The Starter

by Scott Sigler

  “He wouldn’t go through the window, Don, because he’s slow,” Doc Patah said, his voice coming from the speakerfilm mounted on his backpack. “Why is he slow? Because he’s limping.”

  “I’m not limping.”

  “Q, don’t bother,” Pine said. “Doc Patah has been talking about you for the last fifteen minutes.”

  “Talking about me?” Quentin said, feeling a little self-conscious. “Why, what about me?”

  “That your limp means something is wrong with your leg,” Doc Patah said.

  “I’m not limping.”

  “Limping,” Don said. “Limp-a-loo-laa.”

  Quentin felt his face flush red. He thought he’d been hiding the limp, but obviously not. “Well, whatever. Everyone plays with pain, right Don?”

  Don nodded. “Sure, after they get things checked out with the Doc.”

  “Yes, after,” Doc Patah said. “I will expect you in the Tower Stadium training room after we land.”

  This was not how Quentin envisioned starting things off with the new doctor. “Well, if you knew I was limping, why didn’t you come see me?”

  Doc Patah spun in place, an effortless move for a floating creature. His sensory pits were only a couple of feet from Quentin’s face.

  “I do not come to see you,” he said. “I am a doctor, the finest surgeon you are ever likely to meet. You are a professional athlete. If you choose to be tough and not protect the team’s investment in you, that is your concern. Gredok hired me to be your doctor, not your babysitter. I am not some star-struck Human girl that will chase you all over the galaxy.”

  Babysitter? What did that mean? “But, okay, Doc, but I—”

  “One hour after we land,” Doc Patah said, then flapped his wide wings and shot through the viewing lounge. He left the room with barely a hiss of air, leaving Quentin to stare after him.

  “What a jerk,” Quentin said, turning back to lean on the handrail and look out the window. “Don’t you think so Don? Isn’t he a jerk?”

  Don shrugged. “Too early to tell.”

  “Well, what’s he so mad about?”

  “I don’t think he’s happy to be here,” Don said. “He is, after all, one of the finest surgeons you’re ever likely to meet.”

  “He is?”

  Don leaned away from the rail and pointed down the windows to Virak the Mean. “Back on Ionath, did you notice Virak had a cast?”

  Quentin nodded.

  “Well,” Don said, “apparently one of Gredok’s little off-field activities resulted in Virak getting into a fight, blowing out his leg. It should have put him out for four, maybe five weeks. Doc Patah operated on him, and boom — we have Virak back for pre-season. Yeah, I do think Doc Patah is the best.”

  “How did Gredok hire him, then?” Quentin said. “I mean, if Patah doesn’t want to be here and he’s so special and all, why be here?”

  Don laughed, shook his head and again leaned on the handrail. “Kid, you are a piece of work. Patah is here because Gredok wanted him. What Gredok wants, Gredok gets. How about we just enjoy the view, okay?”

  Quentin nodded, remembering why he’d come to the viewing lounge in the first place. As he looked out the window, that fluttery sensation blossomed in his chest, his stomach, even his toes. Thoughts of Doc Patah and Gredok vanished, because he was looking out at Tower, at a whole other planet. Even the rich kids back on Micovi, would they ever get to see this planet? Winning on the football field was the biggest reward for his hard work, his dedication, but the perk of seeing the galaxy ran a close second.

  Tower seemed to glow slightly from the inside, a scratched, yellow-glass globe hung against the backdrop of dead black space. It was a small planet, probably two-thirds the size of Ionath and farther away from its star. Quentin knew that the smooth, yellowish surface was mostly ice, lined with cracks that were hundreds or thousands of miles long. A crescent of shadow marked Tower’s night-time side. In that darkness gleamed a spot of concentrated lights. A mountain city rising up out of the ice and sparkling like a multi-faceted jewel. But it didn’t look very big. Barely looked larger than Ionath City.

  “Don? Is that Isis?”

  “Yup, home of the Ice Storm.”

  “I thought Isis had like a hundred million residents.”

  “You’re only seeing a part of the city,” Don said. “Just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. The city follows the mountain slope right down through the ice and into the water. Most of Isis is submerged.”

