by Scott Sigler
The lower level was where the Black Hole showed its age.
The hallways — even the players’ entrance — were narrow, carved directly into rock lined with veins of blue crystal. Pipes lined the ceiling, some wrapped loosely in old fabric, others showing rust and blistering paint. Teams constantly complained about the conditions of the Black Hole, but the Orbiting Death didn’t care — Death players liked the feel of the place and didn’t want any upgrades. They thought of it as a home-field advantage that other teams complained of narrow lockers and a lack of amenities and good lighting. Since the Death players had the exact same conditions as any visiting team, the Commissioner’s office refused to do anything about it.
The tunnel led past the home locker room, the doors of which were sealed tightly with two gray-jacketed guards standing outside. They walked past that to a tunnel intersection. Going right would take them to the pressroom and the main entrance to the field, where the players ran out to begin the game. Going straight would take them to the visitor’s locker room. Going left led up a ramp to the stadium’s main concourse, where thousands of fans would be milling about, hitting the concession stands and looking at the many displays that showed the history of the Orbiting Death.
She pointed down the hall that led to the pressroom. “I’ll stop there first, make sure other reporters see me.”
“Miss Davenport, are you sure you don’t want to come straight up to the Commissioner’s private box? I still do not like the idea of you walking around on your own.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, and she hoped she was right. “I’m a reporter, Whykor. So while I’m here, I will report.”
His eye swirled with light red and pink. He was afraid for her.
“Be careful,” he said. “You know where the elevators to the sky boxes are?”
“Main concourse,” she said. She pointed up the ramp to the left. “Right that way. I’ll be up before you know it.”
“Very well, Miss Davenport. I will see you soon.”
He turned and walked up the ramp. She headed for the pressroom, hoping she was making the right decision.
• • •
The pressroom had been packed, as would be expected from a game of such importance. The undefeated To Pirates up against the newly promoted upstart Orbiting Death? This was the hottest ticket in the galaxy.
She’d hoped to see some of the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show gang there, but Dan, Akbar and Tarat the Smasher were too popular to slum with the beat reporters. She’d made sure plenty of people saw her. She had brief chats with Kelp Bringer of the Leekee Galaxy Times and Pikor the Assuming from UBS Sports. She ran into an old boyfriend, Harold Moloronik from Grinkas NewsNet. They chitchatted pleasantly enough, as they had parted on good terms.
After making sure she had been seen, she got to work. She hung out in the tunnel that led to the field and got lucky when Ciudad Juarez approached her. The normally media-shy Pirates strong safety was, of all things, a fan of Yolanda’s hard-hitting reporting style. Ciudad was one of the league’s deadliest players, her seven confirmed kills second only to Yalla the Biter’s eight. For being the most-lethal Sklorno to ever play the game, she seemed surprisingly chatty. If Yolanda made it out of this alive, that little exclusive with Ciudad would be a nice addition to an already strong season of reporting.
The crowd out in the Black Hole was getting excited, chanting and singing for their hometown Death. Yolanda decided she’d done enough posturing and headed up the ramp to the main concourse. Two gray-jacketed security guards stood at the top of the ramp. They were more than enough to keep the curious fans from entering. They didn’t seem to notice her as she walked by, other than a glance at the press pass hanging around her neck.
So many sentients. She walked to the first merchandise stand she found and bought an Orbiting Death hat to cover her hair and hide her face. She kept her head down as she walked through the packed crowd, heading for the elevators. It seemed that everywhere she looked, she saw more gray-clad security guards, but they stayed with their backs to the walls and watched the crowd go by. If they recognized her, they didn’t show it.
She reached the bank of elevators that led to the executive levels. Eight of them, each with a private stairwell right next to them in case of power outages. Three of the elevators had private security teams standing in front — the private guards of OS1’s rich and famous, probably. It wasn’t hard to tell which one led to Froese’s booth — a HeavyG and a Quyth Warrior wearing white uniforms with the GFL logo on their left breast stood on either side. They saw her and waved her forward.
