The Reporter (The Galactic Football League Novellas)

by Scott Sigler

  Turon’s eye flooded black. “Marik! Get control of this!”

  The words seemed to snap Marik back into action. He grabbed Whykor, ripped him off of Miriam and threw him to the ground. Turon had to quickly step aside to avoid being knocked over.

  This is your only chance …

  Yolanda took two quick steps forward before Turon saw her coming. He turned the gun toward her but was too late — she had visions of a John Tweedy devastating hit as she lowered her shoulder and plowed into the Quyth Leader, knocking him to the ground.

  The pistol flew across the room to smack up against the snack bar. In a smooth motion, Puck scooped it up and dropped it into a refuse chute.

  “Weapons are not allowed in the Commissioner’s booth,” he said simply.

  Marik moved quickly to help Turon, but he didn’t get far — the HeavyG Miriam wound up and delivered a punch to the back of Marik’s head. The Warrior stumbled and tripped over Turon. The blow had knocked him off-balance but hadn’t stunned him.

  Whykor popped up. “Run!”

  Yolanda did just that and sprinted for the elevator. Miriam was only a step behind, and Whykor a step behind her. She palmed the door button, and the doors hissed open to reveal the two guards, both lying bloody and unconscious on the floor.

  Yolanda, Miriam and Whykor piled into the elevator as Marik got to his feet and rushed forward. The door started to shut, but too slowly — he was going to get them.

  Marik suddenly fell forward and landed hard on his face. Puck popped up — he had thrown himself at the big Warrior’s feet.

  Yolanda’s hand reached out and stopped the elevator from closing. She couldn’t leave Puck — they’d kill him for sure.

  “Puck, get in here!”

  The white-uniformed worker’s eye flooded pink, as if he suddenly realized what he’d done. Marik was again scrambling to his feet. Puck hurdled Marik and threw himself into the elevator.

  Marik reached out, but the doors shut before he could slide a pedipalp hand inside.

  Just as the elevator started to descend, Yolanda heard Turon’s high-pitched voice from the other side of the door: “The stairs! Get them!”

  The elevator would get them down but not that much ahead of the big Warrior. Her heart pounded in her chest — they weren’t safe yet.

  Miriam shook out her hand, as if it hurt from punching Marik. “We need to find security, and fast. Or maybe a cop.”

  “No,” Yolanda said. “We can’t trust security. Turon got a firearm into the stadium — we have to assume that means at least some of the security staff, maybe even the cops working the game, all work for Anna.”

  Whykor’s shaking pedipalps smoothed his ruffled fur. “That means we can’t draw attention to ourselves and sprint for an exit. We have to be calm. But what about Mister Clark?” Whykor said. “And Parmot the Insane?”

  “That only helps if they’re here,” Yolanda said. “I’ll call first chance I get, but we have to get out of the stadium on our own.”

  She turned to face the white-uniformed Puck.

  “Puck, thank you,” she said. “You saved us.”

  He bowed. “I could not let them injure Mister Whykor.”

  Miriam touched her head and looked at her hand — spotted with blood. “What about me? Whykor attacked me.”

  “My apologies, Miss Connor,” Whykor said. “I had to create a diversion, and that was all I could think to do at the moment.”

  Miriam stared at him, then nodded. “Damn, son — that was real smart.”

  A diversion … that’s what Yolanda needed as soon as the elevator touched down on the stadium’s main level. How to create a diversion when being chased by a pissed-off Quyth Warrior …

  That’s it, that will work!

  “Puck,” she said, “I need you to do one more thing for us. It will keep Mister Whykor safe.”

  “Of course, Miss Davenport,” he said. “Just tell me what you need.”

  Yolanda did, then she pulled the Orbiting Death hat out of her bag and put it on, covering up her hair and hiding her face as best she could.

  • • •

  The elevator opened into the packed main causeway that surrounded the lower deck. So many sentients, most wearing flat black or metalflake-red, but plenty wearing the blood red of the Pirates. They were all wandering, hitting the rest rooms or lined up twenty deep at concession stands. It was still halftime. She and her associates had lucked out — it was far easier to vanish into a packed crowd.

