by Scott Sigler
“Was,” Gredok said. “Hawick is our top receiver now.”
Quentin felt his anger welling up. He fought to control it.
“Gredok, you know Hawick had that year because of double-coverage on Scarborough. Okay, sure, now Hawick is our number-one, but we can’t win without Scarborough.”
Don leaned forward. “You sure about that, Q?”
“Yes I’m sure.”
“What about next year?” Hokor said. “Scarborough is getting old. This could be her final season of high production. Do we want to pass up a player like Kimberlin, who will give us three, maybe even four seasons, to hold onto a receiver whose best years have passed her by?”
“Then what about Denver?” Quentin said. “She’s in her second year. She’s the fastest receiver we’ve got. She’s only going to get better in seasons to come.”
“Seasons to come,” Gredok said. “Such an interesting phrase. Tell me, Barnes, how much benefit is that to the franchise if those seasons to come are back in Tier Two?”
Quentin shook his head. “We’re not going back. No way. I won’t let it happen.”
Don reached out his hand as if he was going to touch Quentin’s shoulder, but he stopped himself and put the hand back on his knee.
“It can happen, Q,” Don said. “It can, and if our offensive line can’t protect you, it will.”
Quentin felt his face getting hotter, redder. Were these jerks serious? Denver had played her heart out. The team adored her. Quentin had to control his anger, talk reason here.
“So we trade our number two and our number four receivers,” he said. “And we get a right guard that that will only last a few years?”
“Long enough to find a better one,” Gredok said. “I am developing the best scouting agency in the galaxy. All we need to do is stay in Tier One for this season and I can give you a team of all-star talent.”
Quentin stood before he even knew he was doing it. “We have a team with all-star talent. We are not going down to Tier Two! I object to this trade.”
Coach Hokor’s black-striped yellow fur fluffed out, then settled back down. “That’s why we called you here, Barnes. Normally, we’d pull the trigger on a trade of this caliber, but these are two of your top receivers. The decision is yours.”
The words stunned him. “It’s... my decision?”
Don nodded. “I told them they needed your take, Q. You’re the guy who has to deal with a weak offensive line. It’s great to throw to Denver and Scarborough if you have time to throw, which you won’t, at least not until Aka-Na-Tak comes off injured reserve.”
“But he comes back in Week Four.”
“Quentin, think,” Don said slowly. “This is Tier One. This is the promised land of football. Every... game... matters. A season is only twelve games. Lose the first three, and it could already be too late. And you’re forgetting something else here.”
“Yeah? Am I, Pine? What am I forgetting?”
Don leaned back. Now he was the one trying to control his patience. “Aka-Na-Tak is a second-string player to begin with. How good do you think he is? When he comes back, is he good enough to protect you?”
Quentin stared at Don, stared and blinked. Quentin hadn’t thought of that. Aka-Na-Tak was a second-stringer. He was better than Shun-On-Won, sure, but how much better?
As usual, Don Pine, the veteran, the two-time Tier One Champion, the former league MVP, was thinking several moves ahead.
Quentin sat back down and let out a slow breath. “Okay, Don. I’m listening. You tell me — if it was you, what would your call be?”
That sad look on Don’s face again. “It sucks, but I’d make the trade. You can’t win if you spend half the game looking for your teeth.”
The office fell silent. They were waiting for him to decide. The future of two receivers hung on his decision. No, the future of two receivers, an All-Pro lineman, and an entire franchise. His other teammates. All those people in the administrative offices.
But most importantly, the future of Denver. She’d been on that landing deck with Quentin back on the Combine. They’d been rookies together, fighting to take the Krakens into Tier One. She worshiped Quentin — literally, worshiped him. If they made the trade, if he made the trade, what would that do to her?
“No,” Quentin said finally. “Scarborough is too valuable. And Denver has just too much up-side. We can’t make this trade.”
Coach Hokor leaned forward, yellow-furred pedipalp hands pressed against the black desktop. “Are you sure, Barnes? When you are lying on your back after your fifth or sixth sack of each game, will you be sure then?”
