The Starter

by Scott Sigler

  “Harrah vocal inflections are made inside our chest cavity. The microphone inside transmits to my speakerfilm. I just routed the signal to the room’s sound system. I’m going to touch a nerve cluster to make sure the pain blockers are working. Tell me if you feel anything. On a count of three, ready? Three, two, one.”

  Quentin watched the monitors. Doc Patah had opened up the skin from his shoulder to his neck. Through a pink haze, Quentin could see the jutting end of the broken bone.

  Patah’s right mouth flap held a small metal probe. He poked it around the bone, trying different spots. “Do you feel anything?”

  “Nothing,” Quentin said. “Kind of weird.”

  “The nerve blockers are working. Excellent. The break isn’t that bad. This will only take about an hour... glue the bone, graft on brace strips that will dissolve on their own in a few days, fuse you back up, then the cast.”

  “How long am I out?”

  “Three days,” Patah said. “You’re young.”

  “So I can play next week?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “But I can play?”

  Patah said nothing as he used clamps to pull the bone ends closer. “Yes, you can play.”

  Even though Quentin couldn’t feel his body, he sensed the stress draining out of it. He had to play next week — the Krakens were traveling to the Ki system to play the undefeated To Pirates. The shucking Pirates, his childhood team. He’d risked public floggings to get pirated broadcasts of their games. Legendary quarterback Frank Zimmer. Quentin would be playing against Zimmer, on the same field as Zimmer.

  Quentin couldn’t stop his smile. At least his face muscles still worked. He’d delivered on his promise to win at least one of the first three games, and without trading Scarborough and Denver. Aka-Na-Tak was back, finally providing decent pass-blocking that would get better in a real hurry. Quentin had held out for his friends, and it had paid off.

  He looked to the holotank again, watching Doc use some kind of small machine to fuse the broken bone together. Back in the Purist Nation, a broken collarbone would have put him out for weeks. Here on the Touchback, in Tier One? Three or four days. Amazing.

  “Hey,” Quentin said. “This the worst injury you’ve ever fixed?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Doc Patah said. “I used to be a ring doctor in the Intergalactic Fighting Association. I’ve repaired worse between rounds of a fight.”

  “Worse than this?” Quentin said, remembering the screaming fire that seemed to pour down his shoulder and into his lungs after the adrenaline had worn off. “You’ve repaired worse than this between rounds? Guys couldn’t go out and fight if they had broken bones, could they?”

  “I’ve seen sentients use their own broken bones as weapons, Quentin. I respect the toughness of you footballers, but there are athletes that make you look about as tough as a flyling.”

  Quentin started to shake his head, but couldn’t — a hundred and one. He remembered the title fight between Chiyal North and Korak the Cutter. Chiyal had used a broken leg bone to stab Korak in the side. Such toughness, amazing.

  “IFA, huh? You ever work for anyone I heard of?”

  On the screen, he saw Doc Patah stop moving. The winged Harrah just floated there, perfectly still in the pink fluid.

  “No,” the Harrah said finally. “If you don’t mind, Quentin, I’d like to stop talking with you and focus on your surgery. Shall I turn on the game highlights for you?”

  “Sure,” Quentin said. “That would be great. Can I watch from when I went out?”

  The holotank’s monitor’s image changed from his own surgery to a replay of the game broadcast. He saw himself being carted off the field. The announcers were talking about Quentin’s touchdown run and how it changed the game’s momentum.

  “Hey!” Quentin said. “Chick McGee and Masara are commentating? I love those guys.”

  “Quentin, please. I asked for silence.”

  Quentin relaxed and watched the rest of the game. The Krakens defense stopped the Warlords and forced them to punt. Relaxation turned to anxiety as Don Pine came in at quarterback. Quentin watched silently as Pine threw a third-quarter touchdown to Scarborough, then added an 85-yard, fourth-quarter strike to Denver.

  The old man could still play.

  Doc Patah said three days. Three days where Don Pine would be getting all the first-string snaps in practice.

  Quentin promised himself he would be back on the field in two.

  • • •

  “STAY BEHIND ME, QUENTIN,” said Choto the Bright. “The club will be crowded, someone might bump your arm.”

