by Scott Sigler
And the Purist Nation had a lot of knives.
Quentin lived through a decade in the mines, from five years old until he joined the Micovi Raiders football team at fifteen; stayed alive because he knew how to read people. Read bad people. And that linebacker-looking Human and his two blockers? They looked bad.
“Yitzhak,” Quentin said. “Let me hold your trophy for a second.”
“No way,” Yitzhak said. “Know why? Because you’re not the MVP, Q. Sure, you’re the franchise and all that, but ol’ Yitzhak is the —”
Quentin stood and reached to his left. His eyes stayed on the three Humans, but his backhanded sweep plucked the crystal MVP trophy right out of Yitzhak’s clutches.
“Hey,” Yitzhak said, a hint of a whine coloring his voice. “Come on, give it back.”
Quentin just shook his head. The three Humans pressed toward the barrier, to the line of Quyth Warrior police. Quentin saw that the men would reach the barriers just about the time Gredok’s train car passed their position.
A hand on Quentin’s right shoulder. “Q, what is it?” Don Pine again, but no humor in his voice this time. Quentin just nodded toward the men.
Don looked, taking it in for a second. “They trouble?”
“Is who trouble?” Yitzhak said. “And can I have my trophy back, please?”
The two big Humans leaned forward and threw Quyth Workers out of the way, picking them up and tossing them aside. Orange- and black-clad bodies flew, some shoved away, some pushed down, some diving for cover. The closest cops — one Quyth Warrior, one Ki — turned to address the surging threat. Quentin took it all in, every detail, his brain suddenly as hyper-alert as it sometimes got on the field during games.
The cops did everything right. They brandished shock batons, shouted warnings, moved to the barrier to use it as a partial shield. They did everything right to handle the two blockers, but they weren’t ready for the third man.
The two big Humans jumped on the barrier and dove at the cops, catching stun batons full in the chest. Both Humans shook from the electrical charge, but their momentum carried them over the barriers and into the cops, pushing the cops back just enough to create a seam. The first Human squeezed through, hurdling the barrier like a running back jumping over a fallen lineman.
Quentin stared, timing the man’s run. His left hand held the crystal football, his right the chrome stand connected to the base. A quick bend and the chrome post snapped clean.
“You jerk!” Yitzhak screamed. “What did you do that for?”
Quentin ignored his teammate. He dropped the wooden base, then held the MVP trophy up to his left ear, just like he’d hold a real football. He timed the man’s movements, twisted his shoulders, and threw.
BLINK
Time slowed to nothing, an almost still-frame rendition of life. He saw that crystal football ripping twenty yards through the air, the tight spiral kicking off a rapid-fire sparkle of rainbow flashes. He saw the crowd, expressions seemingly frozen; some in joy, some in surprise, some in concern.
The rainbow-spinning ball hit the man in the forehead, shattering into a sparkling shower of crystal chunks that — for just a second — looked like an exploding daylight firework.
The man fell to his knees, blood sheeting down his face.
Doc swooped toward the bleeding man, flying fast, orange and black streamers trailing behind in a nearly straight line.
The man’s Krakens jacket drifted open. Around his waist, Quentin saw the shiny reflection of plastic wrap, and beneath the wrap, several tubes lined up in neat parallels.
A suicide bomb.
In the train car ahead, Virak the Mean looked right, saw the man, then dove over the train seat in front of him and threw himself on Gredok and Coach Hokor.
Quentin saw Doc reach the man, oblivious to the danger, the Harrah’s mouth tentacles reaching for the fresh wound. Doc wanted to help. That was what he did.
Quentin watched the man’s weak, numb hands fumbling at his waist, saw dozens of cops rushing in, cops that wouldn’t be alive in another few seconds.
BLINK
“Down!” Quentin shouted as he reached up and yanked Yitzhak to the floor. He didn’t have to worry about Pine, because Pine was already diving over the seat back, deeper into the train car.
