The Starter

by Scott Sigler

  “So, Fred, now that you’re finished calling me a liar, who... wait a minute, you are finished calling me a liar, aren’t you?”

  Frederico nodded.

  “Fine,” Quentin said. “Now that you’re done with that, who are these Zoroastrian guys?”

  “For lack of a better word, they are the resistance.”

  “Resistant to what?”

  “To Creterakian rule,” Frederico said. “The ZG is committed to overthrowing the Creterakian Empire and returning self-rule back to the controlled governments.”

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them. That’s one of the spooky things about this outfit. It’s got members from the Union, the League, the Ki Empire and the Ki Rebel Establishment, the Sklorno Dynasty, Tower Republic, et cetera. All these sentients work together against a common enemy.”

  “What about the Purist Nation?”

  Frederico laughed a humorless laugh. “Where do you think the Guild got started? It’s committed to hate and murder, just like your religion.”

  “Purism is not my religion.”

  “What? You don’t worship your ridiculous imaginary friend anymore?”

  Quentin took a step closer and pointed a finger at Frederico’s face. “I don’t care who you are, Frederico. You don’t bad-mouth High One in front of me. High One is not Purism, and Purism is not High One. I worship in my own way.”

  “Get that finger out of my face.”

  “Oh yeah? And what if I don’t? What are you goi—”

  Frederico moved faster than Quentin could have imagined, definitely faster than Quentin could react. One moment the finger was inches from Frederico’s nose, the next, it was buried in Frederico’s fist — buried, and bent backward.

  Quentin sucked in a breath at the pain. He dared not move. The pointer finger on his throwing hand, and Frederico could break it with just another ounce of pressure.

  “I told you not to point at me,” he said.

  “Uh...” Quentin said.

  “I told you, Quentin, I am not a sentient you want to cross. Understand?”

  Quentin nodded.

  Frederico let go of the finger. Quentin flexed his hand and made a fist over and over, working out the pain.

  “Back on the subject,” Frederico said. “When I found out the bombers were Zoroastrians, I made the most obvious connection.”

  “Which was?”

  “That you were with the Guild. You decided that you liked football more than you liked overthrowing our tiny, winged overlords, so you turned your back on the Guild. No one turns their back on the Guild. They tried to off you. But if what you say is true, that you don’t know them, then I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Could the Guild have been targeting Gredok? Or the mayor, or something?”

  “Doubtful,” Frederico said. “The Guild doesn’t care about some crime boss or a low-level politician from a free system. Those Humans that did the bombing? They knew it was a one-way trip. For that, you need conviction.”

  “Or you need to be ordered by someone with conviction.”

  Frederico nodded. “All right. I believe you weren’t involved. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You going to call the police?”

  “No, I’m going to give the remaining cell member’s names and locations to Gredok.”

  Quentin stared at the man’s cold eyes. One could only imagine what Gredok would do to the terrorists.

  “I thought you and Gredok didn’t get along.”

  “We don’t,” Frederico said. “But this? He’ll appreciate this. It will be one less favor I owe him.”

  “How many favors do you owe him?”

  “None of your business.”

  Quentin sighed. “Okay, fine. Gredok still doesn’t know you’re working for me?”

  Frederico shook his head. “No, and if he finds out, I’ll have problems. Hence the disguise.”

  “At least it’s better than that ridiculous pink suit.”

  “Whatever,” Frederico said. “Once Gredok has his boys take care of the ZG cell, you’ll be safe.”

  “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but you better not bill me. I didn’t pay you to protect me.”

  “No, but John did.”

  “John hired you to protect me? Why did John think I need a bodyguard?”

  “Quentin, I know you’re technically smarter than John, but sometimes you should just keep that pretty mouth shut so I don’t question that assertion.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re an idiot,” Frederico said. “John thought you needed a bodyguard because someone blew up a bomb and killed sixteen sentients. Are you a moron?”

  The way Frederico said it, well, yeah, Quentin did feel kind of moronic. John had tried to protect Quentin? Quentin felt a rushing sensation in his chest, the sense of family.

  “So what now?” Quentin said. “How do you protect me now?”

