by Scott Sigler
Even with Gredok waiting for him, Quentin still angled to the right to pay tribute, to see the physical representation of his life’s goals. He didn’t dally, merely walked by as he headed for the elevator.
The elevator led them to the top floor of the Krakens building. The place reeked of money, of power; from the smart carpets showing original designs by the hottest artists to sculptures, both static and moving. More guards up here: meticulously dressed, dangerous-looking Humans, Quyth Warriors with exposed torsos that showed countless enamel tats, and two HeavyG monsters that were nearly as big as Khomeni and Michnik. Where the heck did one find suits to fit such beasts? The guards recognized Quentin. Some of them even smiled, or gave appreciative nods.
When you’re winning, everyone is a fan.
Messal the Efficient appeared out of nowhere, probably sliding out unseen from behind one of the strange sculptures.
“Elder Barnes, welcome,” said the perfectly dressed and groomed Quyth Worker. “Gredok is waiting for you. Please follow me.”
Quentin did. Gredok apparently kept the entire top floor to himself as his personal quarters. Messal led Quentin through the open area to a heavy door. Inside that door: Gredok’s office.
Quentin entered. Sure, Virak and Choto now treated Quentin like a leader, but in the office that faded away a bit. When Gredok the Splithead was present, there was no question who was in charge, who was the Alpha.
The outer room reeked of riches, yet this inner office made it look like a slum. Dim lighting called attention to hanging works of art and sculptures mounted on waist-high pedestals along the room’s edge, each lit up by its own spotlight. Quentin didn’t know about such things, but they seemed very expensive. Priceless perhaps. Some showed Humans — those works looked as old as old gets. Others showed Sklorno, Ki, Whitok. Some even showed Creterakians: art from the ruling race. The whole thing impressed Quentin, but he would still have traded it all for the football pictures and holo-frames in Coach Hokor’s office. Great art is in the eye of the beholder, but great football is in the record books.
The art wasn’t the only thing on a pedestal. In the room’s exact center stood a ten-foot column made of white stone. On top of it, Gredok the Splithead, reclining in a cushy black throne custom-made to his diminutive size. The pedestal and the throne combined to raise Gredok a good thirteen feet in the air. Quentin had to tilt his head back to look into the little Leader’s single, softball-sized eye.
“Barnes,” Gredok said. “Were you injured in the blast?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
Quentin sneered. “No, I am not injured, but gosh, Greedy, thanks for your concern.” He knew very well Gredok wanted Quentin to call him Shamakath, like the rest of the sentients in the syndicate. Well, Quentin wasn’t in the syndicate. He was a football player, not a criminal. Quentin would give Gredok the ample respect any GFL franchise owner deserved, but he drew the line at swearing fealty. To anyone.
“Your disrespect troubles me, Barnes,” Gredok said. “Sometimes you are so intelligent, and other times — such as the times when you are speaking to someone who could have you killed on a mere whim — you are not.”
Quentin shrugged. “The franchise you created kicks major ass,
I’m just not going to grovel at your feet like the rest of those punks in the outer room. I’m your quarterback, Gredok, I am not your property.”
Gredok’s immaculate black fur ruffled for the briefest moment, then once again lay perfectly flat. “Now is not the time for that concern. I brought you here to discuss two things.”
“My good looks and high bowling score?”
Another ruffle. Quentin realized he was precariously close to pushing it too far, and for no good reason.
“Gredok, I’m sorry,” Quentin said. “I’m still a little rattled from the explosion, and from Doc dying in the blast. Forgive me.”
Gredok’s fur settled once again. “I find that choice of words acceptable. Doc’s passing is unfortunate, but I already have a replacement for him.”
Already? Not even a full day had passed. They still hadn’t found all the pieces of Doc’s body, and Gredok had a replacement? But that was the nature of business. To Gredok, football was just that — a business.
“Now,” the Quyth Leader said, “while I’m sure an athlete of your caliber has a rather impressive bowling score, I do not wish to discuss it at this time. The first thing I brought you here for was to thank you.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Thank me?”