“Miss Davenport,” the HeavyG said. “Mister Whykor told us you would be coming. Right this way, ma’am.”
Mister Whykor? Well, it seemed her little assistant rated a bit higher than he let on, at least among other GFL staff.
“Thanks,” she said. “And he told you about our guest?”
The HeavyG nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We will be waiting for her.”
She stepped into the elevator and the guards followed, riding up with her. The elevator opened into a suite. On her left was the stairwell, then a small kitchenette and a bar. She smiled when she saw several shrimp cocktails sitting on the bar. In front of her were four rows of seats, sloping down to a floor-to-ceiling crysteel window that looked out onto the stadium and the black field below. Alone in those seats, she saw the striped back of Whykor’s head and his six antennae.
Another Worker, this one wearing a white jacket, walked out from behind the bar.
She stepped out, and the guards took the elevator back down.
“Miss Davenport, it is my great honor to host you in the private box of Commissioner Rob Froese. Can I get you anything?”
“Uh, sure. Thank you ...” Yolanda paused, waiting for him to supply his name.
“Puck the Disobedient.”
“Dis—” Yolanda stopped herself. The Quyth’s names were often self-explanatory, but the rare Quyth with a name that was less than complimentary did not like to explain where he got the name.
“If you have an ESB pale ale, that would be great.”
“Of course! If I did not have beer from the sponsor of the D’Kow War Dogs, what kind of provider would I be? Please make yourself at home, I’ll have that right out for you along with the gin and tonic I am preparing for Mister Whykor.”
Yolanda smiled as Puck scurried back into the kitchen. She walked to the seats and sat next to her friend.
“Well-well-well, Mister Whykor, how are you?”
“I am fine, thank you. I am glad to see you made it up here safely.”
“I didn’t know Quyth Workers could be deferential to one another. You must be very important.”
“Miss Davenport, in all areas of life, cultural stratification is to be expected. Puck knows how to apply the butter to the proper side of his bread.”
She laughed and nodded — the phrase wasn’t right, but at least it showed he actually did understand what a figure of speech was.
Yolanda relaxed into the cushy seat. She stared out at a sea of fans, 133,000 strong. The afternoon’s artificial sun blazed down, lighting up the crowd dressed mostly in flat black and metalflake-red but also in the blood red of the To Pirates. The flat-black field seemed to soak up the light, while the blazing white lines and numbers reflected it back in almost neon brightness. Harrah security guards flew overhead, filling the role usually reserved for the flocks of Creterakians. It was always a delight to watch the Harrah — their wing-flaps barely seemed to move and yet they could streak back and forth, up and down at insane speeds. It was pregame, so they were still flying above the field. Their shadows crisscrossed the white lines and yard markers.
She had missed the “Silent Treatment” that the OS1 crowd was famous for, when the visiting team took the field and over 100,000 fans fell silent.
The Pirates kicking unit took the field. That meant she’d have to wait to see her favorite player, Pirates QB Frank Zimmer. The Pirates uniforms — e
ven away whites — were so iconic. Black shoes, blood-red leg armor with white-trimmed black Ki skulls on the thighs. Black-lined red numbers were positioned down near the waist to leave room for the galaxy-famous black-fanged red Ki skull-and-crossbones logo emblazoned across the chest. Their blood-red helmets, oddly, had no decoration other than a white-lined black stripe right down the middle.
To fans cheered for their Pirates, but they were no match for the building roar of the hometown crowd. The Orbiting Death kick-return unit took the field. Flat-black leg armor, flat-black jerseys decorated with numbers and letters done in blue-trimmed metalflake-red. Afternoon sunlight sparkled off of metalflake-red helmets, sun that was eaten up by the flat-black circle logos on the side of each helmet.
The Death were newly promoted, the upstarts who had opened the season 2-0 when newly promoted teams were supposed to be lucky to win a few games all season long. Now 2-1 after a Week Three loss, a win today against the Pirates not only proved OS1 was for real; it put them in early playoff contention.