  Gredok had allowed the Krakens players back into the city, but still insisted his quarterback have a bodyguard wherever he went, even to one of the safest places in the city — Gredok’s own club, the Bootleg Arms.

  Quentin carefully adjusted the strap on his arm sling. One more day with this thing on, then he could start working out. Quentin followed Choto into the club. They were no more than a step inside the door when a familiar Quyth Worker voice rang out.

  “Elder Barnes and Choto the Bright!” said Tikad the Groveling. “Welcome, welcome, welcome! We are so happy to have you here. Can we get you dinner? Drinks? Controlled substances? Human women? Females of other species?”

  Quentin shook his head. “Not today, Tikad. The team leaves for Ki Imperial space tonight, it’s no time to drink. I came here to talk to Yassoud Murphy. Where is he?”

  Tikad’s eye turned a little green. “Oh, Mister Murphy isn’t here, Elder Barnes, he—”

  Quentin’s hand shot out to grab Tikad, but no sooner had it reached the Worker than Quentin stopped himself. No. He wasn’t on Micovi anymore, he didn’t have to let his temper drive everything to a solution of violence.

  Tikad flinched when Quentin reached, but Quentin just patted him on his pedipalp shoulder.

  “I know he’s here,” Quentin said. “Just save us both the breath of arguing about it and take me to him, okay?”

  Tikad seemed to think about it for a moment, then the green faded from his eye. “Of course, Elder Barnes. Right this way.”

  “Quentin,” Choto said. “Should I join you for this conversation?”

  Quentin thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I’ll talk to him alone. I don’t want him to think the team is ganging up on him.”

  “The team needs to gang up on him,” Choto said. “Perhaps even apply physical encouragement. If your conversation fails, Virak and I may take it upon ourselves to help Yassoud understand the importance of running hard.”

  The thought of Choto and Virak teaming up for a beat-down made Quentin’s stomach clench a little. Two veteran gangland toughs probably knew how to cause a lot of pain.

  “I’ll handle it,” Quentin said. “Just hang out, okay?”

  Choto walked to the bar.

  Quentin followed Tikad through the nightclub, careful to avoid any of the wildly dancing patrons. All he needed now was an accidental bump that might cause him a few more days of recuperation. The fact that he was here at all infuriated him, but this conversation had to happen, and it had to happen now. Flashbugs popped in time to the music, filling the dark club with a spastic, colorful light. Tikad gestured to a booth that was obscured by a curtain. Quentin nodded. Tikad scurried away.

  Quentin drew the curtain. Yassoud was in there, all right, slumped over, elbows on the table, both hands clutched around a mag-can of Miller. It was apparently the last of six — the other five were stacked in a little unfinished pyramid, a row of three with a row of two on top.

  “Hey,” Quentin said. “Mind if I join you?”

  “I’m not here,” Yassoud said. “I know this, because I said to Tikad, I said Tikad, I’m not here.”

  Quentin slid into the other side of the booth. “Don’t blame him, ’Soud. I was going to talk to you one way or another. Tikad chose the easy way.” Quentin nodded toward the beer pyramid. “You know we fly out ton
ight and have practice tomorrow, yeah?”

  Yassoud sank back in the seat, shoulders slumped, chin at his chest, the beer still clutched in his hands. “Thanks for the heads-up, hero. You want a brew?”

  “No, I need my head clear because I’ll be studying up on the Pirates tonight.”

  “Of course you will,” Yassoud said. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. The Pirates are gonna kill us.”

  Quentin chewed on his lower lip, wondering what to say. “You could study with me. We’ll work out in the morning, VR against their defensive sets.”

  “At five a.m.? No thanks. We can’t all be machines, you know?”

  Quentin felt a slight pang in his chest at the word machine; the nickname for their former all-star running back Mitchell Fayed. Yassoud sounded so dismissive, so... defeated. Quentin could handle a lot of things in his teammates, but what he could not handle was weakness.

  “Yassoud, maybe you should try being a machine. You’re the starting running back for the Ionath Krakens, so you should work as hard as the starting quarterback.”

  “I’m working my butt off, man,” Yassoud said, sitting forward so fast the mag-can pyramid rattled. “But come on, no one can live up to your standards.”