“Your fast reactions may have saved my life.”
“Hey, don’t flatter yourself, Cuddles. I saw a threat and I tried to put it down.”
“You weren’t trying to save me?”
Quentin shrugged. “Naw, just being a good citizen is all. If I’d thrown better, he wouldn’t have set off the bomb at all.”
“Possibly,” Gredok said. “I’ve seen news coverage of the event. The only fault lies with the design of that trophy — you hit that bomber right in the face from twenty yards away. Had the trophy been solid, not hollow, you would have killed him. The real question, however, is who was the assailant’s target?”
Was Gredok for real? That’s what gangsters did, killed each other. “What do you mean who was the target? It was you, of course.”
“You thought I was the target?”
“Obviously.”
“So, if you thought I was the target, then you did intentionally save me.”
Quentin paused, his brain searching for an answer, finding nothing for almost three seconds. “Virak and Choto,” he said. “I didn’t want my starting linebackers to get hurt.”
Gredok said nothing. Quentin stared at him, then looked away. His answer had come too late, a feeble attempt to cover up Gredok’s accurate observation. Quentin wanted to kick himself.
“Which brings us to the second point,” Gredok said. “Who, exactly, was the target?”
The lights dimmed and several holo-screens flared to life, showing replays of the attack. When it happened, it had seemed so obvious the bomber was going for Gredok. But now, with the benefit of multiple angles, Quentin wasn’t so sure. The attacker could be rushing toward Gredok’s car... or... or could be rushing toward Quentin’s car.
“Many possibilities,” Gredok said. “Me, of course, as there are petty individuals who are envious of my business acumen. But also Mayor Kerin the Malleable. Maybe even Coach Hokor.”
“Coach Hokor? Who would want to kill a coach?”
“Welcome to Tier One, Quentin. Who would want to kill a coach? Any Tier One team that thinks they might finish last unless the Krakens lose all their games.”
“Well, okay, but would someone... I don’t know... kill for that?”
Gredok’s pedipalps twitched side-to-side. By now, Quentin knew that was a kind of Quyth laughter. Quentin felt his face turn red. He’d asked a stupid question worthy of derision. Bobby Adrojnik had died in a bar fight shortly after winning the Galaxy Bowl. Suspicion had always centered on Gloria Ogawa, the Wabash owner. The next year, without their star quarterback, the Krakens didn’t even make the playoffs.
“Tier One is about money,” Gredok said. “Where there is money, there is a will to kill for that money. Tell me, Barnes, when you worked in the mines of Micovi, where Human life is so cheap, what was the going rate for a petty assassination?”
Why did everyone have to bring up Micovi? “I think you could have someone killed for five hundred credits, if you wanted it done right. If you didn’t have that kind of cash, you could hire someone hungry for like fifty.”
“Fifty credits to kill a sentient,” Gredok said. “And here, there are billions at stake. Do you understand?”
Quentin hadn’t thought about it in those terms before. He nodded.
“I hope, Barnes, that you can learn these things in time to save me from having to find another quarterback.”
Quentin nodded again.
“And if the ta
rget could have been Coach Hokor,” Gredok said, “then it also could have been... you.”
Quentin stared, once again his brain searching for thoughts and finding nothing. Adrojnik had been killed. Adrojnik, the quarterback. Gredok was right. Quentin could have been the target. They had no way of knowing.
“We will look into this,” Gredok said. “The Ionath Police are good at their jobs, when I allow them to do their jobs, that is, but I won’t sit back and wait for them to find the culprit. I will protect my investments. For now, however, I want everyone to stay on the Touchback at least until the season opener.”
Quentin shrugged. “That’s fine with me.”
“Really? Some of your teammates whined about not seeing their mates, their offspring. No concerns from you?”
Quentin shook his head.
“Of course not,” Gredok said. “Sometimes I forget that your entire life is the game of football. That’s one of the things I like about you — you’re focused on what matters.”
