by Scott Sigler
“You played well,” Shayat said. It was, Quentin realized, the first time Shayat had ever spoken to him.
“Thanks,” Quentin said. “It wasn’t enough.”
Shayat’s carapace was a deep, silvery black. A painted unit insignia adorned his left shoulder. Under the insignia were horizontal lines, each of which, Quentin had learned, represented a combat mission. Shayat’s lines ran from his insignia almost to his wrist. Enameled graphics covered his carapace — the most prominent of which was a Krakens’ logo emblazoned across his midriff. On his back was an Earth crab wearing a crown and holding a football — the logo of the Yucatan Sea-Kings, a Tier Three team. A ring of white surrounded Shayat’s single eye, making him look even more bug-eyed than Hokor or any of the other Quyth. But they didn’t call him Shayat the Thick for nothing: layers and layers of powerful muscles graced his frame. His pedipalps were so heavy they looked like John Tweedy’s arms, and Shayat’s arms were so thick they might have been Tweedy’s huge legs. Shayat wore a backpack that looked to be completely stuffed.
“We need to win next week,” Shayat said.
Quentin nodded. “That we do.”
After a moment of silence, Shayat spoke. “Do you like money?”
It seemed a strange question, but straightforward enough. “I like money just fine.”
“Do you want to make more?”
Quentin said nothing, but he suddenly knew what was coming next. The dark underbelly of the GFL had avoided him — until now, it seemed.
“This is all juniper berries,” Shayat said, his left pedipalp reaching behind him to pat the backpack. “Worth a fortune on Ionath. Human races control gin production. They drive up the price. But Workers will pay big money for raw juniper berries. They crush them and mix them with fermented digestive acids from collowacks, a kind of insect back on Quyth.”
“I thought juniper berries were illegal,” Quentin said.
“They are. Very illegal. But the System Police can’t search us, remember? If they do, the Creterakians might pull Port Whitok’s GFL franchise rights. You know what would happen to the local government if that happened?”
Quentin shrugged.
“There would be riots. Beings love football. Basically, whatever we can carry on our backs is ignored.”
Quentin nodded, wondering what a bulging backpack of processed opium might be worth back on Stewart.
“I’ve got the berries, mesh, weed, heroin, sleepy, conot-root, you name it. Everything that’s selling back home.”
“So why are you telling me this?”
“I’ve got a nice pipeline going,” Shayat said. “Every away game, I bring out a load of money. My contacts bring me a load of juniper berries, which I buy and bring with me when we return to Ionath. On Ionath, berries go for five to ten times what I paid for them, depending on supply.”
Quentin whistled. “At least a five-hundred percent markup, eh? Not bad.”
“I want to make more. If you carry a shipment next time, you’ll get half the profit.”
“Why only half?”
“My contacts, my network.”
Quentin nodded. “I guess that’s fair enough.”
“So you’re in?”
Quentin shook his head. “I’m not in. I don’t want any part of your smuggling ring, you got that? And if you ask me again, you and I are going to go a few rounds.”
Shayat’s pedipalps twitched in laughter. “You think you could go even one round with me, Human?”
Quentin nodded. “Maybe, maybe not, but if you don’t get out of my face we’re sure going to find out.” He stared with cold-hearted disdain at the larger alien. Shayat turned and walked away.
• • •
BACK ONBOARD THE Touchback, Quentin walked through the Sklorno section of the ship. While the Human section was fairly spartan and decorated in subdued tones (when the decor wasn’t Krakens orange and black), the Sklorno section paraded a mind-boggling maze of electric colors. Blues, purples, reds, yellows, greens, oranges… all ranging from near-black to near-neon intensity. Patterns, colors and pictures covered the floor, the walls and the ceiling. It was intensely beautiful and disgustingly ugly all at the same time. He found it ironic that the species with no color on their bodies decorated with more colors than anyone else.
He checked his messageboard, which displayed a map of the ship guiding him to Denver’s room. Without the map, he’d have quickly become lost in the Technicolor intensity. Like all doors in this section, Denver’s door was oblong, tall and narrow, like the outline of an egg stretched lengthwise. It was different, but a door was a door — it struck Quentin that this was something (minor, but something) that the different races had in common: a need for privacy, or perhaps just a need to put up walls. Except the Ki, that was… he wasn’t sure if the Ki even understood the concept of privacy.