Quentin nodded. He’d taken beatings before. He’d just have to keep taking them for a little while. He could win with the offensive line he had. He knew he could.
“I’m sure,” Quentin said. “I promise you, we will not go oh-and-three.”
“We’d better not,” Gredok said. “All I can say is that if we leave this decision up to you, and we go winless for the first three games, then the result is on you, Barnes. Not on Hokor, on you.”
There was no way around it. His coach, his mentor, his owner, they all wanted to make this trade. If passing on it was the wrong call, they might never again trust him to make the smart decision.
But smart or not, he knew he’d made the right decision.
Quentin stood. “Is there anything else, Coach?”
“No,” Hokor said. “You may go.”
Quentin left the control room and headed for his quarters. He’d made the right decision, sure, but if they didn’t win, did the right decision even matter?
• • •
TWO DAYS AFTER the stressful trade discussion, Quentin, Yitzhak Goldman, Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright walked down the corridor toward the Touchback’s landing bay. Manny Sayed had flown in to discuss Quentin’s endorsement for Manny’s luxury yacht company. Gredok wouldn’t let Krakens players return planet-side, not with the season so close and potential bombers possibly lurking in Ionath City.
Yitzhak came along to counsel Quentin, while Virak and Choto were there for security. As far as Gredok was concerned, everyone was a threat — including a fat, old, one-legged, Purist Nation businessman. The two Quyth Warriors walked in front, each wearing a gun strapped on his right side just below the head. It was interesting to see how fast Virak’s and Choto’s demeanor changed, from on-field bad-ass football player to intimidating, cold-eyed, gangland enforcer. They had much more experience as the latter, and it showed.
“Q,” Yitzhak said. “You limping?”
Quentin shook his head and tried to walk straighter, but his leg hurt like crazy. When he didn’t focus on each step, he did limp. In practice earlier that day, Quentin had felt pressure and scrambled for yards instead of taking a sack. He’d dodged Aleksander Michnik’s huge HeavyG arms, only to be leveled by Mum-O-Killowe. Coach Hokor was furious with both Quentin, for not sliding, and Mum-O, for hitting a starting quarterback. Quentin had thought his days of running laps as punishment ended when he became the starting QB — he’d been wrong.
“You’ve got to stop insulting Mum-O-Killowe,” Yitzhak said. “I don’t get that. Why are you making him so mad? He’s going to kill you on the practice field.”
“We have to figure out what’s up at right guard,” Quentin said. “If I make Mum-O mad, then he comes at me as hard as he can, just like he would in a game. We need to know if Shun-On can really block for me. If he can’t, we’re going to have to try someone else at right guard. Maybe Cay-Oh-Kiware can step up.”
Yitzhak shrugged. “If he can make the switch from left guard to right guard, sure. We should try that Zer-Eh-Detak kid. I know he’s only eighteen, but that’s the biggest damn sentient I’ve ever seen. Regardless, Quentin, your little science experiment won’t matter if you miss the first game because you’re digesting inside Mum-O’s belly. And it’s not just our right guard you have to worry about — Vu-Ko-Will has to block Ryan Nossek. Kind of sucks to be you, Q.”
Que
ntin had been thinking a lot about Nossek, the Isis Ice Storm’s All-Pro defensive end. Vu-Ko, the Krakens right tackle, would have to defend against that gigantic HeavyG. Nossek had led Tier One in sacks last season. He’d also killed four sentients in his career. Many considered him the best defensive end in football. Quentin would square off against him in just eight more days.
“Just promise me something,” Yitzhak said. “Please tell me that when we play the Ice Storm you’re going to slide and stop taking head-on hits if you scramble?”
“If I don’t have blocking, I have to run. I can’t slide every play, Zak. I have to make things happen out there.”
Virak the Mean stopped and turned. “The Quyth have a saying, Quentin.”
“Which is?”
“It’s hard to make things happen when you don’t have a head.”
“That’s not really a Quyth saying, is it?”
“Close enough,” Virak said, then he continued down the corridor.
