by Scott Sigler
“I don’t see any Whitokians,” Quentin said. “They’re underwater types, aren’t they?”
“Not here they aren’t,” John said. “There’s a lot of hatred between the Leekee and Whitokians, left over from the Third Galactic War.”
“Wasn’t that like a century ago?”
John shrugged. “Something like that. History ain’t my thing.”
Quentin saw another odd sight — Humans. A few wore breathing masks, but most swam along with the Leekee, Dolphins and Harrah. They wore various kinds of clothing, some skin-tight, some loose and rippling with motion, but no masks.
As the ship drew closer to the pedestrian traffic, Quentin pointed down to one of the Humans. “John, how come they don’t drown?”
“They’re Amphibs,” John said. “Genetic mods, breathe as easy in Tower’s oceans as they do on its surface. And check out their feet.”
Quentin looked closer, realizing that none of the mask-less Humans wore shoes. They had longer feet and longer toes with skin running between the digits.
“Fish-people?”
“Amphibs,” Yassoud said. “Fish-people is offensive. Oh, and don’t call them frogs, either. Or phibbies.”
“I can call them Amphibs but they are offended by phibbies? That doesn’t even make any sense.”
Yassoud shrugged. “Hard to keep track of the sheer number of things that offend sentients these days, but that’s their preference.”
The ship evened out, once again traveling with other small passenger vehicles, only now the school wasn’t as tightly packed. Quentin realized there was a level below which the cars didn’t travel, because all the pedestrian swimmers were beneath that level. A few minutes later, the driver banked left out of the traffic and into a building’s opening. Darkness covered the windows. Quentin waited, barely able to contain his excitement. Burbling, hissing, clanking, light blaring in from above. He was in a loading bay again.
“Where are we?”
“Never mind where we are,” John said.
“And eat your broccoli,” Yassoud said.
“What is this broccoli that you guys keep talking about? Is that food?”
Before they answered, the fat driver opened the door. Quentin stepped out, his feet landing on the elevator platform grate. Water beaded down the limo’s smooth, blue hull to drip onto the grate, then drain through it.
“Mister Barnes,” the driver said. “Do ya mind if I have yer autograph?” He held out a message board, which Quentin took.
“Sure thing, man.” He signed it and handed it back. “There you go.”
“Thanks. Tough game against the Ice Storm, but I thought ya played great.”
Quentin nodded acknowledgment, then looked around. Another landing bay, but full of larger, longer ships that had to be the underwater equivalent of cargo haulers and buses. It looked very industrial, like the part of a business that customers usually don’t see.
“Q,” John said. “Come on, this way.”
Quentin followed John and Yassoud, then realized that the driver was walking along as well.
“Hey, John? Why is the driver coming with us?”
“He’s more than a driver. If anyone messes with you, you let the driver handle it, right?”
Quentin flashed a glance over his shoulder. The guy couldn’t be more than six feet tall. Fat. Out of shape.
“Seriously, Uncle Johnny? That dude?”
“He’s not what he appears to be, Q. Don’t worry about it, probably won’t come into play.”
They walked into a dark hallway. Quentin heard the growing roar of a crowd. Not the mass of a hundred-thousand-plus at a GFL game, but it was still a lot of voices packed tightly together. The sound echoed through the halls.
Quentin felt a poke in his chest. It was John’s hand, pushing a lanyard with a plastic badge-chip. Quentin took it. His own holo-face smiled up from the badge, right under the words BACKSTAGE PASS, ALL ACCESS.
“John, what is this?”
They reached the end of the hall just as the crowd roared loudly enough to shake the walls. Quentin found himself in some kind of luxury box, like the ones that Stedmar sat in for the Raiders games back on Micovi. The box’s entire far wall was clear, showing a view of a packed audience and a stage. On that stage, a band.
The first notes of an electric guitar intro roared to the crowd. The crowd roared back. Quentin recognized those notes — the long, melodic guitar intro of Combat Bats.
“No... way.”
“Oh, yep,” Yassoud said, or rather, shouted, just so he could be heard over the screaming throng of fans packed into the theater below. “A little present for you, Q, from John and me.”
