by Scott Sigler
Quentin nodded. “I agree.”
“You agree?” Gredok said. “How nice for you.”
They filtered out of the office, leaving Hokor to keep flipping through player holos.
Quentin had just taken more control over the franchise, and at Hokor’s expense. Quentin would make it up to him. Once Tara started catching passes over the middle, Coach would see, and everything would work out.
OCTOBER 2683
Transcript of broadcast from Galactic News Network
“Yes, Brad, I’m at Planet Yall in the Sklorno Dynasty, near the scene of tragedy. Flight 894-B, a ship loaded with some fifty thousand Sklorno, exploded near dawn, local time, killing every sentient aboard. This is the worst maritime disaster in this area since the Creterakian conflict.”
“Tom, was this an accident or was it foul play?”
“Well, Brad, that very question is on the minds of investigators from both the Sklorno Dynasty and the Creterakian Empire. A punch-drive explosion caused the disaster. There is no indication of weapons fired at the ship. Investigators are confident the explosion was internal, although it is as yet unknown if that explosion was accidental or if it was sabotage. A group called the Purist Liberation Front has claimed responsibility for the blast, but Creterakian officials say that is unlikely and that the terrorist organization is simply trying to take the credit.”
“Tom, any statement from the Purist Nation?”
“Yes, Brad, the Grand Mullah herself stated that the Purist Nation had nothing to do with the disaster, although she did say that since all the lives lost were, quote, of demonic descent, the deaths were clear evidence of God’s direct interaction in the universe, end quote.”
“So if it’s not a Purist sect, Tom, who would the suspects be?”
“Well, Brad, Creterakian officials think that if it was sabotage, the Zoroastrian Guild has to be behind it.”
“The Zoroastrian Guild being that shadowy organization dedicated to overthrowing the Creterakian Empire’s control of several systems, of course.”
“That’s right, Brad, but what scares experts isn’t the Creterakian analysis, but rather the Sklorno Dynasty’s growing opinion that the culprit is, in fact, the Prawatt Jihad itself. Yall is only a few short light-years away from the Prawatt/Sklorno border. If the Sklorno believe the Prawatt are responsible for this bombing, there could be major ramifications.”
“Is that due to the Sklorno/Prawatt War of 2556, Tom?”
“That and more, Brad. That war lasted two years and cost millions of lives on both sides. It ended without a clear winner, but the Prawatt navy was so weakened that it lost the planet Yewalla to the Rewall Association in 2559. Many think the Jihad still blame the Sklorno for the loss of that valuable world. The Sklorno Dynasty is part of Creterakian-controlled space, but the Jihad was never conquered during the Takeover. While no official contact has been conducted with the hostile Prawatt in some forty years, experts are confident the Jihad possesses the galaxy’s third-largest navy, behind only the Creterakian Empire and the Quyth Concordia.”
“But Tom, the Sklorno Dynasty has no navy of its own. So what’s the fear?”
“Brad, there are 269 trillion sentient beings in the Dynasty, most of whom are very hostile to the occupying Creterakian garrisons. Experts estimate the number of interstellar-capable craft at some 200 million. The Sklorno are a religious race, capable of unifying and acting upon a central belief in very short order. If the majority of Sklorno decide the Prawatt Jihad is at fault and want to attack, there is no way the Creterakians can stop that many ships. If any Sklorno ships attack Prawatt space, the Prawatt will view that as an act of war by the Creterakians, because the Creterakians control Sklorno space. While it is unlikely, it is realistic to say we’re looking at the possible start of a fifth galactic war.”
“That sounds like a very complicated situation, Tom.”
“Brad, it certainly is. We’ll continue to monitor the investigation of Flight 894-B. For GNN, this is Tom Skivvers, signing off.”
NOVEMBER 2683
THE OFF-SEASON SEEMED to last forever. After scouting players, Quentin started to go stir-crazy without football. With two months until the season began, he decided to visit the Touchback while it was in for repairs at the mind-bogglingly huge dry dock know as the CAS Linus Torvalds.