  “I hate going under water. It’s dangerous.”

  “Q, you are in space right now.”

  “Well, I hate that, too.”

  Don laughed. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Don’t worry about it, I’ve played here a dozen times. Tower loves its football, Q. You’re going to have a good time.”

  Tower football had come on strong in the past decade. The Republic’s Tier Two conference was very competitive and had produced three T1 teams: the Bartel Water Bugs, the Isis Ice Storm and the Wabash Wolfpack. The League of Planets, Planetary Union, Quyth Concordia, Ki Empire, and Sklorno Dynasty each had three teams in the bigs. That three-team credibility spoke volumes about the quality of Republic football when you considered it had only about three billion citizens — the wealthy Ki Empire had five times that, the League and Union had ten times as many citizens, while the Quyth and Sklorno had more than fifty times as many citizens.

  The Tower Republic wasn’t just a modern-day competitor at football’s highest levels, it was also deeply rooted in the sport’s history. The Tower Terrans and Wabash Wall had been among the twelve teams that founded the GFL. The Republic could boast of three GFL titles: the Wabash Wall in ‘69, the Terrans in ‘70 and the Bartel Water Bugs in ‘80.

  Don turned away from the window, leaned his right elbow on the handrail. The reflected light from Isis came through the window, giving half of his blue face an oddly greenish tinge.

  “Think you’re ready, kid? Ready for the bright lights of Tier One?”

  Quentin stared out the window, stared at a planet he would have never seen were it not for football. More sentients would see him play on Sunday than lived on his entire home colony. No matter what the season would bring, it would all begin here.

  “I’m ready,” he said quietly. “High One help me, Don, but I’m here to win. I’ll die before I waste the chance that I’ve got.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. You die, I go back intothe lineup, and I have no desire to ever meet Ryan Nossek again anywhere but at a dinner table with a pair of steaks separating us. Don’t put an old man into the meat grinder, Q. Show some of that mercy your people claim to have all the time.”

  Don was making a joke, trying to lighten the mood with a sarcastic dig on the Purist Nation. Quentin heard the joke, maybe even appreciated the humor, but the message didn’t make it from his brain to his lips. There was no smile. He stared out the window, trying to soak up every iota of this moment. The time for jokes and laughter was over.

  The time for war was here.

  • • •

  HIS LEG FELT BETTER ALREADY. No more limping. Fifteen minutes with Doc Patah, and the pain was gone. Quentin walked into the Human locker room and began his pre-game ritual.

  BARNES, #10, it read above the locker. The little electronic numbers and letters changed every week, changed for the players visiting Isis stadium. This week, though, they were his name, his number.

  He opened the locker, stared at the contents. His Krakens away jersey waited for him, a black number “10” trimmed with white, set against the team’s trademark blazing orange. Quentin reached in and took it out, fingers feeling the rough Kevlar fabric.

  Human teammates circulated around him: Don Pine, Yitzhak Goldman, John Tweedy, Rick Warburg, Arioch Morningstar, Tom Pareless, Rebecca Montagne, and more. A part of his brain knew they were there. A small part. Most of his brain, however, focused on his uniform, focused on the ritual — the placing of the pieces, imagining himself in them
, on the field, leading the team, proudly carrying the burden of responsibility, accountability.

  He set his jersey flat on the floor, smoothed out the fabric around the numbers, made sure that the small letters above the numbers — letters that spelled out “KRAKENS” — were clean, readable. He imagined himself in that jersey, throwing, running, and yes, even sliding.

  Quentin stood, careful not to tread on the jersey. He pulled his Koolsuit from the locker. He stepped into the legs of the rubbery material, pulled it up around his hips, slid his arms through the sleeves, then pressed the self-sealing chest flaps together. The suit fit perfectly, covering every part of his body save for his hands, neck, and head. The microtubule material circulated coolant, helping to regulate his skin temperature throughout the game.

  Shoulder armor came next. Quentin held the rig in his hands, fingers brushing over the layers of thick, black, curved plates. Padding beneath the plates rested against his Koolsuit-covered body, while the plates themselves helped protect him against the insane amounts of force generated by Ki defensive linemen, HeavyG defensive ends, blitzing Sklorno safeties, and Human or Quyth Warrior linebackers. The plates absorbed that force, dissipating it instead of transmitting it to the wearer. Some of it, anyway — when the big sentients hit you as hard as they could, it hurt.