Quentin pushed the door buzzer. There was a brief pause. The door slid open. Denver stood there for a moment, then started to tremble. Her raspers unrolled, hitting the ground.
“Quentin Barnes,” she said.
Quentin nodded. “Um, listen… I know I’ve been a bit rude to you.”
Denver simply stared. Stared and trembled. From inside the room, Milford walked up behind her. Milford also began to tremble. They both looked at him like he was some kind of… well… alien. To them, he was an alien, probably as weird and disgusting as they were to him.
“So I was hoping that your offer was still good.”
“We participate making you even greater?”
“Yes, I would appreciate that.”
Denver began to bounce lightly in place. Milford did the same. Quentin could see into the room, and noticed that the ceilings were at least twenty feet high.
“When-when-when-when!” Denver said.
Quentin shrugged. “Well, I’m going to be sore as hell tomorrow, so how about we get few reps in right now. I know the VR field is open, and we — ”
The two receivers raced out of the room, cutting his words short as they inadvertently shoved him against the far wall. They sprinted down the hall with all their flat-out Sklorno speed, headed for the ship’s center section and the VR field.
Like little kids the morning of Giving Day, he thought, and laughed to himself as he followed them down the hall.
• • •
WITH ALL THE ROOM’S lights turned off, the only illumination came from the row of holotanks. The moving, flashing images cast an uneven and unsteady light onto Hokor’s face. Some of his players were taking the loss very hard, and others didn’t seem to care at all.
Michnik and Khomeni were in the cafeteria, drowning their sorrows in food. The Ki were also about to start their meal. Hokor heard the pitiful bleat of their prey animal. He punched a button on his remote control, turning off that monitor before the Ki started eating. Some players were in the infirmary, Doc tending to their wounds. In a way, Hokor wished more of his players were in the infirmary, as dozens of injuries might be a way to console himself at the humiliating loss.
The Krakens were 1–2, their chances of qualifying for the Tier Two tournament almost completely destroyed. The Glory Warpigs and the Whitok Pioneers both sat at 3–0. The way Condor Adrienne was playing, he didn’t see the Pioneers losing more than two games at most. The Krakens had to win their next six to even have a chance at the playoffs.
The Krakens’ next game against the 0–3 Sky Demolition was the only chance to get back in the race — at least mathematically. A loss… well, another loss meant the end of the playoff hopes, and the end of Hokor’s tenure with Ionath.
This would be his last season as Krakens’ coach, he knew that. Gredok wouldn’t stand for it. If only Pine hadn’t gone down! That was why he went after Quentin, but the talented young Nationalite needed more time. Time Hokor didn’t have.
“Computer, where is Quentin Barnes?”
[QUENTIN BARNES IS UTILIZING THE KRIEGS-BALLOK VIRTUAL PRACTICE SYSTEM]
Nothing new there. Hokor punched a
button to call up a holo of the VR practice room. Barnes was there, as he always was. The Human had taken quite a beating thanks to an offensive line that simply did not want to block for him. Yet he had kept getting up, and kept playing as hard as he could. And now, only hours after the game, he was practicing yet again. Barnes dropped back, stepped up, and threw a hard crossing pattern. The throw was a bit behind the receiver. Hokor expected to see the ball pass through the outstretched holographic arms and go bouncing down the field, but it hit the arms and stuck.
Hokor leaned forward. The VR players faded away, leaving not only Quentin, but Denver and Milford as well. Hokor could scarcely believe his eyes. The two Sklorno receivers ran back to Quentin and lined up for another play.
WEEK THREE LEAGUE ROUNDUP (Courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)
Can any team stop Condor Adrienne? Maybe, but that team certainly isn’t the Ionath Krakens (1–2), who let Adrienne throw for 340 yards and three touchdowns on 22-of-32 passing. Adrienne’s Whitok Pioneers (3–0) torched the Ionath Krakens (1–2) for a 35–10 win.