The world filled with noise and crazy motion. The car normally floated an inch or so above the track. The explosion hit the car like a wrecking ball, knocking it to the left where it cleared the lev-track and crashed into the street. The car’s left edge dug into the road’s surface, sending up a shower of sparks before it tilted, throwing Quentin, Yitzhak, and Pine over the pedestrian barrier and into the packed crowd. Quentin’s solid weight crashed into a dense throng of bodies.
He was up and moving almost as soon as he landed. This wasn’t the first time he’d been near a suicide bomber. Those guys often attacked in teams. Life on Micovi had taught Quentin many things, but one thing in particular — on a football field, speed kills, but when bodies are blowing up around you and you need to get away, speed means life.
Quentin ran, his 7-foot-tall, 380-pound athletic body a warning to any sentient stupid enough to get in his way.
• • •
QUENTIN SAT IN A BACK ROOM of the Blessed Lamb bar, darkness surrounding him except for the low light given off by neon beer signs and the glow of the holo-juke. The juke’s colored lights played off the steam rising from his plate of habanero falafel biscuits. He hadn’t felt hungry, but he’d already eaten one plate and was two biscuits into his second. Comfort food, it seemed, lived up to its name.
He didn’t want to be here, here with these people, people that reminded him of the old life. The life back on Micovi. The life of poverty, of constant threat, of subservience. The life of hatred.
Yet when the bomb had gone off, he’d ran straight down Radius Eight to Ring Road Four, then circled back clockwise, up Radius One and to this bar, a place full of Purist Nation expatriates. He hadn’t even thought about going anywhere else, like to the Bootleg Arms or to the Krakens headquarters at the city center. At first he’d told himself that he’d come here simply because it was close, that it was in the nightclub district. Had he been near the stadium, he surely would have fled to the Krakens headquarters. But he would never know, because he hadn’t run to the stadium — he’d run to the Blessed Lamb. He had run to his people, people that instantly took him in, sheltered him, protected him.
What did it mean that he’d come here first? Was he really over his racist upbringing, or was he only deluding himself? When things got dicey, did he just want to run back to what he’d always known?
A man in blue robes quietly walked into the back room. “Your teammates called,” he said. “Someone is coming to get you.”
Quentin nodded. “Thank you, Father Harry.”
Father Harry nodded, then quietly sat down at the table. Father Harry, like most people from the Nation, was no stranger to bombs or bombers. Father Harry came from the same messed-up culture that had made Quentin’s childhood a living hell.
“Quentin, are you feeling better?”
Quentin nodded.
“You were both lucky and smart,” Father Harry said. “Smart to get out of there, lucky because the reports are starting to come in. Fifteen sentients died in that blast, including eight police officers.”
“Was the team doctor killed?”
Father Harry nodded.
Quentin closed his eyes. He hadn’t been great friends with Doc, but the Harrah had been the first non-Human to touch Quentin, to talk to him face-to-face, one-on-one. Now Doc was gone. Quentin realized that he’d never even learned Doc’s real name.
“What about my teammates? Did any players die?”
Father Harry shook his head. “Not that we’ve heard. A few minor injuries, apparently, but nothing life-threatening.”
Quentin nodded. There was nothing wrong with thinking of his friends first, his teammates. He didn’t know anyone else in the city
. Aside from Doc, the fifteen dead were faceless unknowns. Faceless, except for one thing — they included Krakens fans. They’d come out to celebrate Quentin and his teammates, and now they were gone. Fifteen dead... and how many wounded?
“I should have stayed,” Quentin said. “Stayed, maybe helped people, but I... I ran.”
Father Harry nodded. “I see. Quentin, ask me if I’ve ever argued with an explosion.”
“What?”
“Go ahead, ask me.”
Ah. It was lesson time, and Quentin was not in the mood for lessons. “Father Harry, I—”
“Humor me, Quentin. Out of respect for your elders.”
Quentin sighed. Maybe the people in the Blessed Lamb were racists, but they had always been kind to him. They had welcomed him, fed him, and now they had sheltered him. The least he could do was play along with yet another person who wanted to offer him advice.
