by Scott Sigler
John stood up so fast the chair shot out from under him. He pointed a finger at the detective. “You knock that off, Fred, okay? That’s just way too freakish. No disrespect to you, man, but I’m—”
“Outta here?” Frederico said.
John dropped his mag-can, took a step back and held up both hands, palms out. “You stop that, Fred, you get—”
“Out of your head?”
John turned and ran out of the office.
Quentin and Frederico watched him go, then faced each other.
“John’s great,” Frederico said, “but he’s a real piece of work.”
Quentin nodded. “Tell me about it.”
“Look, Quentin, I won’t waste your money. I’m extremely talented at everything I do, this included. I’m worth twice as much, so I’m a bargain at this price. And if at any point I figure out I can’t help you, I’m done. I won’t charge you for work I can’t finish. If you come up with something else that might help me — you remember anything — you call me.”
Frederico stood and held out his hand. “Now the tough part. Can you shake a fag’s hand?”
Quentin realized that he didn’t even want to touch the man, just like when he’d landed on the Touchback and hadn’t wanted to touch Don Pine’s skin because it was blue. But Quentin had overcome so many preconditioned prejudices there was no point in stopping now.
Quentin stood, towering over Frederico. “Well, you’re the first fag I’ve met, so let’s give it a try.” He forced himself to meet the man’s stare as they shook.
“Know what, Quentin?”
“What?”
“You got really pretty eyes.”
Quentin reactively yanked his hand free.
Frederico laughed. “Class is still in session, apparently.”
“Yeah, I guess so, and I learned something today.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“That fags can be total jackasses, just like everybody else.”
Frederico laughed louder and applauded. “Now you’re getting it. And remember how I said that I excel at everything I do? That includes being a jackass.”
Quentin nodded, then walked into the hall to find John Tweedy wearing an empty beerdoleer and standing amidst a pile of three empty mag-cans.
“Q! Are you okay? Did he get inside your head?”
“I’m fine. Just calm down. How about we go get you a beer?”
The big linebacker nodded. “Yeah. Yeah that’s a good idea. I’m a little freaked out. That guy is good, man.”
“We can only hope,” Quentin said. “How about the Bootleg Arms?”
John nodded. The two Krakens left the building and headed for the Bootleg Arms, the club owned by Gredok the Splithead.
Transcript from the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan, Akbar, & Tarat the Smasher”
DAN: Hello fans! I’m Dan Gianni back once again to give you the greatest show in sports. As always, I’m joined by Akbar Smith and Hall-of-Fame linebacker, Tarat the Smasher.
AKBAR: Thanks, Dan.
TARAT: Always happy to be here.
DAN: So guys, we’ve got a full show today, with just two topics. Why? Because those two topics are so big, so juicy, so tasty, we’re going to be inundated with calls.
AKBAR: So I take it we’re talking about the Tier Two expansion?
TARAT: I’m so excited I could just molt.
DAN: Tarat, seriously, please don’t. But absolutely, Tier Two expansion! It’s so exciting.
AKBAR: It’s not tradition.
DAN: Tradition? What do you mean, tradition?
TARAT: Tradition means the way things have always been done, Dan.
DAN: I know what tradition means, Smasher. What I’m saying is, what tradition?
AKBAR: There are six Tier Two conferences, Dan. Six, not eight.
DAN: Well, now there are eight. How can you not be excited about the Whitok Kingdom being brought into the galactic fold with the Whitok Conference? And they’re adding a second Human conference? It’s brilliant.
AKBAR: What the hell do you mean, brilliant?
TARAT: Brilliant means that it’s inspired, highly intelligent.
AKBAR: I know what brilliant means, Smasher. I’m saying you can’t just go adding leagues like that. And come on, Dan, saying that adding a Whitok conference is bringing the Kingdom into the galactic fold? Isn’t that a little much?
DAN: Where the heck have you been for the past twenty years, Akbar? This is a major, major deal, not just for sports but for politics as well. The Whitok Kingdom isn’t controlled by the Creterakians. This is a major sign that the Kingdom has finally recovered from their losses in the Fourth Galactic War, and it marks the first normalization of relations with the Creterakians since the bats ceased hostilities in 2642. Here we are forty-one standard years later, and Whitok football teams will be part of the GFL. This means the galaxy is finally accepting peace, Akbar.