  “Shuck that, Murphy. Our running game is garbage.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me because Gredok won’t get an offensive line, I’m—”

  “Enough,” Quentin hissed. He realized his right index finger was pointed at Yassoud’s face, the tip of the finger just an inch from the tip of his nose. “Don’t you blame your teammates, you got me?”

  “Get that finger out of my face, or we’re gonna go.”

  A challenge, a direct challenge. Quentin sat back, controlled his automatic reaction. Even with one arm in a sling — literally — he could dust Yassoud. A month ago, maybe even a few weeks ago, he would have done exactly that. But not anymore.

  “Time to be honest, ’Soud. You’re not running hard enough and it’s hurting the team.”

  Yassoud sipped his beer and looked off into the distance. “Maybe I’m running as hard as I can.”

  “You’re not. Not even close.”

  “I am, Q.”

  Quentin leaned forward again. “This is your shot, man. You are a starting running back in Tier One. It’s what every running back dreams of, and it’s yours to lose. Why aren’t you bleeding yourself dry to soak up every last minute of this opportunity?”

  Yassoud shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t have it, Q. Maybe I’m not good enough.”

  Defeat radiated off Yassoud, an emotion so thick and pungent it made Quentin sick to even look at him.

  “You are good enough,” Quentin said, knowing it might not be true even as he spoke the words. “This is your chance. If you don’t start playing like your life depends on it, playing like I play, then you’re going to regret it for the rest of your days.”

  “The rest of my days? There’s more to life than football, you know.”

  “If that’s what you think then you don’t belong.”

  Yassound leaned forward again. “Right. Is that the wisdom of a nineteen-year-old?”

  Quentin suddenly thought back to the one-armed boy on Micovi, the last person he’d talked to before driving to the spaceport for his flight to the Combine. The scrawny, malnourished boy with one arm, who clearly loved football more than anything. That kid would never even play the game, let alone have the kind of physical gifts that came naturally to Yassoud Murphy.

  Quentin pushed the curtain aside, slid out of the booth and stood. “No, it’s not the wisdom of a nineteen-year-old. It’s the wisdom of a future Hall-of-Fame quarterback, a future MVP, a future Galaxy Bowl winner. It’s the wisdom of a man that won’t ever stop pushing himself until he’s dead, crippled, or he’s re-written every record ever kept for his position. And if you don’t have that attitude? If you’re going to waste the talent the High One gave you by not working hard enough to develop it? Then you deserve to be nothing more than the drunk that you are.”

  Yassoud drained his beer, then completed the pyramid. “I really appreciate the pep talk, Q. I’m glad that when the chips are down you come here and show what kind of friend you really are.”

  Quentin reached across the table and knocked over the beer-can pyramid. “I’m here because I’m your friend, you jackass! Friendship doesn’t win football games. I will help you but you have to help yourself first. And if you don’t? I will find someone to replace you. Don’t be late for the shuttle.”

  Quentin turned and left his friend sitting in the booth. Choto saw Quentin coming, shoved a spindly, nasty bit of deep-fried food into his mouth, then scooted ahead as they left the Bootleg Arms.

  GFL WEEK THREE ROUNDUP

  (Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network)

  Three weeks in and only five teams remain undefeated. The To Pirates crushed the Hittoni Hullwalkers 46-10 to move to 3-0, the D’Kow War Dogs (3-0) kept their record pristine by trouncing the Sala Intrigue (1-2), and the New Rodina Astronauts (3-0) won a nail-biter against the Jupiter Jacks (1-2).

  The Isis Ice Storm and the Lu Juggernauts, who both had a bye week, are also undefeated at 2-0.

  Over in the Quyth Concordia, the Ionath Krakens (1-2) made a statement that they will not go quietly into relegation with their 31-10 cross-divisional win over the Shorah Warlords (1-2). Krakens QB Quentin Barnes made every highlight reel in the galaxy with a spectacular, armor-shredding 45-yard touchdown run that put both he and Warlords defensive back Cairns out of the game. The Alimum Armada (1-2) got into the win column with a 13-10 overtime thriller over the Bartel Water Bugs (1-2).

  Coranadillana (1-2) also ended their winless ways with a come-from-behind 31-28 upset over the Bord Brigands (2-1).