“Father Harry, have you ever argued with an explosion?”
“No, Quentin, I have not. Ask me why.”
“Father, come on, you—”
“Ask me why.”
Quentin rubbed his eyes. “Father Harry, why haven’t you ever argued with an explosion?”
“Because an explosion can’t be argued with,” Father Harry said. “What a stupid question, I can’t believe you asked me that.”
Quentin rolled his eyes.
“The last part is a joke,” Father Harry said. “One of my favorites, actually. But the first part is no joke. You can’t argue with an explosion, Quentin. Just like you can’t argue with a bullet or the tip of a knife. Do you know the difference between a hero and a martyr?”
Quentin shook his head.
“A hero is alive,” Father Harry said. “A martyr is not. And since you don’t seem to follow the teachings of Mason Stewart, you wouldn’t even count as a martyr — you’d just be dead.”
“Now isn’t the time for a lecture, Father.”
Father Harry smiled apologetically. “No, of course not, and I’m not lecturing you. I’m saying you made the right call. You can’t even get a firearm into Ionath City. You can bet whatever explosive the bombers used, the city will have analyzed it and installed specialized detectors for it by the end of the week. The people of Ionath City felt safe. They didn’t know what real terror was until today. On the other hand, that feeling of terror is something you know all too well. You just keep listening to your instincts, run when you have to, and you’ll be fine.”
Brother Guido slid into the back room and flipped on the lights. He and his wife Monica Basset owned the Blessed Lamb.
“Quentin, your friends are here,” Guido said. “Please get them out of my bar. Now.”
Quentin stood and walked to the front room. Choto the Bright and Virak the Mean were waiting. Even though the two each had a cast on one leg, their aura said that they were not to be messed with. The fifteen or so Human patrons in the bar stared at the two Quyth Warriors, who stared back. The room seemed wired with tension. Quentin wondered at Father Harry’s words on how hard it was to get a gun into the city — and wondered if the Purist Nation ex-pats had found a way. If they did have weapons stashed, how long would it take for those weapons to become un-stashed.
The Quyth Warriors saw Quentin. They looked simultaneously relieved and annoyed. Quyth Warriors were good at that combined expression. Slightly different hues of red shaded their eyes.
“Quentin,” Virak said. “I am glad to see you are unhurt. Gredok wants you back at the stadium immediately.”
“Good idea,” Quentin said. “Let’s go.”
He almost pushed his teammates out the door, eager to get them out of the Blessed Lamb. He felt eyes boring into his back as he left. He’d come here for shelter, come to this place where the owners and the patrons deeply loved everyone — as long as everyone was from the Purist Nation. He’d come here seeking shelter, and he left with what his Nationalite hosts considered the embodiment of evil. Maybe that was a discussion for another time. As Father Harry had said, you can’t argue with an explosion, and Quentin considered an explosion far more reasonable than a religious zealot.
Transcript of broadcast from Galactic News Network
“Yes, Brad, I’m on the scene at what was a deadly end to a happy day. Ionath City’s residents were packed in tight to enjoy a parade celebrating the promotion of their Ionath Krakens from Tier Two up to Tier One. That parade ended in tragedy as a suicide bomber tried to rush the train. It appears that Ionath City Police stopped the bomber, but at a horrible cost. Eight police officers were killed in a blast powerful enough to knock three lev-train cars right off the track and leave a two-foot crater in the concrete. The bomber and his two associates were killed, as were three pedestrians. The full number of injuries remains unknown, Brad, but Ionath City Hospital has been very busy this afternoon.”
“Tom, what about the Krakens players?”
“Brad, we don’t have conclusive reports yet, but it looks like no players were hurt. The team doctor did die in the blast. The bomb detonated close to the car carrying team owner Gredok the Splithead, a sentient rumored to be involved in organized crime.”
“Was Gredok the target, Tom?”
