by Scott Sigler
“Let me guess,” Quentin said. “You got all crazy and mixed white milk with chocolate milk? You are such a wild thing, Mike.”
Kimberlin smiled, but there was little humor in it.
“Unfortunately, it was more severe than that. The details are not a story to be told now, not when we must focus on the coming season.”
“Crazier than mixing milk? Did you stay up past midnight or something?”
Kimberlin stared off into the distance. “I am no stranger to death on the football field.”
Quentin hadn’t expected that. He instantly felt bad for poking fun, for unknowingly making light of something that serious.
Kimberlin closed his eyes for a second, seemed to gather his thoughts, then opened them again. He stared at Quentin in a calculating, emotionless manner. From whistle to whistle, Michael Kimberlin was a scary piece of work. Any time other than that, however, he seemed to have all the passion of a broom.
“My irresponsible actions resulted in uncorrectable consequences,” he said. “What I have done ... one cannot take back.”
Quentin wondered what could be so bad that Kimberlin wanted to push it down, hide it somewhere inside. Had he killed another player?
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push,” Quentin said. “But sentients die on the football field, Mike. It’s the life we have chosen. I don’t see what that has to do with you not wearing a ring that you earned.”
“It wasn’t during a game,” Kimberlin said. “And it was my own teammate.”
“It happened in practice?”
Michael shook his head. “No. Not in practice. Off the field.”
Off the field. Michael Kimberlin had killed his own teammate, another member of the Jupiter Jacks. Whatever the cause of that action, Kimberlin bore the responsibility.
“That incident changed me,” Kimberlin said. “It taught me that one needs to think things through. One needs to see the big picture. One needs knowledge. I am with a new team now. I want to earn a championship and wear that ring. It is the focal point of my existence.”
“I thought you said there’s more to life than football.”
Kimberlin nodded, then smiled — and this time, there was a bit of humor in the expression. “There is more to life than football. Just not much more.”
JANUARY 17, 2684
QUENTIN SAT ON THE BENCH in front of his locker, slowly fastening his shoes. The rest of the team had already headed out to the field for Media Day. Only Don Pine remained behind, waiting for Quentin to finish getting ready. Both men wore their black home jerseys: the word KRAKENS and their numbers in white-trimmed orange, the Krakens logo on both shoulders, white-trimmed orange numbers on the sleeves. No armor, no pads, just the jerseys.
Messal the Efficient entered the Human locker room. He spotted the two quarterbacks and walked straight for them.
“He looks agitated,” Quentin said.
“He does,” Don Pine said. “Can you blame him? We might be a whole thirty seconds behind schedule.”
Messal stopped in front them, shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Elder Barnes, Mister Pine, I must not have properly communicated the schedule to you, for which I apologize immensely. I do hate to disturb your conversation, but the media is out on the field. The rest of the team is already present and the reporters are awaiting Ionath’s star quarterbacks.”
Quentin sighed and looked away. “Sorry, Messal, I don’t feel like attending Media Day.”
Messal’s eye turned crimson — one of the fear colors. He started to shake. “But ... Elder Barnes, we are due on the field! If we don’t— “
“Messal,” Don said. “He’s just messing with you. We’re ready to go.”
Messal’s eye color shifted to green. “Messing with me?”
Quentin stood and gently slapped Messal on his middle shoulder. “Yeah, just giving you a hard time. Don’t have a heart attack, okay?” Quentin reached into his locker and grabbed a slip of paper. “Messal, you can get whatever the players need, right?”
Messal’s eye went clear, but he again started hopping from foot to foot. “Yes, Elder Barnes, within reason. Some of Mister Tweedy’s requests have been well, unreasonable.”
“I can imagine.” Quentin handed the Quyth Worker the slip of paper. “Here you go. I need you to get these things for me.”
Don leaned in to read it. “What you got goin’ on there, Q?”