Quentin’s heart hammered. His chest felt all cold and tingly. A blue-skinned woman wearing nearly nothing strode into the center of the stage, her hands raised as if in victory. Confidence and absolute control radiated from her like a miniature sun.
“High One,” Quentin said. “That’s Somalia Midori.”
“It is,” Yassoud said.
“This is Trench Warfare,” Quentin said. “I’m at a Trench Warfare concert.”
Quentin felt John’s hand pushing into his chest again. He looked down, quickly, to see a mag-can of Miller Lager. Quentin grabbed it, his eyes snapping back to the stage, his hands opening the can as if on autopilot.
“Your favorite band,” John said. “You look like a kid that just got a hover-bike for Giving Day, Q. How many concerts have you been to?”
Somalia was pointing one hand at the crowd, holding the other to her ear. The crowd’s roar cranked up to an insane level.
“I’ve never been to one before,” Quentin said. “Concerts are illegal in the Nation. How did you guys pull this off?”
“We called the theater,” John said. “We told them you were a fan of the band, next thing you know, we’ve got box seats and backstage passes.”
“Because I’m a fan? Why did we get all that? The band doesn’t know me.”
John drained his Miller and pulled another. “Quentin, I know you haven’t figured this out yet, but you’re a Tier One quarterback. You are a star, my friend. You’ll find people want to do all kinds of things for you.”
Quentin wasn’t about to complain, but what John said was hard to believe considering that the Krakens had lost the game.
The drummer unleashed a booming roll that shook the theater. Somalia held the mic a half-inch from her face, cupping it in both hands. She screamed out her primitive four three two one! and the band ripped into the first verse.
Quentin felt an elbow hit his shoulder.
“Q,” John said, “I think you’re missing something.”
“Which is?”
“You have a backstage pass. After the show, guess who you get to meet?”
The words seemed to knock all other thoughts out of his brain. “I get to meet... her?”
John laughed, but Quentin could barely hear it as the band hit the first chorus and the crowd went wild. Trench Warfare ran around the stage, attacking their song with the intensity of a blitzing linebacker. Quentin tried to look at all the band members, take it all in, but in truth it was almost impossible to take his eyes off of Somalia Midori.
• • •
QUENTIN HAD A SET of very familiar, very comfortable emotions. Among them were cold-calculating anger, all-out rage, and wide-eyed wonder. One emotion he wasn’t used to, however, was feeling nervous.
He and John and Yassoud waited in a room filled with beat-up furniture and semi-functional holotanks. Graffiti covered the walls. The place smelled of stale beer. Around twenty sentients were in the room, all wearing backstage passes hanging from lanyards. Two of the sentients had big feet and long toes. Quentin also noticed that their skin looked thick, and that they had five parallel slits on either side of their necks. He tried not to stare.
The room doors opened. Trench Warfare’s five members rolled in; sweaty and exhausted but full of satisfied joy. They looked like Quentin felt after w
inning an important game.
In the middle of them, her. Somalia Midori. She locked eyes with him and strode over. What little clothing she wore clung wetly to her sweat-shined blue skin. The purple mohawk was also heavy with moisture, yet still looked thick and inviting. It hung down the left side of her face, cascading over her shoulder. The shaven right side of her head gleamed under the room’s lights.
She stopped only a few inches away, their chests almost touching.
Tall, Quentin thought, realizing that Somalia had to be six and a half feet tall. Just six inches shorter than he was.
“I hear you’re my biggest fan,” she said. “That true?”
“Uh... well, I don’t know.”
“He’s a huge fan,” John said. He stood at Quentin’s right shoulder, all smiles and wild-eyed giddiness.
“I don’t know,” Somalia said, not taking her eyes off of Quentin’s. “I got infinites of crazy-massive fans, we clear? What’s so special about Mister Tall Quarterback here?”
Quentin shook his head as if he were apologizing, and he didn’t know why. “Oh, nothing, nothing special. I... I’ve just been listening for awhile.”
John leaned in, looking from Somalia to Quentin and back again. “Quentin here is from the Purist Nation,” John said. “Ask him what would have happened if he’d been caught with your music.”