Quentin followed and said nothing. He knew Yitzhak, Hokor, and even Virak were right. He had to start treating his body like a precious resource. But every slide felt like an admission of weakness. He’d never slid in the PNFL. Of course, back then he’d been bigger than almost everyone else on the field. He wasn’t in the PNFL anymore.
They reached the landing bay and boarded the orange-and-black shuttle. They waited for the airlock to cycle, then the catapult hurled the shuttle out. It would be a short trip — Manny’s luxury yacht was also in orbit, only a click away.
As the shuttle approached, Quentin took in the yacht’s long, flowing, curved lines. It possessed a sleekness that the Touchback did not. The Krakens team ship was an old military vessel, built for efficiency, for combat. The yacht, which was maybe a tenth the length of the Touchback, was built for comfort, built for looks. It seemed more a work of art than a functioning vessel. The yacht’s glossy, orange hull reflected the stars and the approaching shuttle’s running lights. Long, swooping black lines trimmed with white ran the length of the yacht’s hull.
“She’s a beauty,” Yitzhak said. “Wow, that is really a top-of-the-line craft.”
“Yeah?” Quentin said. “I’ve never been on a yacht, just seen them in holos.”
Yitzhak nodded. He, at least, was getting used to the fact that Quentin knew little of the finer things in life. Zak didn’t judge, didn’t poke fun. Most of the time, anyway.
The shuttle carefully slid into the yacht’s tiny landing bay. While the Touchback’s landing bay could hold several large craft, the yacht’s had barely enough room to lower the shuttle doors. Virak and Choto walked down the ramp first, pedipalp hands on their guns. Beyond them, Quentin saw Manny Sayed standing there, clearly surprised to see two gangland toughs ready to throw lead at the first sign of trouble.
“Oh, my,” Manny said. “Please, dear sentients, there is no cause for alarm. My crew and I will cooperate in any way possible.”
“That is good,” Virak said. “We are very much on edge after the terrorist attempt during our victory parade.”
Manny sighed and looked up to the low ceiling. “Yes, of course, I should have thought of that. Let me announce to my crew that they must cooperate and stay calm. Acceptable?”
“Yes,” Virak and Choto said together.
Manny raised a jeweled hand to his mouth and spoke. Quentin heard Manny’s words echo through the landing bay. The same words were probably echoing through the entire ship.
He’d met Manny Sayed on the trip from Micovi to the Combine. The overweight man wore flowing, blue robes that signified a confirmed member of the Purist Nation church. Manny also bore the church’s primary sign of identification: an infinity symbol tattooed on the forehead. He had the robes and the symbol, true, but he also wore garish, expensive jewelry. Such a display would be frowned upon in Purist Nation space. Outside the system, no one seemed to care. He had also cut his robes shorter than normal, exposing his bare lower right leg and its jeweled sandal. He’d lost his left leg in the Creterakian takeover. A jewel-studded platinum prosthetic stood in its place.
Manny smiled at his guests. “I have informed our crew to stay out of our way. Now, Quentin, if your associates are satisfied, may we begin the tour and talk about your possible endorsement of Sayed Luxury Craft?”
Virak and Choto stepped apart, allowing Quentin and Yitzhak room to walk forward.
Manny extended his hand. “Praise High One for blessing your journey.”
Quentin shook the offered hand. “Praise to the High One for bringing us together. It’s good to see you again, Elder Sayed.”
The traditional Purist greeting. Scripted words, but it surprised Quentin to find that he meant them, that it felt good just to say them. Manny was another reminder of home. A home that Quentin hated with all his soul, but still, it was home.
Manny turned and gestured that Quentin should walk side-by-side with him. Manny’s jewelry clinked with every movement, his prosthetic foot clonked with each step.
“This vessel is the Marquis model,” Manny said as they walked. “It has its own shuttle, suitable for four beings. We sent the shuttle out to make room for the Touchback’s shuttle, which is quite a bit larger. The Marquis model also has one lifeboat, suitable for five sentients, or maybe three of your size.
As they walked, Quentin took it all in. The ship looked brand-new. There weren’t even any scuffs on the landing bay’s metal deck.