“Nothing but a little courtesy, Purist Nation style,” Quentin said. “The Ki were kind enough to invite me to dinner. I’m returning the favor.”
Messal opened the slip of paper and read. “This request is most unusual, Elder Barnes. But I will do my best.”
“When do you think you can have all that?”
“If I can find what you’re looking for, I imagine it will arrive before we leave for Yall in Week Two.”
Quentin nodded. “That’ll work. Now can we go? I mean, come on, Messal, I want to stay on schedule and you’re making us late.”
Messal stared for another second, then turned and walked out of the locker room. Quentin and Don followed.
“Q, that’s not very nice,” Don said. “Messal takes these things pretty serious.”
“Gee, Don, ya think? Come on, the little guy needs to lighten up a bit.”
The three walked down the tunnel of Ionath Stadium, heading for the field. A year ago, Media Day had filled Quentin with dread. This season he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, but he was resigned to the process, prepared for it. As team leader, this was part of his responsibilities.
“Need any more coaching, Q?” Don asked. “Any tips?”
Quentin shrugged. “I’m guessing it’s the same as last year. No locker-room fodder for the other teams, don’t say anything bad about my teammates or the organization, stuff like that.”
“Well, it will be different this year,” Don said. “Now we have The Mad Ju on the roster. Your teammate is the prime suspect in a murder investigation.”
“What should I say?”
“Say no comment,” Don said. “Or something to the effect of, the league is handling that, I only know Ju as a football player and he’s excellent. That sort of thing.”
“Okay.”
“They do not need to know that you snagged him out from under the OS1 police in the middle of a gangland shootout. Got it?”
Quentin nodded.
“Good. Oh and don’t say that we’ll win eight games and go to the playoffs.”
“But we will win eight games,” Quentin said. “And we are going to the playoffs.”
Don stopped at the tunnel entrance. He looked out at the middle of the field, where hundreds of reporters of all species flocked around the various Krakens players. He sighed. “Q, you exhaust me.”
“I’m kidding, Don. I know the media game now.”
“Oh, you do? Really?”
“Well, I know it better than I did last year.”
“That ain’t saying much.”
“Come on, you know I’m better. I’ve learned a lot. I’m still learning.”
Don absently tugged at the white-lined, orange number “8” on his black jersey. “Yeah, you’re learning. And fast. I’ve never seen the like of it, really.” His voice sounded distant, maybe a combination of wistfulness and annoyance. “If you’re ready, let’s do this.”
Quentin looked at the older man. “What, we’re going out there together? Last year, you went out first. You said going out together would fuel a quarterback controversy.”
“Controversy is over,” Don said. “You’re the starter. Everyone knows it. That makes me yesterday’s news. That makes me ... old.”
Quentin didn’t know what to say. Don Pine, old? And yet, Quentin had repeatedly called him old man. But that was a general term, an off-hand comment meant to be either an insult or a friendly jibe. Don wasn’t really old, was he? For the first time, Quentin noticed the lines at the corners of Don’s eyes. Noticed the wrinkles at the corners of his mout
h. Noticed how the skin on the left side of his jaw sagged a little from when he’d had reconstructive surgery. Noticed the scar on his temple, the one he’d never had surgically repaired.
Quentin felt like he should say something to end the awkward pause, but he didn’t have any words. Don stepped onto the field and started walking toward the media. Quentin remembered John’s words when the rookies had arrived — you’re not the youngest anymore.
Would Quentin someday end up like Don, watching a younger quarterback take the field? That felt like an impossibility, something he’d never considered and yet there was no way around it. The only way it wouldn’t happen was if he retired as a starter or suffered a career-ending injury. Or, if he died on the field. If those things didn’t happen? Someday, just like his hero Don Pine, Quentin would lose the starting job he’d fought so hard to obtain.
And when that happened, Quentin would be the same as every player who’d ever set foot on the field before him. He stared blankly as the weight of inevitability hit home — this would not last forever.