Quentin’s sensation of embarrassment deepened. He didn’t know why, but he hadn’t wanted this woman to know where he was from.
John’s statement didn’t seem to bother her. Instead, it made a small smile creep across her perfect, blue lips. She still hadn’t broken eye contact with Quentin, not even for a second.
“So?” she said. “What would have happened?”
“Oh, it’s no big deal, I—”
She put her hand on his chest. “No, seriously. Enough with the shy and all. What would have happened?”
Quentin glared at John, who simply shrugged. THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE scrolled across his face tat.
Quentin turned back to face Somalia. “Depends on how many songs. Up to five gets you a public whipping. Five to ten, a whipping and a month in jail. More then ten banned songs is considered an act of sacrilege.”
Her smile faded. “Sacrilege? What happens then?”
“Depends on the judge.”
“And if the judge is grumpy?”
“Public hanging,” Quentin said. “Rare, but it does happen.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded.
She stared at him, disbelieving. “We have seventy-two recorded songs. How many of those did you have?”
“Seventy-two. Plus all the live recordings I could find, so... probably a hundred.”
She blinked rapidly, and her mouth opened a little. “You’re telling me that if you’d been caught with our music, you could have been executed for it?”
Quentin nodded.
An appreciative grin slowly broke across her face. She extended her hand. “I guess you is crazy-massive supernova fan, then. I’m Somalia.”
Quentin shook her hand, feeling the wetness of her sweat, the warmth of her skin, the strength of her fingers. This was a real handshake, not the polite grasp of a socialite.
“I’m Quentin,” he said. “Quentin Barnes.”
“You’re cute,” she said. “I think you and I should get a drink.”
Quentin’s breath froze in his throat. Was Somalia Midori asking him out for a drink?
“I... uh... I’d love t—”
“He’d love to, but he can’t,” John said. “Our ship leaves tonight. In fact, we have to get going right now or we’re in trouble.”
Somalia frowned at John. “Well aren’t you just a good boy obeying the boss. Come on, what’s the worst they can do to you?”
John’s smile faded. “You really don’t want to know. Q? Say your goodbyes.”
“John, no way! We can’t leave now, you—”
“Promised I would have you back in time, that’s what I did,” he said. “My neck is on the line if we don’t leave now. Are you going to make me have to face Hokor’s wrath?”
Quentin looked at John, then at Somalia.
She had such a sexy smile. Her deep-blue eyes blazed with confidence and mischief. “Do you really have to go?” she said. “Just one drink?”
Quentin wanted to say yes, but John was right. If they didn’t make curfew, they’d make the entire team wait.
“Sorry,” Quentin said. “Maybe... maybe some other time?”
Her smiled widened. More of a sneer, really, a sneer that made his insides melt.
“I hope so,” Somalia said. “Super-star fan of fans, here’s to our paths crossing again.”
John and Yassoud pulled Quentin away. He stumbled, still looking back at Somalia, who watched his every move with the eager intensity of a cat watching a wounded mouse.
They reached the hall and moved quickly toward the landing bay.
Yassoud slapped Quentin on the back. “Have fun?”
“High One, yes,” Quentin said. “Thanks, guys, that was amazing.”
“Don’t mention it,” John said. “The girls always dig the quarterbacks. Ain’t that right, ’Soud?”
Yassoud nodded. “The ladies love the long ball.”
“Lady?” John said as they entered the docking bay. “I’m not sure I’d call Somalia Midori a lady. What do you think, Quentin, you ever meet a lady like her?”
Quentin shook his head, thinking of Somalia’s confidence, her aura of aggression. “We don’t have women like that back in the Nation.”
The fat driver held the door for them. Minutes later, they were once again soaring through the waters of Isis, headed for the shuttle that would take them up to the Touchback.
The night had been simply unbelievable, but rocking out was just a temporary escape. The Krakens were 0-and-1. So were the Themala Dreadnaughts. One week from now, one team would still be winless.
Quentin would make sure that team was not the Ionath Krakens.