The crowd roared as the Pirates kicked off, the ball spinning high into the air. The Death returned the ball back to the OS1 26-yard line. The kick and kick-return units ran off, as the defense ran on. So, too, did the offense of the Orbiting Death, and the crowd went wild for their savior — Condor Adrienne. The Death had a good team, but Adrienne was the reason for their promotion to Tier One and their strong start.
“Whykor, what are your thoughts on Condor? Is he better than Quentin Barnes?”
“Of course,” Whykor said. “Condor is a better passer and a better game manager. Barnes has the edge with his speed, of course.”
She nodded but didn’t see it. Condor was great and might very well lead OS1 to a GFL title, but there was something about Barnes, something … intangible. And it wasn’t his perfect face or his body, although those things sure didn’t hurt a girl’s opinion.
“Your ESB pale ale, Miss Davenport.”
Puck handed her the beer. She drank even as he handed Whykor his drink. She wouldn’t have long to relax and wanted to enjoy every moment of it.
The Death ran once, passed twice and went three and out. After the punt, the Pirates had the ball on their own 32, and Yolanda leaned forward to enjoy watching her favorite player.
Zimmer was still possibly the greatest quarterback in the game, but he wasn’t the player he’d been in his younger days. The Pirates won games on the ground, pounding away with running back Randy Noseworthy. Noseworthy was the real reason Zimmer still put up MVP numbers because everyone was trying to stop the ground game. Noseworthy broke an early big run to the Death 45, then picked up another 10 yards on the next play. Yalla the Biter and the other Death defenders came up to play tight against the run. Zimmer took advantage of this, dropping back five steps and throwing to the corner of the end zone to his favorite receiver, Victoria.
The pass was short. Death cornerback Little River jumped at the same time Victoria did, but since the ball was thrown behind the receiver, Little River was able to pull it down. They both landed in the end zone as the crowd went wild, cheering on the defensive stop.
She sighed. Three years ago, Zimmer would have landed that pass for a touchdown.
Yolanda leaned back in her chair and waited for Condor Adrienne’s next opportunity.
• • •
With about five minutes to play in the second quarter, the Pirates led 14-7. OS1 had the ball and needed to score before the half — the Death offense was sputtering, and To was well known as a dominant second-half team.
Yolanda heard the door buzzer sound. Puck scurried off to answer it. At last, she could get the full story out of Miriam — the one-armed former bodyguard wasn’t going to get out of it this time.
Down on the field, Condor Adrienne dropped back to pass. The crowd’s roar surged as they watched their new chosen one search for a receiver. She’d watched games here before when the Death had been in the Quyth Irradiated conference of Tier Two, but as die-hard as the fan base was even then, it was nothing like what she felt now. OS1 fans had bought in to the hype — Condor would lead them to a GFL title.
The black-clad quarterback didn’t have a receiver. The pocket collapsed. He scrambled right, showing great speed, but not enough to escape To linebacker Bob Merrill from bringing him down for the sack.
Yolanda sensed someone standing behind her and to the right.
“Adrienne is going to be something,” Yolanda said without looking away from the field. “Who do you think might win a title first, Miriam, him or Quentin Barnes?”
“Adrienne,” Miriam said.
“Barnes,” a Quyth Leader said.
Yolanda turned quickly in her seat — Miriam was standing there, but behind, holding something to her back, was Marik the Covetous. In front of them both stood Turon the Ugly.
“Hello again, Davenport,” Turon said. He turned his softball-sized eye on Whykor. “And you as well, you yahochat.”
“I’m sorry,” Miriam said quickly. Her good hand fiddled with the press pass hanging around her neck. “They were already at my house when you called. I didn’t have a—”
“Silence,” Turon said. “We no longer need you, Connor, so if you’d like to keep your good arm, I suggest you do not bother me in the least.”
Miriam closed her mouth and looked down. She was clearly ashamed. Yolanda realized that the woman wasn’t wearing her prosthesis. Marik had — literally — disarmed her.