  “I really don’t know how to pursue the case. It’s difficult for the Zoroastrians to get a foothold in Quyth space. Because the Concordia is free, there aren’t many sentients here willing to sacrifice themselves to blow up Creterakians. So, I think you’re safe for now. At least in Ionath City, you’re safe.”

  “What about the other cities? What do I do about the road games?”

  “Hope for the best, I suppose. Gredok’s security forces are no joke. And the home teams will protect you, because there are huge fines from the league if visiting players are hurt or killed.”

  The clack of cleats from farther up the tunnel ended the conversation. Frederico smiled, then walked deeper into the tunnel. He passed Don Pine, who was walking out.

  “Hey Q,” Don said, “were you talking to that guard?”

  “Not really,” Quentin said. “He just wanted an autograph.”

  Don nodded. “Oh, cool, but keep that quiet. If Gredok finds out the guy could lose his job.”

  “Noted.”

  “You ready for practice? Tomorrow is your first home game as a starter, my friend. It will be glorious.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Great, let’s head out there before Hokor blows a gasket because you’re thirty seconds late.”

  Quentin and Don walked out of the tunnel to join their teammates at the 50-yard line.

  Live feed from UBS GameDay holo-cast coverage

  “Hello football fans, and welcome once again to Sunday Football on UBS. This is Masara the Observant, here with Chick McGee, our very colorful color commentator.”

  “Thanks, Masara. We know it’s not Sunday for most of you fans, or if you even know what a Sunday is, but welcome all the same. We’re here at Ionath Stadium, the Big Eye, for the Krakens home opener against the Themala Dreadnaughts.”

  “Chick, both teams have one loss and no wins. How important is this game for them?”

  “Well Masara, how important is it for you to remember to take your incontinence medicine in the morning?”

  “Chick! That’s not—”

  “Sorry, Masara, sorry folks at home, but this game is even more important than avoiding an inadvertent public pooping. A win puts one team back in the playoff hunt, and leaves the other at the bottom of the Planet Division, sitting right on the relegation bubble. And, wait, what’s that? Yes, the Dreadnaughts are coming onto the field! Soon the Krakens will rip out of that tunnel, and this place will go insane.”

  • • •

  QUENTIN STOOD IN THE TUNNEL of Ionath Stadium, waiting for the announcer to call his team onto the field. His hands ran up and down his jersey, left hand tracing the “0”, right hand tracing the “1,” fingertips feeling the Kevlar texture. Black jerseys this time... home jerseys. Out there, just past the mouth of the tunnel, Ionath Stadium awaited. The Big Eye. His house. In the stands sat 185,000 Krakens faithful; waiting, clapping and chanting.

  “Let’s go krak-ens!” clap, clap, clap-clap-clap. “Let’s go krak-ens!” clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.

  T
he Themala Dreadnaughts had already taken the field, escorted by a powerful chorus of boos. The Dreads had ended last year in seventh place with a record of 5-and-7. They were a strong Tier One franchise, but they weren’t the Isis Ice Storm. The Krakens could win this game, had to win this game.

  Quentin felt his insides twist and turn as the powerful sound system carried the announcer’s words throughout the stadium.

  “Beings of all races, let’s hear it for, your, Ionath, kraaaaaa-kennnnnnns!”

  He sprinted out of the tunnel, his teammates at his back and sides. The roar of the home crowd seemed to make the air boil and bubble, every atom filled with excitement and rage and the primitive desire to destroy the enemy.

  With thousands of adoring fans screaming in support, the Krakens gathered at the sidelines and began their pre-game ritual. Quentin led that ritual, led it with passion and intensity, but a part of his brain couldn’t shake free a pair of thoughts...

  ...would his offensive line protect him, give him time to throw?

  ...and would Yassoud finally step up?

  Quentin would find out soon enough.

  • • •

  THE DREADNAUGHTS WON the toss and took the ball. They wore deep-yellow leg armor free of any stripes or decorations. The numbers on their white jerseys were crimson with yellow trim. Their crimson helmets had a simple decoration: stylized, crimson “TD” letters trimmed in yellow and black.