He shook his head, then jogged to catch up to Don. It was a lot to think about, to know that his time was limited, but before it ran out he had much to do.
There were at least eight games to win.
There was a trip to the playoffs.
And, of course, at the end of it all, there was a championship trophy waiting to be lifted high.
The only variable was time.
• • •
QUENTIN STOOD TALL in the pocket, ready to take the hits and deliver. Only this time the pocket wasn’t his wall of vicious Ki linemen, it was a semi-circle of microphones and cameras pointed at his face, held by a semi-circle of reporters from all over the galaxy.
“Quentin! Quentin!”
The shouts of the many-headed monster known as The Media.
Messal the Efficient pointed to a Leekee, signifying that that reporter could ask the next question.
“Quentin!” shouted a waist-high, streamlined Leekee. “Kelp Bringer from the Leekee Galaxy Times.”
“Ah, Kelp Bringer,” Quentin said. “My favorite name of all time.”
Kelp Bringer let out a sound that resembled a stick breaking, a stick wrapped in a pound of raw meat. The noise would have made Quentin step back, but his exobiology studies with Kimberlin had prepared him — that was the sound of Leekee laughter.
Kelp Bringer’s thin face twisted in what had to be the Leekee equivalent of a smile. “You remembered!”
Quentin nodded. Last year’s press conference had ended awkwardly, with Quentin unknowingly insulting Kelp Bringer’s spindly symbiotes.
“Sure,” Quentin said. “Your question?”
“Last year, in your first game as the starting quarterback, the Isis Ice Storm humiliated the Krakens by a score of 51-7. The only saving grace was that you played at Isis, away from your home fans. This year, Ionath hosts the Ice Storm. How do you think you’ll handle the embarrassment in front of a hundred and eighty-five thousand Krakens faithful?”
Quentin ground his teeth. Right off the bat and the reporters were trying to bait him into a sound bite.
“The Ice Storm is a quality team,” Quentin said. “We expect a good game. We’re better than we were last year. We will play hard and execute.”
“So you’re predicting a win?” Kelp Bringer asked. “You’re going on record that the Krakens will beat the Ice Storm by three touchdowns? Or is it four?”
Quentin laughed and shook his head. He wasn’t going to fall for the same tricks anymore. “Next question.”
“Quentin! Quentin!”
Messal pointed to a Creterakian fluttering around the heads of the other reporters. The bat wore a bright red bodysuit lit up with flashing yellow lights. Creterakian “fashion” — who could understand it?
“Quentin,” the bat said, “Kinizzle, Creterakian Information Service. Are you going to hold some players in reserve against strong teams like the Ice Storm, so that you can keep them rested and uninjured for games against weaker teams?”
“What? Why in the Void would we do that?”
“So you can win two or three games and hopefully avoid relegation, of course.”
Stay calm. Stay focused. Quentin rolled his head from the left to the right, feeling his neck bones pop.
“We play to win,” he said. “We don’t play to not lose. We are out to win every game.”
Kinizzle fluttered in a circle as he talked, nasty wings flapping madly. “But you were almost relegated last year. Your best chance is to finish higher than the newly promoted team, which is the Orbiting Death, but the experts are saying the Death is already a better team than the Krakens.”
“Our goal is the playoffs,” Quentin snapped. “Let the Orbiting Death worry about relegation. We’re going out there to win every game.”
He finished his sentence and waited for the chorus of Quentin! Quentin! but there was a brief pause as every reporter bent to their messageboards or made some kind of verbal note on their recorders. While short, the silence made him recount his words. What had he said? Was that locker-room material? No, no he’d just reacted normally to a question.
Hadn’t he?
He didn’t have time to think about it as the multi-headed monster once again started screaming his name. Messal pointed to reporters. Quentin focused his attention on answering the questions.
