The Rookie

by Scott Sigler

  Before either he or Choto could take a swing, however, Virak stepped between them.

  “Back off, Choto!” Virak said, catching the bigger Quyth Warrior in mid-step. Choto’s one eye peeked around Virak’s shoulder. It was a scene identical to one Quentin had witnessed Humans perform more times than he could remember — one being holding another one back to prevent a fight.

  “Human rookie said my world looks like feces!” Choto said. He tried to swing a pedipalp over the top, the Quyth Warrior equivalent of the Human “swim technique” used to get past an offensive lineman, but Virak effortlessly matched the move.

  “He did not mean it,” Virak said. “Quentin, tell him you did not mean it.”

  Choto pushed again, and Virak had to take a step back to keep his balance. Suddenly two Ki lineman, Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, grabbed Choto and held him tight. Choto’s pedipalps quivered violently, and his eye flooded a deep black.

  “I’m sorry,” Quentin said quickly, stepping around Virak to place a hand on Choto’s chest. “I did not mean to offend.”

  The words and the touch seemed to stop Choto cold.

  “You called my home feces.”

  “A figure of speech on my world,” Quentin said quickly. “I was not actually calling your world feces. I apologize if I offended you.”

  Choto’s eye quickly fade from deep black to crystal-clear. His body relaxed, and the Ki linemen cautiously released their holds.

  “Apology accepted,” Choto said.

  “So why does this shaft look so different from The Deuce,” Quentin asked.

  “Orbital Station One is older than The Deuce,” Choto said. “About fifty Human years older. The crystal growth technology was not as developed.”

  “It looks like it grows great.”

  “Yes, but too fast,” Choto said. “That was fine when The Ace was small, a population of about two hundred million beings. But the larger the crystalline matrix grew, the more silicate organisms there were, and growth rates increased exponentially. Engineers cut it away when it grows into populated areas, but it grows unchecked through the non-living areas. It is a problem we’ve been trying to fix for over a century.”

  The shuttle dropped through the entrance shaft and into a brightly lit underground city.

  “High One,” Quentin murmured. He now understood why larger ships weren’t allowed in the shaft.

  If the entrance shaft had resembled overgrown underbrush, the city was a full-out wilderness. Sprawling blue-tinted crystals reached out from every part of the domed ceiling, curving up and over so that the city seemed to exist within a living-but-artificial jungle canopy.

  “We have over a million beings employed just to remove overgrowth,” Choto said. “It is our biggest tax burden.”

  The shuttle slowed considerably and angled for a large gap in the arching crystalline canopy. As it slid past, the crystal growths seemed so close that Quentin unconsciously gripped a bulkhead to steady himself.

  The ship slipped past the upper canopy and into an open space between the canopy and the city buildings. A ship off to the left had dozens of long legs and clung to a crystalline growth like an insect clinging to a plant stem. At the base of the ship, a long, multi-jointed arm held a concentrated beam of white-hot energy. The beam moved back and forth across the blue crystalline growth, until suddenly the growth snapped free trailing thick globs of molten crystal. Growth and ship together plunged downward, but only for a second before the ship’s engine caught and it hovered, newly-cut prize still clutched in insectile legs. The ship flew up, carefully threading its way through the crystalline canopy.

  “They will send that off into deep space,” Choto said. “There is no use for it.”

  “Why don’t the city engineers just replace this growth with the more successful variety from The Deuce?”

  “It has been attempted. The original growth is much more aggressive than the new. New growth has been introduced several times — it is either choked out, overgrown, or actually converted into original growth.”

  “Couldn’t you just come up with a virus or something?”

  “The planet is now some sixty percent original growth,” Choto said. “Any virus might spread to the core and destroy the structural integrity. We would be killing our own planet.”

  “So you can’t kill it, you can’t replace it, and you can’t stop it,” Quentin said.

  Choto’s pedipalps quivered. He seemed oddly proud of the growth. “Much like the Quyth themselves.”

  The shuttle banked to the right. Here Quentin could discern no “downtown,” because all of the huge buildings reached up into the crystalline canopy. Three centuries had given the buildings plenty of time to grow to towering heights. Like The Deuce, thick tendrils connected the city’s buildings. Unlike The Deuce, however, wherever the shuttle flew, Quentin could see hundreds of the insect-like ships cutting away at unwanted growths. Thousands of small curls spiraled out from every possible place — the start of new growths that also would eventually need thinning.