  Wrapping up the week, the Neptune Scarlet Fliers (1-2) got their first win of the season by topping the Jang Atom Smashers (1-2) by a score of 17-6, the Mars Planets (2-1) topped the Themala Dreadnaughts (1-2) 24-15, and the Yall Criminals (1-2) edged out the Wabash Wolfpack (2-1) by a score of 24-13.

  Deaths

  Cusseta, second-year receiver for the Sala Intrigue died on a hit from Pesac the Grinding. GFL officials ruled it a clean hit.

  Huntertown, cornerback for the Shorah Warlords, died of complications resulting from a vicious crack-back block by Ionath Krakens rookie receiver Halawa. The Warlords have lodged a formal complaint that the hit was actually a clip and therefore illegal. Should GFL Commissioner Rob Froese rule the hit illegal, the Krakens will have to pay a death bounty to the Warlords.

  Offensive Player of the Week

  To Pirates quarterback Frank Zimmer, who was a perfect 18-for-18 and threw three touchdowns.

  Defensive Player of the Week

  Ionath Krakens middle linebacker John Tweedy, who had six solo tackles, an interception and caused a fumble.

  WEEK FOUR: IONATH KRAKENS at TO PIRATES

  PLANET DIVISION

  3-0 To Pirates

  2-0 Isis Ice Storm (bye)

  2-0 Lu Juggernauts (bye)

  2-1 Mars Planets

  2-1 Wabash Wolfpack

  1-2 Alimum Armada

  1-2 Hittoni Hullwalkers

  1-2 Themala Dreadnaughts

  1-2 Yall Criminals

  1-2 Ionath Krakens

  1-2 Coranadillana Cloud Killers

  SOLAR DIVISION

  3-0 D’Kow War Dogs

  3-0 New Rodina Astronauts

  2-1 Bord Brigands

  1-2 Bartel Water Bugs

  1-2 Jang Atom Smashers

  1-2 Jupiter Jacks

  1-2 Sala Intrigue

  1-2 Shorah Warlords

  1-2 Neptune Scarlet Fliers

  0-2 Chillich Spider-Bears (bye)

  0-2 Vik Vanguard (bye)

  An excerpt from Life in the Milky Way Galaxy

  by Allison Rynne

  In the Modern Epoch of galactic history, fourteen planets have supported the evolution of sentient life.

  Many experts consider this number to be sma
ll, considering there are at least 200 billion stars in the galaxy and possibly as many as 400 billion. The number of explored star systems is currently around 500 million — just one eighth of one percent of what might be out there. This 500 million includes efforts by non-sentient robotic systems.

  By contrast, however, even more experts consider fourteen planets to be very high and well beyond the range of simple probability. A major point in this argument is the fact that all fourteen races evolved to sentience in a relatively narrow time span. The first two races to achieve faster-than-light punch drive technology were the Rewalls in 2345 and the Humans in 2387. The Leekee also developed the technology independently in 2470, followed by the Sklorno in 2502, the Grasslop in 2504, the Portath in 2530, and the Quyth in 2552. In a galaxy that is roughly 10 billion years old, seven races reached the FTL technology milestone within 207 years of each other. Some statisticians consider it an impossibility that two sentient races could have independently achieve FTL-level technology within 50,000 years of each other, let alone seven in just over two centuries.

  Theories abound for this tightly cropped flowering of intellect, but thus far none have stood up to even the most rudimentary scientific scrutiny. What is known is that this “clustering” phenomenon allowed multiple sentient races to reach the stars, followed almost immediately by interstellar warfare. While conflict has seen three races become extinct (the Grasslop, the Takici and a race that possibly lived on Chillich), some astroanthropologists maintain that had any one race achieved FTL status several thousand years ahead of the others, that long time span of technological advantage would have resulted in thirteen extinct races, not just three. That so many races reached the stars at the same time has, in fact, been a key factor in the continued existence of those races.

  Another puzzling factor is the timing of the Givers’ arrival in the Milky Way. The Givers first appeared around 2430, landing on the Harrah homeworld of Shorah in 2432. The Givers helped the Harrah achieve FTL status in 2448, then helped the Kurgurk do the same in 2478, and finally helped the Ki reach this goal in 2552 before they were massacred and eaten by those same Ki. That accounts for three more races reaching the stars at a time when not reaching the stars could result in extermination, as it did with the Takici and the unknown race on Chillich.