such a high caliber I only wish I had more of his family with which to celebrate.”
“I’ve got you covered on that one, Gredok.”
All heads turned to see the Human waiter. He stood there with a Human woman who also wore a waiter uniform. There was something familiar about his voice and her face, although Quentin knew he’d never seen her before.
“Gonzaga,” Gredok said, his voice dripping with hate. As soon as Quentin heard the word, Fred’s face seemed to magically appear behind the beard. Quentin had looked right at the bearded waiter, never suspected for a second it was his private investigator. Damn, this guy was good.
Quentin wasn’t the only one who reacted to Gredok’s tone of voice. In the corners of the room, four hands slid inside of suit jackets, baggy sleeves or full-body robes.
The room seemed to turn cold, a lethal tension that drowned out the flickering candles’ warmth.
Fred’s eyes glanced to the dangers, then back to the blackfurred Quyth Leader. “You recognize me, Gredok? You’ve got a good eye.”
“It’s the smell, actually,” Gredok said. “Pungent and offensive, as always.”
“I would have bathed for the occasion, but I was in a bit of a hurry.”
“Perhaps because you were late from visiting your psychiatrist,” Gredok said. “For only mental deficiency could explain why you would dare to show your face in front of me anywhere, let alone at a private function to which you were not invited.”
Fred smiled. “But Gredok, you invited family.” He looked at Quentin, then at Cillian. “See? Isn’t that the father you found for Quentin?”
Quentin noticed that Cillian was stirring in his seat, acting nervous.
“Dad, it’s okay. Fred won’t hurt us. He’s just got some business with Gredok. Let them work it out.”
“Wrong,” Fred said. “This business involves all of us. Cillian included.”
“Gonzaga.” Gredok spoke in a tone so low it was barely audible. Sentients held their breath to listen. Everyone seemed afraid to move. “You may turn around, right now, and leave with your life. Say one more word, to me or to anyone in my organization — ever — and that life is forfeit.”
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Fred stared. Quentin saw him swallow, saw his jaw muscles twitching. Fred was afraid.
Quentin looked at the woman. She was quite beautiful, in a working-class way. She stared at Cillian. Glared was more like it.
Fred shook his head, slowly, as if he were arguing with himself, trying to find the courage to continue. But if he did continue, whatever he said could cause his death — Gredok did not make idle threats. Quentin didn’t know what could bring Fred out here to cause such a ruckus, but Fred’s history with Gredok appeared to have caught up with them both.
“Fred,” Quentin said quietly. “Look, why don’t you just go, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll try and help.”
“Barnes,” Gredok said, “stay out of this.”
Fred looked at Quentin. Fear in those eyes, but the fear seemed to fade, replaced by determination.
“Quentin,” Fred said, then gestured to the uniformed woman on his left. “I want you to meet your sister.”
The room seemed to vanish. All was blackness, nothingness, all except for her. Her face. Memories flared, memories triggered by that same face, but from when it was younger, full of smiles, looking down at him. Memories of a splinter in his hand, of her gently holding his wrist, pulling out the splinter, then softly kissing the wounded spot.
The fleeting, partial memories of his mother — those weren’t of his mother at all, they were of his older sister.
His sister. Standing right there.
New memories flared up, memories of a much younger version of that woman — of his sister — angry, screaming, her cheeks streaked with tears, yelling at someone else, Quentin’s mother, although he couldn’t remember his mother’s face.
Family. Real family. “Jeanine?”
She turned to look at him. Her hard eyes softened, just a bit. She nodded. “Yes, Quentin. I am your sister.”
Then she turned to face Cillian. She pointed at him. “And that man is not our father.”
Quentin’s needs split down the middle — half of him couldn’t look away from Jeanine, half of him had to turn and stare at Cillian. And when he did, everything fell into place.
She was his sister. No question. He remembered her. He did not have memories of this man, not a single one and that should have told him something. There could be no second-guessing Jeanine — she was right.