  Themala had a good running game led by fleet-footed tailback Donald Dennis. Their passing game, however, suffered the same problem as that of the Krakens — a lack of blocking. Dreadnaughts quarterback Gavin Warren could deliver the ball if he had time to set up and throw. With the outside pressure of Michnik and Khomeni, the Krakens defensive ends, and inside pressure from Mum-O-Killowe, Quentin didn’t think Warren would have much time at all.

  The Dreadnaughts managed a first-down run on their opening play, but were off the field five plays after the kickoff. After a short punt return, Quentin led his offense onto the field for a first-and-ten at their own 38-yard line.

  Just like the game against the Ice Storm, his first three plays were already scripted — two runs and a pass.

  “Okay, boys and girls,” Quentin said, “let’s do it just like we practiced. Sweep left, on two, then we go no-huddle. Next play is off-tackle left on two. I’ll go with a hard-count, try to draw them off-sides. Let’s open up that hole for Yassoud. Third play, wing-set right, roll-out pass, we go on my first sound, you got that? My first sound.

  “Ready? Break!”

  The Krakens ran to the line of scrimmage. Quentin walked up, feeling the atmosphere of electricity that permeated the Big Eye. He surveyed the defense, the stats and tendencies of each player ripping through his thoughts. The Dreadnaughts were good, damn good, one of the top twenty teams in the galaxy, but they were not as good as the Isis Ice Storm.

  He could move the ball on these guys.

  The Dreadnaughts lined up in their base defensive formation, a three-four. A HeavyG nose guard and two Ki defensive tackles would comprise most of the pass rush. Then came four linebackers, two inside LBs that lined up behind the defensive line, and two outside LBs that lined up on the ends. The outside LBs could play down in a three-point stance, like defensive ends, or a few yards off the ball, like traditional linebackers. The formation took advantage of the Dreadnaughts’ defensive speed, but didn’t provide the same overpowering outside pass rush Quentin had faced against the Ice Storm. As long as he could keep an eye on those linebackers, guess where they were going to go and watch to confirm those guesses, his foot speed would keep him out of trouble and give him time to throw.

  Quentin slid his hands underneath Bud-O-Shwek, feeling the coolness of Bud-O’s enamel-pebbled skin.

  “Red, twenty-nine! Red, twenty-nine! Hut... hut!”

  The lines collided. Quentin pivoted on his left foot, sweeping his right foot around as he turned his back to the line. Tom Pareless ran left, parallel to the line of scrimmage, eyes up and looking for a block. Yassoud was a few steps behind Tom, his eyes looking back to Quentin, waiting for the pitch. Quentin finished his turn, tossing the ball out ahead of Yassoud, leading him. The ball hit Yassoud in full stride. The running back hauled it in and kept running to his left, looking for room to run. Pareless turned upfield, moving with the black-jerseyed lead blockers, and Yassoud followed. Tom lowered his head and leveled a white-jerseyed Quyth Warrior linebacker, opening up a huge hole. Yassoud shot into that hole, then cut outside — he picked up fifteen yards before the Dreadnaughts safety brought him down.

  Quentin ran to the line, waving the rest of the team up with him. Yassoud’s strong run filled Quentin with hope; hope that his friend could put in a big game and build some confidence. The Krakens scrambled into position. The Dreadnaughts did the same, their linebackers getting into place before anyone else. They had prepared for the Krakens’ no-huddle offense.

  Quentin let his players settle in, then called the snap-count.

  “Blue, sixteen! Blue, sixteeeen! Hut!”

  He waited a fraction of a second to see if the Dreadnaughts jumped off-sides, but they did not. His team would go on the next sound.

  “Hut!”

  Quentin turned to his left. Pareless shot by. Quentin extended the ball for Yassoud, who practically tore Quentin’s arm off taking it. Yassoud drove into a hole created by Pareless and Kill-O-Yowet. Quentin watched, everything moving in that strange, slow-motion sensation he experienced on the field. He saw a white-jerseyed linebacker slip through a block, filling the hole. Quentin waited for Yassoud to cut back inside to the seam that was just forming there, the seam that would have given Yassoud at least a 5-yard gain, but ’Soud didn’t cut back. Instead, he lowered his shoulder and went head-to-head with the linebacker.

  Yassoud lost that battle. The Quyth Warrior linebacker knocked Yassoud backward, putting the Human flat on his ass.