If other Krakens players wasted time with mates and kids, that was their problem. Quentin had nothing to leave behind, but in truth he couldn’t wait to get up to the Touchback because it meant safety. If someone was trying to kill him, he’d rather be in a private spaceship that could punch out than in a city of 110,000 sentients.
“Take this,” Gredok said, and tossed something into the air. Quentin caught it — a thin, black bracelet. “Put it on.”
“If I do, does that mean we’re an item? The gossip sites will go crazy.”
“You are not funny, Barnes, and I doubt your Human brain could even understand the complexities of Quyth courtship. That bracelet will let my people track you wherever you go in case these mystery attackers send you running again, or even kidnap you. I would embed search sounders in your skeleton, but GFL regulations stipulate no mods of any kind. Commissioner Froese is cracking down on such things. Put on the bracelet.”
Quentin slid the bracelet over his right hand. It lightly contracted against his wrist. After just a second or two, he couldn’t even feel it.
Gredok waved his middle-right arm, snapped his pincer.
“Virak, Choto,” he said. “Take Quentin straight to the roof, then shuttle up to the Touchback. He is the last of the team to report in. Once you are up, tell Captain Cheevers to take the Touchback out of orbit and find a place to hide until I can arrange for military protection. If Gloria Ogawa thinks she can stop me from beating her team, she has another think coming. And Choto?”
“Yes, Shamakath?”
“Until further notice, you are to stay by Quentin’s side whenever he is off-ship. He goes nowhere without you, understand?”
“Yes, Shamakath.”
“And Barnes,” Gredok said. “Should you give Choto the slip, for whatever reason, it is not you I will punish. I will blame him for failing me. Now go.”
Quentin felt big, strong pincers lightly grab each upper arm. He turned, sharing a brief look with each of his teammates. Any delay on his part would make them look bad in front of their Shamakath. Quentin let them roughly take him out of the office. The second the doors closed on the elevator, they let go and stepped back.
The three teammates headed up to the roof, to the shuttle that would take them off the planet.
PRE-SEASON: WEEK TWO
From The Ionath City Gazette
* * *
Krakens Players Honored with Post-Season Awards
By Toyat the Inquisitive
NEW YORK CITY, EARTH, PLANETARY UNION — GFL officials today announced the post-season awards for the 2682 campaign, a list dominated by the orange and the black.
Ionath wide receiver Hawick was named first-team All-T2 thanks to a breakout season with 47 catches for 829 yards and 9 touchdowns. She averaged 5.2 catches and 91.1 yards per game, and her average of one TD per game set a new franchise record.
Joining her on the first-team roster is defensive end Aleksander Michnik, who recorded 9 sacks and 56 solo tackles on the season, and Krakens quarterback Quentin Barnes, who was also named the offensive Rookie of the Year.
Second-team all T2 honors went to offensive left tackle Kill-O-Yowet and linebacker John Tweedy.
Rookie of the Year honors for Barnes came as no surprise, at least to this intrepid reporter. Barnes finished with a quarterback rating of 97.2, highest among rookie QBs, while throwing for 11 touchdowns and 1,341 passing yards. He completed 52 percent of his passes, averaging 14 yards per throw. While Barnes had excellent stats for a rookie passer, it was his overall impact on the Krakens franchise that earned him the honor. In the T2 playoff semi-finals, Barnes switched from quarterback to running back, where he rushed for 62 yards on 28 carries while catching 4 passes for another 82 yards and a touchdown.
“Barnes was selfless,” said Krakens head coach Hokor the Hookchest. “At a critical time against an exceptional defense, he had 144 all-purpose yards and the game-winning score to propel us into Tier One. No question that he deserves Rookie of the Year.”
Orbiting Death running back Ju Tweedy was named the T2 Offensive Player of the Year, followed closely by Whitok Pioneers QB Condor Adrienne and Krakens running back Mitchell Fayed (deceased).
Bigg Diggers cornerback Arkham was far and away the winner of Defensive Player of the Year honors, powered by her 11 interceptions.