GFL WEEK ONE ROUNDUP
(Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network)
The GFL’s 25th Anniversary season is underway, and surprises abounded in Week One.
The Mars Planets registered a shocker, traveling to Jupiter and delivering a 21-20 upset against the defending champion Jacks. The New Rodina Astronauts made a loud announcement of their intentions this season with a 56-3 blowout win over the Jang Atom Smashers.
Both of the newly promoted teams dropped their Tier One debuts. The Ionath Krakens were man-handled by the Isis Ice Storm, 51-7, while the Chillich Spider-Bears suffered a 42-21 loss at the hands of the Bord Brigands.
Deaths
North Branch, special teams player for the Isis Ice Storm, died on a clean hit from Ionath Krakens rookie Rebecca Montagne.
Offensive Player of the Week
New Rodina quarterback Rick Renaud, who threw five touchdowns in a 25-for-32, 293-yard performance.
Defensive Player of the Week
Mars cornerback Matsumoto, who registered two picks on Jacks QB Shriaz Zia. Matsumoto returned the second pick 62 yards for the winning touchdown.
WEEK TWO: THEMALA DREADNOUGHTS at IONATH KRAKENS
PLANET DIVISION
1-0 Hittoni Hullwalkers
1-0 Isis Ice Storm
1-0 Lu Juggernauts
1-0 Mars Planets
1-0 To Pirates
1-0 Wabash Wolfpack
0-1 Alimum Armada
0-1 Coranadillana Cloud Killers
0-1 Yall Criminals
0-1 Themala Dreadnaughts
0-1 Ionath Krakens
SOLAR DIVISION
1-0 New Rodina Astronauts
1-0 Bord Brigands
1-0 D’Kow War Dogs
1-0 Sala Intrigue
1-0 Shorah Warlords
0-1 Jang Atom Smashers
0-1 Neptune Scarlet Fliers
0-1 Jupiter Jacks
0-1 Chillich Spider-Bears
0-1 Vik Va
nguard
0-1 Bartel Water Bugs
From “The GFL For Dummies”
by Robert Otto
English Language & Imperial Measurement System
Much debate has been made regarding the use of the Human-oriented language “English” as the official language of the GFL. Even more debate has focused on the use of an archaic, arbitrary, Earth measurement system known as “Imperial.” To understand the reasons for these rules, one must look at two factors: the origin of football, and the Creterakian Empire’s needs.
The Name of The Game
The term “football” applies to several Earth-invented sports. The first game to use that name is now commonly known as “soccer.” Soccer is played with a round, inflated ball. In this game, ten of the eleven players on each side are not allowed to use their hands. The primary controlling appendage is the foot, hence the original name foot-ball. This game’s origins are unclear, but date back some two millennia to possibly as early as 400 B.C. on the Earth historical timeline (ErT).
Over the centuries, many variations of the game arose, all of which allowed the use of the hands. These sports included Gaelic Football, Australian Rules Football, Rugby League, Rugby Union, and American Football, or “Gridiron.” The term “football” persists for many of these variants, although the Creterakian Empire Bureau of Species Interaction (EBSI) has dictated that these sports be officially referred to as the following:
Soccer/Football: Football
Gaelic Football: Gaelic
Australian Rules Football: Footy
Rugby League: Leagueball
Rugby Union: Unionball
American Football: Gridiron
The adoption of these names has been spotty, at best. The fact that the primary Gridiron league is known as the Galactic Football League is no small source of confusion.
History of Gridiron
Gridiron, also known as “American football,” is an off-shoot of the game rugby. Variations of Gridiron were active in the late 1800s ErT, but the current version is primarily attributed to Walter Camp, known as the “Father of American Football.” Among the changes Camp initiated were the forward pass (where players are allowed to throw the ball downfield to a teammate) the line of scrimmage, the addition of a helmet and other protective equipment, the concepts of “down” and “distance,” and changing the players from fifteen to a side to eleven. While both forms of rugby involve mostly non-stop action, Gridiron comes to a complete stop after every play. Teams stop, plan their next play, line up, and run the play. This constant stopping is one of the main things that differentiate Gridiron from the other football variants.