If there wasn’t such a big planet behind it, the Torvalds’ size would seem almost incomprehensible. Jupiter, of course, was a massive planet. One of the largest in any populated system. Red and orange swirling stripes reminded Quentin of jawbreakers, the only candy he could afford when he’d been a kid back on Micovi. A jawbreaker could last days, even weeks if you only worked on it a little each night. The few times he had enough money to eat his fill, he’d spend a bit extra on one of those treats.
Dozens of glowing lights far off in the distance showed the many stations of the Jupiter Net Colony, the string of constructs in orbit around the great gas giant. To think this had once been a lifeless planet seemed strange — now 275 million sentients living aboard some 7,000 vessels made Jupiter’s orbit their home.
Quentin’s GFL immunity meant he could take his yacht anywhere in Creterakian-controlled space. That included the Planetary Union. No shuttle necessary this time out, as the Hypatia itself could fly right inside the Torvalds. Well, the visiting crew could fly it in, anyway. Quentin had to take on boarders and cede control of his yacht so that it could be steered inside. He stood in his salon, watching the Hypatia fly through a portal so big his yacht looked like a pea dropped into a big bucket. The portal led through the Torvalds’ hull, walls so massive their thickness was at least ten times the Hypatia’s length.
Inside, an empty space so vast it was difficult to comprehend. You could fit an entire football stadium in here. No, four, maybe five stadiums. Lining the Torvalds’ interior, he saw long pier-arms holding the colorful team busses of other GFL franchises: red hull with white-trimmed blue stars of the Texas Earthlings; brown with long yellow-trimmed maroon stripes belonging to the Themala Dreadnaughts; the gold, copper and silver ship of the Jupiter Jacks; and a half-dozen more. The size of the Torvalds made these ships look like the toys of a small child.
And there, the orange hull of the Touchback. His temporary pilot flew the Hypatia close to the Krakens’ team bus. The Touchback’s landing bay doors were open — a strange site indeed, as they usually opened to the emptiness of space. The inside of the Torvalds, however, had its own atmosphere.
For two straight seasons, Quentin had spent the majority of his time on the Touchback — either alone in his quarters or surrounded by teammates in the locker room, the dining area, or the practice field. The ship seemed a living thing, a small town whose population was dedicated to preparing for games.
The Tier One preseason would begin on January 1, 2684. Just two months away. Then, the Touchback would again ring with the laughter of players, resonate with the crash of armor hitting armor on the practice field, and — of course — echo with the angry, amplified voice of Coach Hokor the Hookchest. But in November? During the off-season? The Touchback seemed like a ghost ship.
Last season he’d become aware of the support staff that helped run the Krakens franchise, a staff that Gredok did not allow to interact with the players. Quentin had spent most of his life in a stratified society, where the working class of Micovi catered to the religious aristocracy. He had hated that life, hated feeling like he was second class, like he wasn’t as good because he didn’t have rank, position or money. He wouldn’t allow others to see him the way he once saw the Micovi elite.
The Hypatia shuddered slightly as it docked. The Torvalds crew led him to his own small landing bay, where a floating supply platform carried him through the Touchback’s open bay doors. Waiting inside for him were two women in orange uniforms, seams done in pinstripe black. The woman on the right, a short brunette, held a messageboard. Her uniform looked like her hair — neat, pressed, immaculate.
The woman on the left
he recognized from in-ship messages and broadcasts, even though despite two years aboard he’d never actually met her face to face — Captain Kate Cheevers. She was the taller of the two, but more unkempt. Her uniform was unbuttoned down the chest, the left flap flopping open and showing a black T-shirt beneath. Dirty-blonde hair spilled down her back. The flash of three small, gold loops through her left nostril caught the room lights, as did two smaller ones pierced through her right eyebrow. She wore no makeup on her pink skin. Thin lips crinkled at the corners, the mark of a woman who frequently wears an easy smile. Quentin had heard the Captain was hot, and those rumors were dead-on. Knee-high black boots accentuated legs that were probably quite nice under the orange pants. The thing that caught his eye most of all, however, was the gun belt, angling down from her left hip to her right thigh. The handle of a firearm led into a black leather holster.