  “How many beings live here, in this city?”

  “This is the city of Madderch, with fifty million residents in the city proper, which you see before you, and another hundred million in the underlying tunnels. It is the biggest city on The Ace, because it is the only one that supports life for non-Quyth. All other cities were completely irradiated when the Creterakians attacked.

  Quentin shook his head in amazement. Such numbers. Fifty million in what he saw before him, in a space only a few miles across. The same amount of space in New Mecca housed only ten million, and he had thought that impossibly overpopulated.

  Another bank to the right ended the conversation as Beefeater Gin Stadium, home of the Orbiting Death, came into view. It was a round stadium, set deep in the ground. The first two decks were actually below the city’s surface level. The next two decks towered high above, both sets connected by steeply sloped seats. Long, thick, curved buttresses arced out from four equidistant spots around the curved stadium, reaching up to support the upper decks. The playing field looked impossibly tiny and distant, a testament to the stadium’s size. He’d seen several colors of playing surface, but this was the most unusual yet — jet-black. So black that the white lines and numbers popped out in contrast, so sharp he could read them from the shuttle. The fact that the translucent blue stadium sat deep in the ground had caused some witty Human of years gone by to dub the stadium “The Ace Hole.” The name had stuck.

  Where all other parts of the city seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the slow-but-wild growth of crystal, the stadium seemed to be a perfect, shimmering, symmetrical jewel. Quentin saw several dozen insectile ships working away on the stadium, carving away even the smallest budding protuberance.

  The shuttle banked over the stadium, then actually flew inside a hole in one of the huge buttresses. Once the ship set down, Quentin stepped out into a massive crystal room as elegant as an imperial palace. A short hallway, decorated with holoframes and memorabilia of the Orbiting Death, led the team to the visitor’s central locker room.

  As the races filed into their respective dressing rooms, Quentin stopped to look at the back wall, painted metal-flake red with a ten-foot high flat black circle.

  “What the hell does that mean, anyway,” Quentin asked Choto.

  “That is the Quyth symbol for death,” Choto said. “The circle. No beginning, no ending — a fighting death for one Quyth means life for many others.

  Quentin nodded to himself as Choto walked to the Quyth Warrior locker room. The Orbiting Death wanted to die fighting? No problem, because Quentin Barnes aimed to please.

  • • •

  QUENTIN JUST WANTED to be alone. He didn’t want to see his teammates. He didn’t want to think about riding the bench. But that was all he could think about.

  He sat in a mixed-race bar, hiding in a shadowy back-corner booth, a Galaxy Sports Magazine messageboard in one hand and a magcan of Miller in the other. His
eyes merely glazed over the words and pictures. His mind couldn’t get around the fact that he was backup to a tanker.

  “Hello, Quentin.”

  Quentin looked up to see Mitchell Fayed and Virak the Mean.

  “Are we disturbing you?” Fayed asked.

  Quentin shrugged. “Just wanted some time to myself, you know?”

  Fayed nodded. “We saw you and wanted to invite you to join us for dinner. We’re going to discuss ways to keep our winning streak alive. But if you want to be left alone, we understand.”

  “Thanks.”

  Fayed put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. It made Quentin uncomfortable, but he didn’t knock it away. “Stay strong,” Fayed said. “Keep working hard and good things will come.”

  With that, Fayed walked away and Virak followed. Quentin stared after them, hating Fayed for his positive attitude. He finished his Miller. Then another. Then another. He lost count — it wasn’t until he stood to leave some four hours later that he felt the effects. The room spun around him, and he had to put a hand on the table to keep his balance.

  A Creterakian civilian flew up and perched on his table. Quentin stared for a second, then recognized him — Sobox, the voice of Mopuk the Sneaky.

  “You messed up, Human,” Sobox said.

  “What are you talkin’ bout,” Quentin said. His words sounded slurred — his balance wasn’t the only thing failing him.

  “Mopuk told you what to do, and you didn’t do it. Now you’ve got to pay.”