  He slid his arms through the shoulder-armor sleeves, the black plates clattering slightly with each movement. The armor was thicker on his right arm and shoulder, thinner on the left shoulder and left arm... his throwing arm. Micro-sensors automatically adjusted the armor’s fifty-six adjustable spacers, giving him a perfect form fit in just seconds. Quentin rotated his arms, mimicked a throwing motion, a hand-off, a straight-arm. Everything felt right, everything felt perfect.

  He pulled the lower-torso armor from the locker, wrapped the rig around his lower back and locked it home at his stomach. Micro-sensors adjusted the fit and linked into the shoulder armor, giving him flexible protection from the top of his pelvis up to his neck.

  Next came hip and leg armor. Orange-enameled alloy protected his hips, thighs, knees, and lower legs. Finally came his armored shoes, Nike All-Space Enforcers. He stepped into the shoes, which automatically locked into and bonded with the leg armor.

  Quentin lifted his orange jersey like a holy relic, staring at it for a long moment. He pulled it on over his armor. He reached into his locker for his helmet. Even more than the jersey, the helmet was iconic of the Krakens, of the team. Ionath helmets were a deep, glossy black with orange facemasks. The helmet’s front-center, above the facemask, showed an orange design trimmed in red piping — six orange-fading-to-white points stretching up, across and down the helmet’s sides. Many people mistook the six-armed design for flames, like someone would paint on a tricked-out hover-car. Actually, it represented the six-tentacled Quyth sea creature for which the team was named.

  Quentin pulled the helmet on, knowing he would turn and walk to the meeting room where he’d see fifty-two other black helmets. Those helmets had many shapes, from Ki to HeavyG to Sklorno to Quyth Warrior, but the black was always the same, the six-armed orange pattern was always the same.

  The same, because even though they were different species, come kickoff they were all of the same tribe.

  They were all Krakens.

  A rage slowly built inside of him. A coldness, a feeling of pent-up damage to be dealt, an overpowering sense that there were those dumb enough, arrogant enough, to try and take what was his.

  Season opener.

  His moment had come.

  Quentin stood and walked out of the Human locker room and into the central, communal area.

  “It’s time,” he said. Calm, but loud enough to be heard. The various races filtered out of their respective locker rooms. The team gathered around him — five species merging into a single soul-crushing species that wore the orange and the black. The players formed a tight circle, leaving him just enough space to turn and take a step, maybe two, before he turned again, looking each teammate in the eye or the eyes.

  “We need to take care of the ball,” Quentin said. “We need to play smart.”

  “Hell yeah!” John Tweedy said. “Yeah! Kill ’em!”

  Some of the Krakens looked intense and angry, or even totally psychopathic like John. Most, however, wore only a thin veneer of confidence. Just a handful of players possessed Tier One experience. Quentin didn’t have any. He’d played a single season of Tier Two, but that didn’t change anything — football was football.

  “They think we’re weak,” Quentin said. “They think you all are a bunch of Tier Two players.”

  The looks around him grew more intense, angrier.

  “Football is football,” Quentin said. “They’re a little faster than what we faced last year, a little bigger, but we’re ready for them. Let’s go out there and let them know who we are. Who are we?”

  “Krakens!” the team shouted as one.

  “Who are we?”

  “Krakens!”

  “All right, let’s go play some football!”

  The tight circle of players parted for him. He walked out of the locker room and into the tunnel leading to the field. His team followed close behind. The soundproofing in the locker room must have been top-grade, because as soon as they stepped into the tunnel he heard the crowd’s low, rumbling roar. John Tweedy, the defensive captain, walked on his right. Kill-O-Yowet, his huge Ki left tackle, scuttled along on his left.