Then, Quentin noticed a few of the reporters looking at their messageboards. Not writing, but reading. Suddenly, it was like a fast-moving virus spreading through every cell of the multi-headed monster. The questions simply stopped. Quentin looked at the reporters. He waited. Was he finished?
The reporters’ strange behavior seemed to make Messal nervous. The Quyth Worker held his pedipalp hand palm-up, tapped the floating icons that appeared.
A Human reporter with bone-white skin looked up, waved his messageboard. “Quentin! Quentin! Harold Moloronik from Grinkas NewsNet. Do you have any reaction to Yolanda Davenport’s cover story?”
Quentin’s stomach twirled. His heart hammered. The cover story? The cover of Galaxy Sports Magazine? He had truly arrived — Quentin Barnes was a star.
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“Quentin!” His name screamed again, but this time by Messal. “Elder Barnes, we need to go.”
“But Messal, I—”
“Now, Elder Barnes.”
The reporters screamed his name. They closed in, the phalanx of cameras and microphones pressing closer to his face.
“Messal,” Quentin said. “What’s going on?”
“Thank you all for your time,” Messal shouted at the mob. “Elder Barnes is now finished with questions.”
That comment brought a roar of anger from the multi-headed monster. The reporters rushed in, forcing Quentin to calmly start pushing them away.
“Illegal communication!” Kelp Bringer said. “Quentin, is it true that you threw games so you could play for the To Pirates?”
Harold Moloronik jumped onto the back of another reporter, shoved his microphone forward until it smashed Quentin’s lower lip. “Quentin, what about aiding and abetting a murderer? Is it true you snagged Ju Tweedy away from the OS1 police?”
Quentin’s mind fired blanks. What was going on? Where was all this coming from?
Questions flew, but a surprisingly strong little pedipalp hand yanked at his right wrist. With the reporters screaming after him, Quentin let Messal the Efficient lead him back to the tunnel. Orange-and black-clad stadium security guards stopped the reporters from entering. Messal kept pulling until Quentin was in the central locker room.
“Messal, what’s going on? Why were they asking all those questions?”
Messal’s eye flooded black. Quentin had never seen the Worker angry before. Messal offered his messageboard. Quentin took it.
Galaxy Sports Magazine. He was on the cover after all, an action shot of him scrambling against the Jupiter Jacks. But the excellent photo wasn’t what drew his eye. Instead, he
stared at the words below the photo:
SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN THE GFL
And below that:
IS QUENTIN BARNES THE FACE OF WHAT’S WRONG WITH FOOTBALL?
Quentin slowly sat on the bench in front of his locker, then started to read.
* * *
From Galaxy Sports Magazine
* * *
SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN THE GFL
Is Quentin Barnes the face of what’s wrong with football?
* * *
by YOLANDA DAVENPORT
* * *
In ancient times, the time even before spaceflight, there was a Human author named William Shakespeare. A thousand years after his death, his works are still known and revered.
One of his most famous lines was “something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
It isn’t important to know what a “state of Denmark” is — the term “rotten” is what matters. You know what that means. It means unsavory, disturbing ... wrong. Why is that word important?
Because something is rotten in the GFL.
Something that appears to revolve around the Ionath Krakens franchise. More specifically, it revolves around quarterback Quentin Barnes.
Yes, Quentin Barnes, the feel-good story of the past two years. The 20-year-old quarterback prodigy that electrified football fans everywhere with his tough-as-nails approach. The young Human from the Purist Nation who seems to have overcome his culture’s racist and speciest beliefs, who assumed the mantle of leadership for one of the league’s most storied franchises.
The player who carried the Krakens to Tier One with his talent, Then kept them there by force of will alone.
That Quentin Barnes.
So what could be wrong with this feel-good story?
How about aiding and abetting a fugitive in a murder investigation?
How about abusing the GFL’s diplomatic immunity power to shelter a murder suspect from the law?
How about illegal contract negotiations with a franchise other than the Ionath Krakens?