“This is my fault,” Whykor said. “I told the guards to allow Miriam in. I did not think to specify that she had to be alone.”
Turon’s eye swirled with threads of black. “Planning is for Leaders, Worker. You should avoid that intellectual task and stick to fetching what you are told to fetch.”
Yolanda tried to think of a way to sound an alarm. The booth was mostly soundproofed to keep the occupants from having to listen to the conversations of the spectators close by. She could scream for help, but no one would hear it. The booth had only one door — she’d have to go through Marik to reach it, and that didn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe she could get Puck to make a run for it and bring help?
But, if no help could be had, all she could do was try and talk her way out of this. She crossed her arms over her chest, making sure to point her bracelet recorder toward the Leader. “What would you like to discuss, then, Turon? This doesn’t seem like a good place to do any welding, now does it? Not that you could get something like that through stadium security.”
“A welding torch would be difficult to get through security, true,” Turon said. He reached into a pants pocket and came out with a small pistol. “This, on the other hand, was easy.”
Yolanda stared at the weapon. The knobby contraption on the end had to be a silencer. For all of the GFL’s faults, one thing the league took seriously was the safety of the players and fans. Fans could — and often did — riot, causing numerous injuries and even deaths, but those riots happened without weapons. Three years ago she had done an exposé on stadium security in Tier One and Tier Two. Rather, she tried to do an exposé: Galaxy Sports had hired a dozen seasoned smugglers and ex-military types to try and sneak weapons into various stadiums, and all had failed.
Gredok’s operative — if he worked for Gredok at all — had to have connections within stadium security. And that could mean only one thing: he wasn’t Gredok’s operative at all.
Turon had to work for Anna Villani, who owned the Black Hole.
Think fast, girl — tell them what they want to hear.
“If Gredok still wants an update on what we found out, you’re too late,” she said. “I couldn’t find anything. Ju Tweedy is the killer, and that’s that — I’ve given up on the story.”
“Irrelevant,” Turon said. “Gredok is displeased with you, Davenport. Therefore, your time has come. Since you are Human, I will assume that you have primitive superstitions about an afterlife and the supreme being or beings that run it. Out of respect, I give you thirty seconds to make p
eace with these deities.”
Thirty seconds?
“Wait, what? What do you mean, make peace?”
He raised the pistol. “You will not leave this booth. This is where you die.”
Die? She had to think, think fast. What could she tell this little would-be killer? She had to …
Whykor grabbed her arm and raised her hand high.
“This bracelet is a recorder,” he said. “It sends a live signal. Live. That means your faces and voices have already been uploaded. If you kill us, you will be prosecuted.”
Turon’s pedipalps jiggled in laughter, making the pistol shake.
“There is no us,” he said. “We’re not going to kill you, Whykor, as you work for the Commissioner. Gredok would never want to make an enemy of the Commissioner.”
That didn’t make any sense. They were admitting that Gredok had ordered a hit?
Whykor let her arm drop. He took a step forward. Turon pointed the gun at him, but a second step made it clear Whykor wasn’t approaching Turon: he was stepping up to Miriam.
“You,” Whykor said. “This is your fault, you coward!”
Miriam shook her head violently. “I didn’t have a choice!”
Turon waved the gun in a get away from her motion. “Worker, I command you to go back to your seat and wait for further instructions. Leave her be.”
Whykor turned sharply to stare at Turon. “Leave her be? Leave this traitor be? I will show you how we deal with traitors in the GFL.”
The Worker again turned suddenly — this time he let out a high-pitched, furious scream and launched himself up at Miriam’s face.
The Heavy G woman recoiled, more from surprise than fear or pain, and put up her good arm. Whykor grabbed her forearm and used it as a rope to climb the huge woman and attach himself to her back. He started pummeling her with his pedipalps.
Marik stared dumbly at the attack. He took a step forward toward the scuffle, Miriam scrabbling at the back of her head to get Whykor off.