So will Adrienne be stopped? If so, it might be this week when the Pioneers travel to the Glory Warpigs (3–0). The ‘Pigs remained tied for first thanks to a narrow 14–12 win over Orbiting Death (2–1). The Death couldn’t manage a touchdown against the Warpigs’ defense, which ranks first in all of Tier Two.
Finally a win on the home planet as the Quyth Survivors (1–2) defeated the Bigg Diggers (1–2), 29–24.
Sheb Stalkers (2–1) got back into the playoff hunt with a 1914 win over the Grontak Hydras (1–2), and the Woo Wallcrawlers (1–2) notched their first victory of the season with a 42-6 drubbing of the winless Sky Demolition (0–3).
DEATHS:
This week we mourn the passing of two players, Demolition defensive lineman Kok-O-Thalla and Bigg Diggers’ receiver Martinsville. Martinsville died on a clean hit by Survivor’s defensive back Topinabee, and Kok-O-Thalla died during a fumble pileup. The league has not ruled it a clean death, and is still investigating although no Wallcrawlers player has yet been fined.
WEEK #3 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:
Offense: Condor Adrienne, quarterback, Whitok Pioneers. 22-of-32, 340 yards, three TDs, no INTs.
Defense: Yalla the Biter, linebacker, Sky Demolition. Eleven tackles, two sacks and a fumble recovery.
GAME FOUR: Ionath Krakens (1–2) at Sky Demolition (0–3)
QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS
WITH THE TOUCHBACK hovering in orbit, the shuttle flew Quentin and the other rookies down to Ionath City. This time, however, when they got out, there were Quyth Workers and Quyth Leaders dressed in white uniforms. A red line glowed on the roof of the Krakens’ Building.
“Players line up on the red line,” said a blue-furred Quyth Leader.
Quentin lightly elbowed Yassoud. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s a customs check,” Yassoud said. “Quyth System Police. Don’t worry about it, league rules apply in the Concordia just like they do everywhere else in the galaxy. The customs guys can’t touch you, so whatever you’re carrying, they can’t do a thing.”
Quentin looked down the line and saw Shayat the Thick with his bulging backpack. He then looked at other players, and saw that several of them carried a bag of some sort. Yassoud held a small satchel — Quentin didn’t want to know what was inside.
They stood on the red line with the other rookies. The blue-furred Quyth Leader walked down the line, looking at each one of them in turn. Two white-uniformed workers slid a grav-cart into the shuttle.
“I am Kotop the Observer,” the leader said. “My team will be checking you each time you come back from out-system. I’m sure nobody here is smuggling anything, right?”
Yassoud started laughing, his curly beard jiggling in time.
“Yes, it is all so very funny,” Kotop said. Quentin stared at the little Leader — did he detect sarcasm in the alien’s voice?
Kotop said nothing else, just stared, his one eye a deep shade of black. The workers came out of the shuttle.
“No explosives, no weapons,” one of them said to Kotop.
“You may all go,” Kotop said. He sounded disgusted.
“WE’RE IN TROUBLE,” Hokor said quietly. Despite the fact that every Krakens player was crammed into the central meeting area, Hokor didn’t need volume to be heard. Nobody made a sound. There had been some joking and laughing and boasting as the players filtered out of their respective locker rooms and into the central area, but all of that faded when Hokor used his holopen to decorate the far wall with three large, glowing orange marks.
The marks were the number one, a dash, and the number two.
1-2.
“We’re a losing team,” Hokor said. “A losing team. How does that sound to you?”
No one answered.
“Tweedy, how does that sound to you?”
“Sounds like I’d rather eat a poop sandwich, Coach.”
“Right,” Hokor said. “So why did we allow the Pioneers to throw for 340 yards on us, when we only sacked Adrienne once?”
Tweedy said nothing.
“Berea,” Hokor said to the right corner back, who immediately began to tremble. “What number do you like more, 1-and-2, or 340 yards passing?”
Berea said nothing. Instead, she fell on the floor and lay flat, trembling like a damaged moth.
“And you, Barnes? How does it feel to be on your first losing team?”
“Humiliating, Coach,” Quentin said quietly.