  Miriam stepped out of the elevator and gently pushed people away, making space so the others could exit. She had to lean into a pack of Sklorno who were wearing black Orbiting Death jerseys on top of head-to-toe metalflake-red wrapping. Miriam expertly pushed them aside without causing a conflict, instantly falling back into her bodyguard role.

  Yolanda heard shouts of anger coming from the stairs — Marik, bullying his way through the crowd.

  She felt a pedipalp hand on her arm: Puck.

  “Go, Miss Davenport. I will create the diversion.”

  Miriam started walking through the crowd, her wide body creating a path. Yolanda and Whykor fell in behind her, both of them together not quite as wide as the HeavyG woman.

  More angry shouts from the stairs. Yolanda looked back — through the moving crowd, she saw Marik, and he saw her. He raised a comlink to his mouth and started bullying forward.

  Yolanda saw another bit of movement, lower down — a white-uniformed Worker stepping in front of the hulking Marik.

  “The legendary Hall of Fame linebacker Tarat the Smasher!” Puck screamed, so loud that every head in the causeway turned to look. “He signed my messageboard! Tarat the Smasher is giving holy blessings, hurry before he leaves!”

  The effect was instant: a dozen jumping Sklorno females rushed in, packing around Marik, their tentacles reaching out with messageboards, their raspers dangling wildly and flinging spit all over the place. “Holy Tarat!” they screamed. “Please sign-sign-sign with your blessings!”

  More Sklorno shot in, suddenly insane with the knowledge that one of their deities walked among them. In a matter of seconds, twenty pushing bodies surrounded Marik. The Warrior looked about in confusion and instant caution — he’d be a fool to fight Sklorno fans that were suddenly caught up in religious fervor, especially considering he wasn’t the true object of their affection. When they were this worked up, the females could instantly switch from loving adoration to insane and brutal attacks on one who bore false witness.

  “Puck, I owe you,” Yolanda muttered as she followed the wide form of Miriam. She kept her head down and hoped no one would recognize her — a throng of worshiping Sklorno could descend on her just like they’d descended on Marik.

  Miriam talked over her shoulder. “Should we head for one of the main exits?”

  Yolanda started to say yes but stopped. Stadium security was heaviest at the exits. If they were looking for her, they could grab her, Whykor and Miriam and rush them off to a side room. Security dealing with unruly fans was a common occurrence, and no one would get in their way.

  Whykor tugged on her sleeve. “What about the press and player’s entrance? Perhaps there will be other reporters around, and they would be quick to come to your defense if the security forces try to stop us?”

  Yolanda looked at her badge, then the one hanging around Miriam’s neck. Whykor pulled his out of a pocket and strung it around his neck.

  Yolanda nodded; that was a great idea. It was one thing to hustle her off to some hidden area in front of dozens of random football fans, but it was quite another if other reporters were watching … watching and recording. The media entrance was one level down: field level.

  “Whykor, you are certainly a clever little thing.”

  “It was your idea to give us press passes,” he said. “The credit is all yours, Miss Davenport.”

  Miriam shook her head. “I’m not a reporter. This isn’t going to work.”

  Yolanda held Miriam’s
elbow and tried to be comforting but also insistent. “They rarely look at them once the game starts. Just keep your head down and don’t make eye contact. If they stop us from getting into the press area, then you do what you have to do. Now get us through this crowd, but don’t draw attention.”

  Miriam did just that. Once again, Yolanda and Whykor fell in line behind her. Miriam kept her head down — Yolanda silently wished no one would recognize any of the three.

  They reached the ramp that led down into the press and player area. The same gray-jacketed guards were there, barely looking at the dozens of badge-wearing sentients who walked into and out from the ramp.

  Yolanda gently pushed Whykor into the lead. If she knew security guards, they’d only really look at the first sentient in a group. Whykor walked past the guards, Yolanda and Miriam close behind with their heads looking away to avoid eye contact. The guards seemed to give Whykor a passing glance — when they saw all three were wearing the hanging badges, they went back to their conversation.