“Brad, it’s too early to tell, and we may never know. Krakens quarterback Quentin Barnes was close to the explosion as well. He’s from the Purist Nation, a system well known for both bitterness against people abandoning their religion and for terrorist attacks much like the one we had today.”
“Tom, if I remember correctly, haven’t the Krakens had a Purist Nation player for several seasons?”
“Yes, Brad, tight end Rick Warburg has been on the roster for four seasons. The upcoming Tier One campaign will be his fifth. However, Warburg hasn’t had the exposure that Barnes has had. Barnes is shaping up to be a galaxy-wide sports star. It’s possible that radical members of the Purist Church were trying to get to Barnes.”
“With an explosion like that, Tom, can officials even identify the intended target?”
“No, Brad, they can’t. Apparently, all that’s left of the bomber is a left shoe and a little green globule. Investigators are typing what flesh remains, and running that result through intergalactic criminal and identification databases. What’s more important here, Brad, is that city officials are at a loss to explain how explosives were smuggled into the dome. They have identified the chemical components of the explosive. They are confident they will add those chemicals to all entry checkpoints, and nano-sweep the city to find any explosives already inside.”
“So the danger is over for now?”
“So it would appear, Brad, but the fear is not over. This is the worst terrorist attack to hit the domed area in forty years. Suffice to say, there will be tense times until we know for certain that the three bombers acted alone, or until any of their associates still in Ionath City are caught. For GNN, this is Tom Skivvers, signing off.”
• • •
NOT THAT LONG AGO, Virak and Choto would have led Quentin by force, strong pincers gripped on his triceps, perhaps his shoulders. But not anymore. They were his teammates. He was their quarterback. They walked behind him, just a step, the same way they’d walk behind a Quyth Leader.
The front door of the thirty-story Krakens building looked like an army blockade point. High concrete barriers had been erected around the arched front entrance. Beyond them, a dozen police grav-cars and cops on foot — Ki and Quyth Warrior.
Virak and Choto led Quentin right through the police. On the other side of the concrete barrier, Quentin saw more guards, even meaner looking than the police. These guards ran the gamut of races — Quyth Warrior, Human, Ki, and HeavyG. There were even a couple of Sklorno wearing their full-body robes, so that no area was exposed to the night air.
Beyond the guards, the lobby of the Krakens building.
If you combined a museum and a shrine, you would get something similar to the lobby. High ceilings and black walls created a space that seemed to be vast and endless, like the
Void itself. There were even tiny lights positioned high up in the ceiling to represent the constellations and inhabited planets. Glowing team logos marked the nineteen planets that had a Tier One franchise. Most planets had only one T1 team, but Tower, Wilson 6 and Whitok each had two. The sun for Earth’s system glowed brighter than all the rest — a tribute to the birthplace of football, even though currently Earth had no Tier One teams. In areas of the ceiling that didn’t have GFL planets, animations made of glowing star-dots showed famous Krakens plays and players.
That sprawling, high ceiling arched over twenty-one years of Krakens paraphernalia. Display cases showed jerseys, cracked armor, helmets of five different species, old programs. Many displays held footballs that had one quarter-panel painted white, then lettered with the teams, score and date of famous games or key statistical accomplishments. The back section of the lobby was nothing but red brick — a chunk of wall from City Municipal Field, home of the Krakens from 2662 until it had been torn down in 2673 and replaced with the current Ionath Stadium.
The right side of the lobby showed the Krakens’ pride and joy — the golden GFL championship trophy from the 2665 Galaxy Bowl. Slow-motion holos surrounded the trophy, showing key players and plays from that 23-21 win over the Wabash Wall. Just in front of the Galaxy Bowl trophy sat a small case that contained two things — a single championship ring that would have belonged to Bobby “Orbital Assault” Adrojnik, had he lived long enough to wear it, and Bobby’s Galaxy Bowl MVP trophy.
Quentin never entered the lobby without passing by the GFL trophy and running his hands over the case containing Bobby’s treasures. Quentin would have those things someday, no matter what it took.