“And you, Kill-O-Yowet?” Hokor’s voice rose in intensity. “I’ve got some numbers for you, too. Which do you like better, 1-and-2, or five sacks. Five sacks.”
Kill-O-Yowet said nothing.
“Do you realize that in one game, we went from allowing the fewest sacks in the conference to allowing the second most? Do you realize that you and your brethren on the offensive line are now the second worst unit in the Quyth Irradiated Conference?”
Kill-O-Yowet let out a low growl, but that was all.
Hokor hit a button, and the “1–2” vanished. He wrote three new symbols.
0-3.
“This is the record of Sky Demolition. They are the worst team in the conference. If they beat us, then, by default, we are the worst team in the conference. If you think you feel bad now, imagine how you will feel if lose to them.”
Hokor paused dramatically. A deathly silence filled the locker room.
He cleared the numbers again. Three names flashed up on the screen: Brady Entenabe, San Mateo, and Yalla the Biter. The holotank flashed two pictures: a tall, blonde-haired Human frozen in mid-throw, and a sprinting Sklorno. Both were dressed in the uniforms of the Sky Demolition: light purple leg armor, deep purple jersey with light purple numbers trimmed in white, and deep purple helmets with three white stripes down the center.
“Brady Entenabe is a second-year quarterback having a surprisingly good year, despite the Demolition’s record. In three games, he has seven touchdown passes and has run for two more. Four of those touchdown passes have gone to San Mateo. Entenabe has also given up five interceptions. He’s thrown for 812 yards, 260 of which have gone to San Mateo. We are going to stop that combination. There is no alternative.”
Hokor hit a button. The pictures faded away, replaced by a moderate-sized Quyth Warrior.
“Yalla the Biter is fast, perhaps the fastest linebacker in the conference. He is faster than John Tweedy. He is faster than Virak the Mean. He has four sacks on the season, along with two interceptions and seventeen tackles. He is the Demolition’s biggest defensive threat. He also has six unnecessary roughness penalties, three for late hits on the quarterback. Last week he was thrown out of the game for fighting. In Week One he killed Princeton, kick returner for Bigg Diggers, on a clean hit. Last week he severed the leg of the Wallcrawlers’ tight end, ending the Human’s career. If the offensive line plays as poorly this week as they did against the Pioneers, I suspect our quarterbacks will be sledded off the field.�
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Hokor cleared the pictures. The room remained quiet. “The Sky Demolition is not a deep team — if we stop those three, we win. I don’t care about the Tier Two tournament anymore. All I care about is the Sky Demolition. This game is all that matters to us. Let’s practice like we want to win back our honor.”
Quentin felt the change in the locker room. There was no yelling, no pushing, no testosterone-oriented boasting, but the air had changed nonetheless. Hokor’s quiet speech had affected them all, himself included. Quentin had four days to change the team. Four days to get them playing as a unit.
But was that enough time?
• • •
THE TOUCHBACK was in punch drive, en route to Orbital Station Two, home of the Sky Demolition. Quentin shut down the holotank in his room. He’d looked at the Demolition defensive players over and over again — now it was time to put that study into practical use. He headed for the VR practice field. Last night’s practice had gone well. The repetitive throws to the receivers had started to give him a better perspective on the speed involved. Practicing with holograms was effective, but a hologram couldn’t catch the ball, and therefore couldn’t give him a truly realistic idea of where to put a ball so that a talented receiver could haul it in.
Quentin walked into the VR field, expecting to see Denver and Milford — it shocked him to see not only the two rookies, but Hawick and Scarborough as well. In addition, two reserve defensive backs — Saugatuck and Rehoboth — stood ready to play.
“If Quentin Barnes approves,” Denver said with the Sklorno equivalent of a submissive bow, “these humble players would like to partake in the receiving of your gifts.”
Quentin felt slightly embarrassed to see Hawick and Scarborough, two starting receivers. Yet as soon as that feeling crossed his brain, he chased it away — he was the starting quarterback, and should have asked those two to practice with him from the beginning. The fact that they had come on their own, well, that was both emotionally flattering and strategically encouraging. Now he’d have an even more realistic version of a game situation.