  The ramp led down into the dim lower levels of the Black Hole. They were once again surrounded by overhead pipes and blue-veined rock walls.

  “Whykor,” Yolanda said. “Head for the parking area. Maybe we can get out that way and get into the city.”

  Miriam laughed a dark laugh. “Too bad I wasn’t a better player. Sikka supposedly had secret exits for the really expensive talent.”

  Yolanda started to speak, but the former fullback held up a hand.

  “No, Yolanda, I don’t know where the secret exits are. Sikka wanted his stars to have a way out if things went really wrong, like a terrorist attack or something. I wasn’t one of his stars, okay?”

  They reached the hallway intersection. Going straight would take them to the press room and then the tunnel leading onto the field, going left led to the visitor’s locker room, going right led to the home locker room and beyond that their way out — the entrance/exit to the secure player/staff/press parking area.

  Whykor turned right. Yolanda and Miriam followed, but only for a few seconds until Whykor stopped cold.

  Up ahead, the door to the secure parking area reserved for players, staff and the media. At the door leading out of the tunnel and into that parking area stood Turon the Ugly with two Ki guards dressed in gray stadium uniforms and one Quyth Warrior cop.

  Turon saw them and pointed.

  “Other way!” Yolanda said. She turned and ran without waiting to see if the others were behind her.

  “We are in a significant amount of trouble,” Whykor shouted. “Now all of the entrances are blocked! Miss Connor, are you sure you don’t know a hidden exit?”

  “Don’t I wish,” Miriam said. “I told you, I wasn’t a star here.”

  And then it hit Yolanda: she knew someone who had been a star for OS1, perhaps the biggest star they’d ever had.

  She lifted her hand, activating her palm-up display. As she ran, she dialed Tarat the Smasher. He didn’t answer. Yolanda quickly composed an URGENT! message and sent it.

  They hit the tunnel intersection again. She looked left, back toward the main causeway: the two gray-jacketed Human security guys were running their way — there would be no escaping back into the stadium’s crowded areas. They could go to the visitor’s locker room, but that was a dead end.

  “Miriam,” Yolanda said, “can you take those security goons?”

  Miriam shook her head. “Not before Turon and the others catch us. We have to run!”

  Whykor’s eye flooded pink. “Run where? All of the exits are blocked!”

  Yolanda looked to her right — to the dingy hallway that led to the pressroom and then the tunnel leading to the field beyond.

  And the one security guard blocking the entrance.

  “You can’t take two, so can you take one?”

  “Serve me up another distraction, Yo, and I’ll find a way.”

  “Give me ten steps and let me make the first move,” Yolanda said. “You need to take him out quick, so make it count.”

  “Come on!” she shouted and headed for the tunnel.

  • • •

  One security guard — that wasn’t luck, it was just common sense. Every sentient got thoroughly screened before being allowed into the stadium: solids detectors, explosives sniffers, biometrics, mods scans, behavioral pattern watch, AI-assisted facial recognition and probably even more than that. That meant despite 100,000-plus fans entering Beefeater Gin Stadium, there was no chance of getting a weapon inside, and a very small chance you were a known threat or were acting in what security experts called a “pre-threatening manner.”

  On top of that high level of security, there was always the physical presence of gray-jacketed security staff. Then a pair of guards watching the entrance to the press area (who wouldn’t have a job come tomorrow, she suspected). After all of that, it didn’t take much to guard the actual entrance to the field. With players, coaches, training staff, media and stadium personnel moving in and out, there wasn’t a reasonable way to check everyone anyway — the Black Hole was a business like any other, and you didn’t pay to have personnel where they weren’t used.

  That didn’t mean the one guy they left at the tunnel entrance wouldn’t be dangerous. He was probably the best of the best, ready to politely handle any situation and be on a live line to security HQ, ready to call in for backup with only a couple of words.