  They stopped at the mouth of the tunnel, staring out at a capacity crowd of 150,000 blue- and white-clad sentients. Quentin looked around the strange stadium that the locals called “the Fishtank.” When he’d seen the field hours ago, during a short walk-through practice, the place had been almost empty. The stadium’s clear dome showed a seemingly endless ocean, lights from surrounding buildings playing off of floating particulate and plankton to create a slightly glowing, translucent cloud. Now, just minutes before kickoff, he couldn’t see the surrounding buildings anymore. He couldn’t see them, because thousands of Leekee swarmed across the other side of the dome. Ten thousand, maybe more, hard to make out at this distance but even from here he could see that they all looked like Kelp Bringer — bright blue bodies with black stripes. The species that had looked a bit misshapen and awkward during Media Day on the Touchback moved with a lightning-fast, fluid grace when in the water.

  Air-breathing sentients packed the stands, a solid wall of blue- and white-garbed Ice Storm fans. Three decks. Between each deck, a fifteen-foot-high ring of thick glass. Behind that glass, more liquid, more Leekee — their equivalent of VIP seating, probably. Liquid luxury boxes. Only one section in the north corner showed a concentration of orange and black, a combination of local supporters and Krakens super fans who had made the long trip from Ionath.

  All enclosed stadiums were loud, but the Fishtank was on a whole different level. He could feel the sound rocketing back and forth, up and down, a kinetic force that would only get worse as the game wore on.

  “Sentients of all races,” called the announcer, her voice booming off the roof and echoing throughout the underwater stadium. “Please welcome our visiting team, the Ionath... krak-ennnnnns!”

  Right on cue, Quentin stormed onto the sapphire blue field, his orange- and black-clad teammates at his back. Most of the 150,000 football fans in attendance screamed for his blood. Quentin reached the visitors sidelines and his teammates packed in around him, jumping up and down as one multi-legged creature, pushing and pulling, awash in the pre-game ritual of war chants and adrenaline. He saw John Tweedy screaming things that John Tweedy thought were sentences, but were really just unintelligible syllables of rage. Crazy George Starcher, face painted red this time. Rebecca Montagne, looking more than a little shell-shocked. Michnik and Khomeni, just standing there, bobbing their upper bodies in time instead of jumping, knuckles touching the ground each time they dipped. Scarborough, Denver, and the other Sklorno receivers, leaping far too high and squealing with glee. Mum-O-Kil
lowe, Kill-O-Yowet and the other Ki players, clumped mostly together, eyes hidden by their wrap-around helmet visors.

  And then, the announcer called out the home team.

  “Residents of Isis, citizens of the Tower Republic, members of the Tri-Alliance and visitors from across the reaches of known space. You are all now part of... the Fishtank! Please welcome the defenders of the Republic’s honor, your... Isis... IIIIIIIIICE... STORRRRRRRRRRRRRM!”

  They raced out of the tunnel, a sentient tornado of blue and white. Snow-white helmets decorated only on the left side with the Ice Storm logo: six metal-blue swords in a snowflake formation, gleaming with chrome highlights that matched chrome facemasks.

  Their jerseys were white on top, fading to a light blue in the middle that blended into leg armor — light blue at the waist blending to navy blue at the shins and shoes, ending with shoes of blue so dark they looked damn near black. Chrome numbers with dark blue trim decorated shoulder pads, chest and back. Even their belts and shoe clips were chrome.

  Aside from the uniforms — which Quentin thought were just about as cool as cool could get — what he noticed was the size of the players. The Krakens had big players, but the Ice Storm squad just seemed a bit larger across the board. In particular Quentin had trouble looking away from number 76.

  Number 76... Ryan Nossek, All-Pro defensive end, HeavyG and big as a tank. The sack leader of Tier One.

  A quarterback killer.

  In Nossek’s six-year career with the Ice Storm, he had four confirmed kills: one Sklorno receiver, a Human tight end, and two quarterbacks. He’d also ended the careers of two additional quarterbacks. One, a backup for the Sala Intrigue, now had a successful bedding company. You could see his commercials in just about every GFL broadcast. The other, a former starter for the Shorah Warlords, hadn’t made one coherent sentence in the three years since Nossek blind-sided him.

  Nossek was a killer, true, but all the hits had been clean. He was widely respected in both the media and among GFL players. None of that mattered now — Nossek was the enemy, and Quentin was going to put him down.