In the corridor, everything looked extremely expensive, from the dark wood of the walls to the polished metal trim and moldings. Smart carpets, framed artwork, everything clean and new and sparkling. He’d only seen one place that so reeked of money and power — Gredok’s quarters in the Krakens building.
Quentin barely noticed that Virak and Choto followed along. As big as the Warriors were, they seemed well practiced at fading into the background.
The corridor led into a large salon. Thick couches and chairs made of some kind of cured animal skin, tables and chairs of a rich, exotic wood, and walls made of smart material. Classy sculptures sat in each corner. Holo-frames dotted the walls, showing slowly shifting images of the galaxy’s great artworks.
“This is the standard display,” Manny said, gesturing to the smartwalls and holo-frames. “But, just for you, we programmed a special configuration.”
He snapped his fingers. The images and holos shifted to a football theme. Quentin was a little embarrassed to see himself in all of the images. Like the buildings of Ionath City, the walls around came alive with many versions of Quentin Barnes in action.
Manny continued the tour. The yacht had the main salon, a spacious bar (which John Tweedy would just love, Quentin knew), a beautiful kitchen, a dining room that would seat fifteen sentients, a bridge, and five staterooms each bigger than the last. The master stateroom alone was larger than Quentin’s entire quarters on the Touchback.
“This is really cool,” Quentin said. He felt a little strange being in such a place, like he didn’t deserve to be surrounded by such grandeur. Finery like this belonged to the upper classes, not to a dirty orphan from Micovi.
“I have one more thing that might interest you,” Manny said. He led them to the back of the master stateroom, to the bathroom. With a sweeping gesture, he showed a large shower — metal-tile floors and walls, six shower-heads that would spray from all angles.
Quentin smiled. “Manny, only a Nationalite would have thought of that.”
“I figured that you would like it.”
Yitzhak leaned in and squinted his eyes. “Hey, that’s not a nannite shower. Does that thing shoot water?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Quentin said as they left the stateroom. “It’s a Purist Nation thing, you wouldn’t understand.”
Manny led them back to the stateroom. “This ship is called the Hypatia. But, if you choose to endorse my modest little company, you can name her whatever you like.”
Quentin laughed. “What, is that part of the advertising or something? I can say ‘
I like these boats so much, I named one?’ How is that going to sell your ships?”
“It’s up to you,” Manny said. “You’ll own her, after all.”
Quentin looked around as if he hadn’t really seen the ship at all when he’d first walked through. “Yeah, I don’t know. How much does it cost?”
“The Marquis is our top-of-the line model. With punch drives, you can go anywhere in the galaxy, even use the primary shipping lanes just like a transport. The Hypatia, as she sits right now, would go for fifteen million credits.”
Quentin let out a long whistle. He made just over one million a season. He felt almost relieved that such an ostentatious display of wealth was outside his means. Despite his newfound fortune, there was always a reminder of wealth’s ever-increasing levels.
“I can’t afford that,” he said. “But it’s very classy, Elder Sayed. If it would help your business I’d be happy to endorse your ships. What would I get paid for that?”
“Uh, Q?” Yitzhak said. “I don’t think you understand. What Manny is saying is that if you endorse his company, you get the Hypatia. She’s yours.”
Quentin playfully pushed Yitzhak away. “Yeah, right. Come on, Zak, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Mister Goldman is right,” Manny said. “We can’t have you endorsing our ships without knowing what it’s like to own one, Quentin. The Hypatia is the fee for your endorsement. Sign with me, and she’s yours.”
Quentin stared at Manny, then looked around the salon. Everything in the room spoke of prestige, of position. “This can’t be for me.”
Yitzhak laughed. “Q, they painted it orange and black and put in a water shower. Who else would it be for?”
“But all this?” Quentin said. “Mine? I’m just...” he started to say an orphan, but caught himself. “I’m just a second-year quarterback. I haven’t won anything.”
“You will,” Manny said. “Quentin, I believe you are about to become one of the best-known names in the galaxy. I am willing to gamble on that with this big investment.”
“But I can’t fly,” Quentin said. “Could I even afford the crew you have up here?”