* * *
QUENTIN WALKED DOWN the Touchback’s corridor, heading for his quarters. Yitzhak Goldman walked on his left. Pilkie, a Quyth Worker, walked on his right. Pilkie and Yitzhak had been waiting for Quentin in the shuttle bay. Yitzhak said he had something to show Quentin, and Pilkie seemed to be part of the event. The Quyth Worker kept offering to take Quentin’s bags every thirty seconds. Quentin didn’t need a Worker to carry his bags, he could carry them just fine even though he was so tired he practically stumbled down the corridor.
While he’d somewhat gotten used to the Quyth Warriors and Leaders, the Workers still freaked him out a little. At around four feet tall, they were bigger than Leaders yet significantly smaller than Warriors. Except for the pedipalps, that is — Worker pedipalps were invariably long and knotted with muscle, the result of many years of manual labor. They reminded Quentin of the arms of his coworkers back in the mines of Micovi.
“Crazy times,” Yitzhak said. “A bomb, man. Sentients died.”
“Zak, I’m exhausted,” Quentin said. “What is this thing you’ve got to show me? Let’s get it over with so I can go to sleep.”
“Quentin, anyone ever tell you you’re too intense?”
Quentin shrugged.
“Well, sometimes you are. Try to relax a little. What I want to show you is in your quarters. I hope you don’t mind, but since you don’t have an agent, I had my agent put out the word that he was temporarily representing you.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed. He’d never even met Yitzhak’s agent, didn’t even know who the guy was. Or girl. Or species, for that matter.
“Representing me... for what?”
“For endorsements,” Yitzhak said. “You’re about to become a star, Quentin. Companies want to get in on the ground floor.”
Quentin hoped the presentation wouldn’t take long. He just wanted his bed. His quarters were the same layout as those of the other Human players; a bedroom barely big enough for the bed, a bathroom, a living room with the holotank in the middle. Most of his Human teammates complained about living in such a small space, but not Quentin — he didn’t bother to tell them that before he started playing football on Micovi, his entire apartment had been the size of just the small bedroom, and that he’d shared it with two other miners.
When they reached Quentin’s quarters, the door opened automatically and they all walked in. At least, they walked as far as they could. Boxes were everywhere, as were display stands showing all sorts of products. Someone had been in his room, his room, messing with his stuff, setting traps for him, trying to take him out.
Quentin stared. He adjusted the strap of his bag. Pilkie moved in fast
, reaching out to take it.
“Leave it,” Quentin said, sharply.
Pilkie flinched as if Quentin was about to hit him.
“Q,” Yitzhak said, “relax.”
Quentin turned on him. “Don’t tell me what to do! And who the hell was in here, huh? You? You plant something in here? Did you?”
Quentin’s left hand shot out and locked on Yitzhak’s right bicep, squeezed hard.
“You gonna make a move, Zak? Well then, come on!”
Yitzhak’s eyes widened for a second, but he stayed stock-still. He looked at Quentin’s big hand, then back at Quentin.
“Let go,” Yitzhak said quietly.
The calmness of Yitzhak’s voice contrasted against the rage roiling inside of Quentin, cut through it, made Quentin see the situation for what it was. He was threatening a teammate, using physical force.
Quentin let go.
Yitzhak, still calm as could be, reached up his left hand and massaged his right bicep. “That hurt,” he said.
Quentin stepped back. His fatigue won out over his rage, dragging him back down again. “Sorry.”
Yitzhak shook his head. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” Quentin said. “I said I was sorry.”
“Sorry is not going to cut it, man. You can’t act like that around here.”
“Act like what?”
“Like you’re some petty thug, swinging at everything that makes you mad. What did you think we’d done, anyway?”
Quentin looked away, but Yitzhak persisted.
“Don’t clam up on me now,” he said. “I’ll accept your apology if you tell me what that was all about. You got that mad, why? Because someone touched your stuff?”
“You make it sound like that’s not a big deal.”
“It’s not,” Yitzhak said. “It’s just a room. I won’t accept your apology until you tell me why you did that.”