  Quentin saw two large shadows move towards him. Not shadows — Ki, so big they blocked out the bars’ lights. He saw a blur before something smashed into his face and the room twisted wildly. He fell back into his booth. Hot blood coursed out of his nose and onto his upper lip.

  “You’re never going to play again,” Sobox said. “My boys will see to that.”

  A blow to his stomach. Air shot out of him — he tried to breath in, but couldn’t. His mouth gasped open like a fish out of water. Strong arms lifted him up out of the booth and held him up.

  “You’re going to pay,” Sobox said quietly.

  “Put him down ... now.” The voice was quiet, but carried deadly authority.

  Quentin finally drew a gasping breath. The two Ki enforcers held him by his armpits. Sobox was still on the table. All three faced Virak the Mean and Mitchell Fayed.

  “I said, put him down,” Virak said.

  Sobox glared at the Quyth Warrior. “Mind your own business, you grunt. You don’t want to mess with Mopuk the Sneaky.”

  Virak turned from the Ki and stared directly at Sobox. “You insignificant worm. Gredok is my Shamakath. He is also the Shamakath of Mopuk the Sneaky. Quentin Barnes is Gredok’s property. Now you put him down, or this will get ugly.”

  Sobox stared hatefully for a moment, then gestured to his enforcers. “Put him down. Let’s go. You haven’t heard the last of this, Virak.”

  “Yes I have,” Virak said. He turned to the two Ki enforcers. “You two face me again, in any capacity, and I’ll kill you.”

  The Ki grunted some kind of return threat, then scuttled away, Sobox hovering over their heads as they left the bar.

  “Quentin, are you okay?” Fayed said as he grabbed a napkin and held it to the bleeding nose.

  “Yas, fine,” Quentin mumbled.

  “What was that about?” Virak said. “What are you doing associating with Mopuk the Sneaky? What did he want with you?”

  “Beats me,” Quentin said. “Maybe he didn’t like my hair.”

  “Stop lying,” Virak said, his voice a dark growl. “I have to tell Gredok about this.”

  “No!” Quentin said, feeling his buzz suddenly fade away. “You can’t do that.”

  “I have to,” Virak said. “He is my Shamakath, and I must tell him.”

  “Virak, don’t,” Quentin said, a pleading tone tingeing his voice.

  “Why not?” A shade of light purple colored Virak’s eye.

  “You ... you just can’t, okay?”

  “That is not okay. It is my duty. Mopuk is in Gredok’s organization.”

  Quentin groaned inside. “Mopuk works for Gredok? Oh this sucks.”

  “If Mopuk is making a move, Gredok has to know about it.”

  “He’s not making a move, it’s ... something else.”

  “I must tell Gredok, and you must tell him also, everything about this.”

  Quentin stood and looked Virak in the eye. “You have to trust me. If you tell Gredok, it will destroy our season.”

  “Why?” Fayed asked. “Why would it destroy our season?”

  “It just will,” Quentin said. “Virak, please, you have to trust me on this. Do it for your team.”

  “For ... my team?”

  Quentin nodded. “I’m telling you, we have to keep this quiet. I can’t tell you why. Just trust me.”

  Virak stared for a long moment. “It is a sign of disrespect to not tell Gredok. He does not take disrespect lightly.”

  Quentin stayed quiet. He’d said his piece.

  “Virak,” Fayed said, “we can’t let anything ruin our season. Don’t tell Gredok.”

  Virak looked at Fayed, then back to Quentin.

  “I will not say anything,” Virak said. “I will ... trust you, Quentin. But do not betray that trust.”

  Quentin nodded, a grateful smile crossing his face.

  “Thank you, Virak. And thanks yous guys for helpin’ me out. I would have got my face kicked in.”

  “We will return to the rooms,” Fayed said. “Will you join us this time?”

  Quentin nodded. The three teammates left the bar together.

  • • •

  THE BUG-SHIPS WERE nowhere to be seen. There wouldn’t have been any room for them anyway — the Ace Hole had been transformed into a living sea of flat-black clothing, flat-black banners and flat-back flags, surrounded by the shimmering beauty of ice-like blue crystal with a playing field of pitch-black grass.