AKBAR: Accepting? Tell that to those lunatics from the Zoroastrian Guild. They are crazy with a capital-Z, but I agree with them on one point — being ruled by the bats isn’t my definition of peace; it’s my definition of subjugation.
TARAT: The Quyth Concordia isn’t subjugated. We live free.
AKBAR: The Quyth Concordia lives free! The Quyth Concordia lives free! Every five minutes with that crap, Smasher. We know, okay? Trust me, we know. And besides, all the Whitok cities are underwater, so tell me how that’s going to work for a game played on a field.
DAN: Akbar, now you’re just being a pain. What about the Pacifica Dolphins? Their stadium is in the middle of an ocean on Earth. Or how about the Isis Ice Storm? Their stadium is something like a mile underwater. All the GFL requires is a playing field where oxygen-breathing players can operate in standard gravity and standard air pressure.
TARAT: The Whitok already have teams playing in the upper tiers, Akbar. Or did you forget about the D’Kow War Dogs?
AKBAR: Well, I suppose that’s a good point. And I guess going from a six-team T2 Tourney to an eight-team format makes for more drama.
DAN: Absolutely. I always thought those first-round bye games were a little confusing. Now it’s a straight-up eight-team, single-elimination tournament. The last two teams standing get into Tier One. Makes you wonder if the Chillich Spider-Bears or the Ionath Krakens would have been promoted if they hadn’t had first-round byes.
TARAT: Well, the Spider-Bears would have made it in, they were just fantastic. But the Krakens? Maybe not without that first-round bye.
DAN: Speaking of the Ionath Krakens, that brings us to our second topic of discussion — the Tier One teams with the worst records get relegated to Tier Two. Out of the twenty-two Tier One teams that kick off in four weeks, which two are getting sent down at season’s end?
AKBAR: Wait, you said speaking of the Krakens. You’re saying the Krakens are going to be relegated?
DAN: Oh come on, there’s no question! Quentin Barnes might have been good enough to get Ionath through the T2 Tourney, but the Krak-pack lost their starting running back, Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed. Ionath has no running game, and I don’t think their defensive backs can stop any Tier One offense.
TARAT: I think Quentin Barnes may surprise you, Dan. He’s a true warrior in the making.
DAN: Warrior? He’s from the Purist Nation! No Nationalite quarterback has ever led a team to a Tier One championship. Eh-ver. He’ll be lucky to live long enough to fail and go back to Tier Two. Let’s go to the callers. Line two from Citadel in the Tower Republic, go...
• • •
QUENTIN BARNES HAD NEVER SEEN a real parade before. He certainly hadn’t been in one, and most certainly hadn’t been a guest of honor.
Back on Micovi, the fundamentalist theocracy frowned on such things. There were processionals, sure — somber marches for the latest martyr, a funeral train for a passed religious leader, that kind of thing. Long lines of people dressed in blue robes, chanting, swaying, self-flagellating, doing everything they
could to show their grief and anguish lest a neighbor report them for not feeling enough grief and anguish. Not showing enough anguish might lead to an inquiry, probably an arrest, and — quite frequently — yet another funeral processional.
There was no shortage of funerals in the Purist Nation.
So Quentin Barnes had seen lines of people walking down a street and he’d seen throngs of people lining the sidewalks, but never anything like this. So much color. So much noise.
So much... joy.
Ionath City’s rad-free dome was two miles in diameter. A full circle around Fifth Ring Road made for a trip of over three miles. Three slow miles. Even with a phalanx of riot-geared Quyth Warrior police dishing out random beat-downs, adoring football fans were still climbing over barriers and running up to the sixteen grav-train cars that traveled down the road’s center lev-track.
“This is crazy,” Quentin said to Don Pine, who sat on his right. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Don nodded. He was smiling, waving a cupped hand with a practiced motion. He called it his princess wave. “You’ll get used to this, Q. At least I hope you do. As many times as I’ve done this, it’s hard to be jaded looking at all these happy faces. Just you wait until you win the big one — this is nothing in comparison.”