Quentin stepped off the supply platform.
“Mister Barnes,” Captain Kate said. “A pleasure to meet you.” She extended her hand, and he shook it. Rough skin. Working-class skin.
“Captain. Please call me Quentin.”
She winked, a motion that seemed to make her whole head twitch to the right. “You don’t want me to call you Elder?”
Quentin laughed uncomfortably. “No, please don’t. I hate that.”
Captain Kate gestured to the other woman. “This is Sayeeda. She’s part of the crew. Sayeeda is overseeing landing bay door repairs while I take you on the tour.
Sayeeda offered her tiny hand, which seemed to vanished when Quentin shook it.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I asked the Captain if I could say hi. I’m a fan.”
“Thanks,” Quentin said. “Hopefully, we’ll give you a lot to cheer about this year.”
Sayeeda nodded, then walked to the bay’s right side. Quentin saw where she was going — toward a GFL-sized Human in grease-smeared coveralls.
“Hey, is that George Starcher?”
Captain Kate nodded. “It is.”
“What the hell is he doing? Is he fixing something?”
“He didn’t have anything to do in the off-season, so he wanted to join the repair crew,” Kate said. “He used to be in the Planetary Union navy. You didn’t know that?”
Quentin shook his head. “No, I had no idea.”
“So, you’ve never met me, you haven’t seen most of our ship, and you don’t even know if your teammates are veterans. You don’t know much, do you?”
Wow, this woman didn’t mince words. “Hey, I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Kate pursed her lips, then nodded. “Fair enough. And that’s way more than most of your teammates have done. The ship crew is basically considered to be second class to all you fancy football players. Ready for your tour?”
“Yes.” Quentin’s eyes once again strayed to her firearm.
She saw him looking. “Checking out the help?”
Quentin’s eyes snapped up. “Oh, uh, no! No, I’m just ...”
“The gun?”
He nodded. “Yeah, is that real?”
She smiled. Something haughty in that smile, something so self-confident it bordered on arrogance. She pulled the pistol and offered it butt-first. “Yeah, it’s real. You want to touch it?”
Quentin held up his hands. “No thanks.”
“Don’t like guns?”
“No, I don’t. I’ve never even held one.”
She laughed and holstered the pistol with practiced ease. “Good man. And as long as you’re under my watch, you’ll never have to. Captain Kate will keep you safe, pretty thing.” She gave her head-twitch wink.
“Uh ...”
“Let’s go. You’re nice to look at, quarterback, but even in the off-season I have a lot to do. Let’s show you around.”
She started on the bridge. It surprised Quentin how small it was, nothing more than a fairly large room packed with holotanks. It could hold only about ten, maybe twelve sentients comfortably, which wasn’t bad considering the bridge crew numbered five, including Captain Kate. Big crysteel windows lined three sides of the bridge, providing a view of the Torvalds’ vast interior and the other ships docked miles away. A glowing, holographic Touchback dominated the center of the bridge. Four workstations sat almost under the hologram, two on the left, two on the right. Two chairs sat empty. Two men, dressed in the crew’s orange uniforms, stood and walked over.
Captain Kate introduced them as Francis and Agreyu. Apparently she didn’t have much use for last names.
The bridge had only one more chair, a plush affair with holotank arrays in front of each arm rest. Captain Kate sauntered to it and sat, crossing her legs and making the chair spin slightly.
“This is where I sit when I’m keeping you footballers safe,” she said. “You might say it’s a seat of power.”
“Uh ... very nice.”
“You wanna sit in the captain’s chair, Quentin?”
She winked, a slow wink that showed off her dark eyelashes. Was she hitting on him?
“Uh ... no thanks, Captain.”
She pursed her lips in a mock pout, then stood. “I understand. It might be more than you can handle, huh? Come on, let’s see the rest of the little sentients who make it all possible for you to line up on Sunday.”