  He saw Yolanda coming, and his mouth started moving — he recognized her and was calling for that backup. She sprinted at him, then tried to cut left around him. He was fast; he reached for her, grabbing her arm. She threw herself right, just trying to pull his attention away from where she’d come.

  “Ma’am, stop!” the man said. He yanked her arm painfully. “You stay still!”

  Other sentients in the tunnel saw the commotion and backed away.

  “Hey, tough guy.” Miriam’s voice.

  The guard turned to look just as Miriam’s big, black fist landed a devastating uppercut. The guard’s head rocked up, and he flew back, spinning a little in mid-air to fall hard on his left side.

  Miriam winced and shook her hand. “I think I broke it this time.”

  “I’ll pay for the hospital,” Yolanda said. “Come on!”

  They ran out of the tunnel and onto the black field, right behind the end zone that read “DEATH.”

  Yolanda looked back for a moment and saw dozens of white-jerseyed players walking down the tunnel toward the field — halftime was almost over, and the Pirates were returning to the field.

  “Go left!” Yolanda said. “To the Pirates sideline!”

  She, Miriam and Whykor walked quickly to the left, staying close to the retaining wall that kept the fans off the field. They reached the Pirates’ sideline area. Bits of tape and used nanocyte bandages littered the ground. Five med bays sat empty, save for two Quyth Workers spraying cleanser on them and wiping up black, red and clear blood. Other technicians were moving holodecks into place near the benches. Perhaps a dozen personnel in red jackets were preparing the sidelines for the second half.

  Her palm buzzed. She lifted it, and the face of Tarat the Smasher appeared.

  “I am on a commercial break,” he said. “Please make this fast. You said your call was urgent?”

  “Tarat! I’m a girl on the go, here, so talk fast — I need a way out of the stadium!”

  “What have you done, Yolanda?”

  “Being chased by some guys who want us dead, Tarat. Let’s get into the details later. Can you get us out of this?”

  “Where are you — oh. I see you. That’s not very stealthy, Yolanda. You might consider actually hiding instead of running around on the field in front of the galaxy.”

  “You see me?”

  “Yes,” Tarat said. “Look up to the holodisplay.”

  She did. Sure enough, she saw her blue face and Orbiting Death hat in the hundred-foot-high holodisplay set into the third deck of the far end zone. The crowd even cheered a little. A celebrity r
eporter on the field made for a few seconds of halftime entertainment.

  “Yolanda, it is not becoming for a member of the media to endorse a particular team.”

  “Am I safe now that I’ve been seen on the field?”

  “That depends on who is after you.”

  “Anna’s goons,” Yolanda said. “And stadium security. And the cops.”

  “Then no, Yolanda, you are not safe. They have a hundred places to take you in this stadium where you’ll never be heard from again.”

  She felt a pinching in her stomach — here she was in front of a hundred thousand witnesses, and Villani could still make her vanish?

  “Tarat, we need a way out, and we need it fast.”

  “Give me a moment to think,” he said.

  She looked back to her right, to the tunnel. The Pirates players were running out, some onto the field, others toward the sideline. Mixed in among them, she saw gray-jacketed guards, the cop, Turon the Ugly and even Marik the Covetous.

  “I have a spot,” Tarat said. “There is a red camera tent on the Orbiting Death sideline. You and your friends need to reach it.”

  Yolanda looked left, toward the far end zone in hopes she could run around that and reach the Death sideline — but there were three gray-jacketed guards coming from that direction.

  She saw Whykor on her left and Miriam on her right.

  Miriam shook her head. “Yo, whatever you’re going to do, you better do it fast.”

  Yolanda again looked right — no way out — and then left — no way out there, either. She had only seconds.

  “Follow me if you want to live,” she said. And then Yolanda Davenport, award-winning reporter for Galaxy Sports Magazine, sprinted onto the black turf of Beefeater Gin Stadium.

  • • •

  She had spent five years reporting on the GFL. She had heard crowds cheer for players both active and retired; for great passes, long runs and big hits; for touchdowns, sacks and interceptions; for coaches waving after a win and for Galaxy Bowl trophies held high; but in all those years, the cheers had never been for her.