Quentin found it hard to believe he’d ever think of this teeming mass of sentients as “nothing.” The city had placed dividers down the middle of each two-lane road that ran along either side of the lev-track. That let orange- and black-clad fans fill half of the road, and the sidewalk beyond, and the diameter roads that ran deeper into the city. Every window in the red, hexagonal buildings had several heads of various species sticking out of it. Krakens flags flew everywhere, from the small, hand-held kind to giant flags that were probably ten feet high and twenty feet long. Banners, flags, pom-pons, foam fingers, foam pincers, foam tentacles, jackets, hats, jerseys — more orange and black than Quentin had even known existed.
Ionath City’s urban dome normally held somewhere around 110,000 residents in claustrophobic closeness. Considering the dome was just about the only place most of the Ionath Krakens players could breathe, that was where they held the parade, and that was where an estimated one million additional beings had packed in tight.
Quentin felt an elbow bump on his left arm. He turned to look at Yitzhak, who sat in the seat next to him.
“Q, smile, will ya?” Yitzhak said. “Maybe try not to look like an anthropomorphic hayseed?”
“Shuck you, Zak,” Quentin said, but he smiled and waved. Hard to think that just hours earlier there had been functioning roads, packed sidewalks, grav-cars, taxis, trucks, and trains. Now? Nothing but Humans, HeavyG, the three castes of Quyth, some Ki, and even a few Sklorno females all wrapped up from head to toe. Sentients lined the barriers, at least a hundred deep.
Quentin didn’t know what anthropomorphic meant, but he did know the word hayseed.
And that wasn’t what he was. Not anymore.
“Don’t worry about it,” Don said. “No one is here to see you, anyway, kid — they’re here to see their hero.”
Yitzhak laughed and stood, holding his T2 Tourney MVP trophy high, waving it at the adoring crowd. Quentin had to smile at the third-string quarterback’s exuberance. Zak was soaking up the moment.
The Krakens had earned promotion to T1 with their semi-final win over the Texas Earthlings, while the Chillich Spider-Bears had won their promotion with a semi-final victory over the Citadel Aquanauts. The actual T2 Tourney championship game hadn’t mattered. That was why Zak played. Both Quentin and Don Pine had sat out the final championship game, as had most of the starters. The Chillich Spider-Bears had done the same, fielding an entire team of backups. That was just smart football — both teams had already qualified for Tier One, let the starters rest up for the big time.
So Zak started the championship game, but he didn’t care about starters or second string or third string — he’d played his butt off and led the Krakens to a win. The win meant a “championship,” and that meant a parade.
Quentin, Don, and Yitzhak rode in the front seat of the second train car. Since Ionath City was domed, weather was always controlled and all train cars were open-air.
Public transit train cars had seven rows of species-specific seats that always went in the same order: Quyth Leader and Warrior, then Human, HeavyG, Ki, and Sklorno. Human rows had five seats, HeavyG only three to handle the wider bodies. Sklorno rows had those strange, abdomen-supporting seats the ladies required. Ki seats were little more than flat beams that allowed the long creatures to rest their multiple legs. Quyth Workers had their own train cars, as they weren’t allowed to use the same facilities as Leaders and Warriors.
The three quarterbacks had a train car all to themselves. City leaders had wanted to stretch the parade out, so each of the sixteen cars in the procession held three to five players or team staff.
The car ahead of Quentin’s was the parade’s lead car. It held three Quyth Leaders: Coach Hokor the Hookchest, his yellow and black fur puffed up to full thickness; Gredok the Splithead, his glossy black fur as smooth and unruffled as ever; and an orange- and black-furred leader that Don had said was the mayor of Ionath City. The mayor apparently had white fur, but painted it up in Krakens colors for the big parade.
In the seat behind those leaders rode Choto the Bright and Virak the Mean, who had returned along with Gredok. Quentin couldn’t even look at them without feeling a simmering rage. Both of the linebackers had casts on their legs. As tough as the two of them were, apparently there was someone tougher. Quentin thought he’d extricated Virak from goon-duty, but apparently there was more work to be done. The linebacker’s primary job was now football, but he was still dangerous enough that Gredok would use him whenever the situation demanded it. For a public event like this, Virak and Choto would stay close to Gredok, their leader, their Shamakath.