Captain Kate took him to the administrative areas. Quentin met several staffers, mostly Quyth Workers but also a few Humans and even a “bed bug,” the small, furry creatures that were the Sklorno males. He learned that most of the onboard staff managed ship-based things, like maintenance, customs declarations, food and supplies. The ship could also handle all of the administrative staff from the Krakens building. In short, Gredok the Splithead could put every last employee of his franchise in this ship and take them anywhere he wanted to go.
In the last year, Quentin had seen the practice field, the locker rooms, Hokor’s office, the dining deck, his quarters and some of the living areas of the other races, but that was about it. The tour quickly showed him those areas were only about sixty percent of the ship. The other forty percent consisted of living quarters for the crew and administrative staff, repair and manufacturing areas, the galley and a dozen lifeboats. Quentin asked why there were no lifeboat drills, but she just pointed to the simple pictograms mounted outside the lifeboat hatches — any sentient could use those images to operate the door, get inside and jettison if the need arose.
She showed him the Touchback’s punch drive and control area, located not in the ship’s rear but in the ship’s front near the bottom deck. He’d never seen an actual punch drive before and was shocked to find it was nothing more than a room-sized gray ball. It looked like a big, spherical rock. Maybe he’d learn how it worked someday. Kimberlin had said the principles involved required physics knowledge far above even his.
Punch drives weren’t the only thing used to move the ship. Captain Cheevers showed Quentin banks of impulse engines located in the aft section. Each engine was an antimatter reactor, fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. A row of seven engines lined the top of the ship. Fourteen stories below them, another row of seven lined the bottom.
“So,” Kate said, “that’s the tour.”
“That’s everything?”
She nodded. “Except for the Ki livestock pens. You want to see those?”
Quentin thought back to last season’s meal with the offensive linemen, to the deer/spider creature that still haunted his nightmares. “No. No, I don’t want to see that. Not one bit.”
He ran his hand along one of the reactors. This was the heart of the Touchback, the engines that carried them anywhere punch drives did not.
“How fast can we go?”
“Why, do you like to go fast?”
Wink-twitch.
“Uh ...” This woman made him very uncomfortable. “No, I just ... you know, if we get into trouble.”
“We can haul ass,” Captain Cheevers said. “This used to be a military vessel. When the need arises we can move quick. But there’s a lot of m
ass in the Touchback, so it takes us some time to hit our maximum velocity.”
“Can we outrun pirates?” Quentin knew the Ki Fangs franchise had been wiped out by an explosion in 2667. Many speculated that was an accident, but plenty of people thought it was pirates. The New Rodina Astronauts had also suffered a disaster when the Purist Nation — Quentin’s own people — had caught the Astros team bus and executed all non-Human players.
“If we hit Vmax, we can outrun just about anything,” Cheevers said. “But until we hit that speed, we’re vulnerable to smaller ships that can close in on us.”
“Like fighters?”
She paused, thinking, then nodded. “Those can be a big problem if they catch you close enough to a planet, but they need a bigger ship to support them. The real pirate problem comes from ships about a quarter the size of the Touchback. They have a low enough mass that they can accelerate fast and make a run, try to knock out the engines of a larger ship before the larger ship can accelerate away.”
Quentin thought back to his physics lessons with Kimberlin. Pirates weren’t that much of a threat these days, but not much of a threat was a far cry from no threat at all. He needed to learn all he could about this. As Michael said, it never hurt to have too much knowledge.
“How big is the Touchback, anyway?”
“He’s two hundred meters long and twenty-eight meters wide.”
“Meters? What’s that in feet?”
Captain Kate laughed and shook her head. “You never learned metric?”
Quentin shrugged. “I sort of know it. I just think of things in football terms, mostly. Yards and feet and inches.”
“A football field is one hundred yards, right?”
“One-twenty,” Quentin said. “Two ten-yard end zones, so one-twenty total.”
“Then think of the Touchback as two football fields, end-to-end. Got it?”