  The residents of Orbital Station Two didn’t call the stadium the Ace Hole — they called it the Black Hole. Four decks of seating provided a capacity of 132,000. Attendance for this game stood at 133,412.

  The crowd roared and surged and whistled and chirped as the Krakens gathered in the tunnel. Battle scent rolled through the orange-and white-and black-clad warriors. Another week, another war. This war they would win, this war they had to win.

  “This is our chance to make up for lost time,” Pine said in his ringing tone of command. “This is our chance to get back in the hunt.”

  The team let out primitive barks of agreement, yet the veteran’s words held little sway over Quentin. Was the fix in for this game?

  The loudspeaker called out a welcome to the visiting Ionath Krakens, and the team swarmed onto the field. Yet as soon as they did, a sound hit Quentin’s ears like a thunderbolt.

  Or rather, a lack of sound.

  The Black Hole instantly lived up to its name as over 133,412 fans fell stone silent. There were a few thin cheers from Krakens’ faithful, but even those sounds quickly ended, as if the fans felt suddenly self-conscious about making noise in the midst of funeral-like quiet. The transition from cacophony to total silence made Quentin stop in his tracks — the players behind him nearly ran him over. Regaining his wits, he jogged to the sidelines with his teammates.

  Quentin looked across the silent fans, head whipping from one side then to the next. His brain could barely process the phenomenon. He walked to Yitzhak. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “The silent treatment? That’s what the Death fans do for every home game. Kind of cool, isn’t it?”

  Quentin nodded absently. “Yeah, kind of cool.”

  “Well it doesn’t last long, so get ready -”

  Yitzhak’s words were cut off by an instant and all-encompassing roar from over 133,000 fans, a roar so abrupt and total it felt like a physical blow. The Orbiting Death players took the field, resplendent in their flat-black uniforms with metalflake-r
ed numbers and blue trim. Stadium lights gleamed off their metalflake red helmets, each decorated with a flat black circle.

  “Wow,” Quentin said. “That’s pretty impressive.”

  Yitzhak nodded. “They really put on a show. It’s all a head game, and they’ve got over a hundred-thousand fans playing along perfectly with the script.”

  “Yeah,” Quentin said. “Just a head game.” He hoped Yitzhak didn’t see that the “head game” had registered an impact. The roar-to-silence-to-roar definitely unnerved him. For a second, he was happy that Pine would be taking the first snap and not him.

  But it was a brief second.

  • • •

  THE ORBITING DEATH wasted no time showing why they were tied for first place — that reason being running back Ju Tweedy. At 6-foot-9, 385 pounds and with a 40-yard dash time of 3.6, John Tweedy’s younger brother was a Human wrecking ball. Add to those stats a few more: he had a vertical leap of 64 inches, could squat 1,500 pounds and could knock out 47 reps on the standard 300-pound bench press test.

  Virak the Mean, Choto the Bright and, of course, John Tweedy, had been waiting weeks for this moment, waiting to show the league their mettle, but Quentin wondered if they now wished they’d just stayed home. The three linebackers brought the house on every tackle, but through the first quarter he had yet to see Ju knocked backward. “The Mad Ju,” as he was called in the papers, rumbled into the hole, lowered his thick head like a medieval battering ram, and plowed forward with great pain and suffering to all those that stood in his way.

  Death quarterback Ganesha Fritz wasn’t the greatest signal-caller in the galaxy, but he provided exactly what the Death needed — short, accurate passes to keep the linebackers from constantly keying on Ju. The Death utilized a simple strategy: hold onto the ball, pass when the linebackers cheated up, and keep giving the rock to Ju.

  By the end of the first quarter, The Mad Ju had racked up 52 yards on 7 carries, with one phenomenal 12-yard TD run in which he broke tackle attempts by Mai-An-Ihkole at the line of scrimmage, John Tweedy at the 9, Choto at the 6 and Berea at the 1. Well, Quentin couldn’t exactly call that last one a “broken tackle,” because all Berea really did was get in front of Ju and then get run over. That last hit drew roars of approval from the crowd. It also broke Berea’s left leg. Tiburon filled the cornerback spot while Doc tended to the wounded Sklorno defender.