Even Doc, the team’s physician, participated in the parade. A Harrah, Doc flew in slow circles around the lead car, his wide, stingray-like wings gracefully pushing him along. Orange and black streamers trailed from his tapered tail.
In the train cars somewhere behind Quentin were all of his teammates: Yassoud, Mum-O-Killowe, Stockbridge, Denver, his fullback Tom Pareless and dozens more — the sentients that had pulled together to put the Krakens in Tier One.
The players of the Ionath Krakens.
His players.
His, because now the team was his to lead. Don Pine had said so, passing the torch of leadership in front of High One and everyone else. And all of this screaming, adoring insanity from the fans? Don was right, this was just the beginning. If these sentients thought they were happy now, wait until Quentin Barnes rode down these streets, holding the Galaxy Bowl trophy high in the air.
Like they did whenever there was a crowd, his eyes scanned the Human faces, hunting for a familiar one, one he assumed he would remember but could not be sure.
Quentin again felt an elbow hit his left shoulder. Yitzhak leaned in close to Quentin’s ear.
“Q, come on,” Zak said. “This is face-time for you, pay attention to the crowd.”
“I am paying attention.”
“No, you’re staring these sentients down like they’re linebackers showing a blitz. This is part of the game, Q. We need to bring your popularity up so we can get you some fat endorsement money.”
“I get paid plenty.”
Yitzhak threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, right. Who’s your agent?”
“I don’t have one.”
Yitzhak leaned away, gave Quentin a funny look. “Seriously?”
Quentin shrugged. “Gredok bought my existing contract, I don’t need an agent.”
“Hooooo,” Zak said. “Brother, I’ll make a few calls. I can help you.”
Quentin shook his head. “Thanks, third-string, but I can actually change my own diapers from time to time.”
Yitzhak waggled the MVP trophy in front of Quentin’s f
ace. “Third-string? Hayseed, just run your hands across this bad boy!”
Quentin took the offered trophy. It was rather nice. A wooden base with a thin chrome pole that supported a regulation-size football made of faceted crystal. The trophy caught the lights from the sun high above, sparkling with intense, rainbow colors.
“Nice, huh?” Yitzhak said.
Quentin handed it back, and nodded. “Yep, I got to admit, that’s a sweet piece of hardware.”
“Damn right it is,” Zak said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to revel in my moment.”
Yitzhak raised the trophy high in both hands, smiling and showing off for a crowd that roared in approval.
Quentin sat, his hand waving like an automaton while his eyes went back to searching the crowd.
And then he saw something that held his attention. Off to the right, on the outside of the ring road, a Human wearing a Krakens’ jacket. The man visually scanned the parade vehicles much the same way Quentin scanned the crowd. Not looking at something, looking for something. Something in particular.
Quentin laughed to himself — he was looking at the crowd like it was a defense. That Human guy he’d just noticed, for example: the guy’s eyes darted around like a linebacker hunting for an open gap, looking for a lineman’s pointing foot to give away the direction of the play. And those two big Humans in front of the linebacker-man, they might be defensive linemen...
Quentin stared closer. The two big Humans, they held that same aura of intensity as the first man. And they were right in front of the linebacker-man, one on his left, one on his right.
Positioned in front, just like blockers.
Blockers that were about to clear a hole.
Quentin had spent a decade working in the mines of Micovi, a place where people died almost every day. Sometimes they died from cave-ins. Sometimes from roundbugs. Sometimes from the stonecats that lurked in the bigger crevices, waiting for a miner to stray too far away from the others. But most often, people died because they were killed by other people. Everything from vendettas, to loan sharks making an example, to basic theft gone wrong, or — most often — simple arguments that quickly blossomed into honor fights. To stay alive, you had to learn to read people, read their faces, scan for bad moods, for desperation, for anything that could make one person want to kill another. Sometimes Quentin had to fight. When he did, he made sure everyone understood that to step up to him was to get shredded. Most of the time, however, Quentin avoided fights because he learned to identify dangerous people and stay out of their way. The mines taught him that all the toughness in the galaxy is no armor against a knife in the back.