  Second and ten on the Dreadnaughts 47.

  “Move, move!” Quentin called, waving his team to the line of scrimmage for the third pre-called play. Yassoud was slow to rise.

  “Murphy!” Quentin screamed. “Get up, let’s go!”

  Yassoud rose, but not fast enough. Once again, the defense had time to swap personnel, defeating the purpose of the no-huddle offense. Yassoud stumbled to his position at tailback. Quentin felt anger and annoyance swirling in his chest, but he forced it away to concentrate on the next play.

  He surveyed the defense. They had pulled one defensive back and brought in a defensive tackle, effectively switching from a three-four to a pass-rushing four-four. Yassoud stayed behind Quentin as a single back, but Tom Pareless lined up as a right wing, just behind and outside of tight end George Starcher (who had painted his face with red stripes this week). Hawick was lined up wide right, almost to the sidelines. A cornerback covered her, and Quentin could see the safety cheating that way to provide help. That meant one of the four linebackers would probably be in single coverage on Starcher: Quentin had the defense right where he wanted them.

  “Hut!”

  The lines collided as he pushed off of his left foot, going back and also to the right. He sprinted right, the rush of pure speed coursing through his veins. Tom ran right as Quentin’s lead blocker, waiting to stop the first defensive player that came in. Hawick drove off the line, shooting straight downfield on a streak pattern. The Themala cornerback had no choice but to turn and run with her, clearing out the shallow right side of the field. George Starcher blocked down, hitting the defensive end, then bounced off and ran to his right; a shallow, 5-yard pattern. The Quyth Warrior linebacker had him covered.

  Quentin took two steps toward the line of scrimmage, like he was going to tuck the ball and run. The linebacker covering Starcher came up immediately, but Quentin then shot to the right, still parallel to and behind the line of scrimmage. The Quyth Warrior linebacker tucked and rolled to the side, just a few yards behind Quentin and closing fast.

  Quentin waved his righ
t hand, urging Starcher to deepen the route, but Starcher was already doing just that, automatically moving to the open space. The linebacker closed. Quentin threw a bullet before the linebacker sprang out of his roll and brought Quentin down. The ball hissed out, a throw hard enough to kill, but Starcher’s huge hands grabbed it as if it were a floating child’s balloon. The big tight end turned upfield.

  Watching Starcher run was like watching a sprinting tree, big legs punishing the ground with each step. The three defensive backs converged on him. He threw a forearm at the closing cornerback, crushing her to the ground, then shook off the strong safety and made it another twenty yards before the free safety drove him out of bounds.

  Quentin’s first pass of the day, and it picked up 38 yards. First-and-ten on the Themala 9.

  Starcher had just known where to go, instinctively, or almost like he’d read Quentin’s mind. And Quentin knew full well that Starcher would do that all day.

  Hokor’s fuzzy yellow face popped up in Quentin’s helmet VR. “Barnes! Good job on that play. Run the same thing. Warburg is coming on to spell Starcher. The linebacker will follow Warburg out on the pattern, you turn it upfield.”

  “No, Coach, leave Starcher out here, I need him for that play.” Warburg started running onto the field. Quentin held up a hand, palm-out, signaling Warburg to stop. At the same time, Quentin tried to wave Starcher back onto the field.

  “Barnes! Just run the plays that I call!”

  “I will, Coach, but send George back on here or I’m not running anything.”

  Warburg hesitated, then started again toward the huddle. Quentin held his hand up again, far more emphatically this time. Rick Warburg stopped again, a man isolated by confusion in front of 185,000 sentients.

  “Barnes! We’re going to get a delay of game penalty!”

  “Then you better send George out here, right now.”

  A second later, Quentin saw George Starcher’s big body lumbering onto the field. Warburg looked at Quentin. Even from a distance of some twenty yards, Quentin could see Warburg’s expression of hate. Hate could wait, a touchdown could not. Quentin called the play as soon as Starcher reached the huddle, then followed his team to the line. The crowd screamed for blood. Past an end zone painted in the blazing Krakens orange, beyond the goal posts, Quentin saw the sea of fans dressed in orange, black and white. No one wearing crimson and yellow here.