by Scott Sigler
Quentin’s smile faded. Tight end Rick Warburg was not someone Quentin really cared to see. Just like Quentin, Warburg hailed from the Purist Nation. Unlike Quentin, however, Warburg still embraced his racist upbringing, still practiced the religion. Well, that non-team attitude had dropped Warburg to third-string behind George Starcher and Kobayasho. Third-string was where Warburg belonged.
John and Ju Tweedy entered the locker room, already arguing, focusing only on each other but drawing everyone’s attention.
“You’re an idiot,” John said.
“No, you’re an idiot,” Ju said.
“Your face is an idiot,” John said.
Yassoud put both his hands over his heart. “Awwww! Brotherly love, ain’t it beautiful?”
Both the Tweedy boys stopped and glared at Yassoud, who laughed and held up both hands, palms out. “My bad! I don’t want to start any trouble this early in the season.”
“Good,” Ju said. “Just know your place.”
Yassoud’s smile faded. A hush fell over the locker room. “You just better run hard, Ju. This won’t be like last season. I’m out to take as many carries away from you as I can.”
Ju sneered and laughed. “Whatever, scrub. I’m going All-Pro this year, so you bring your best.”
Yassoud’s jaw muscles twitched as he ground his teeth. Even on his best day, Yassoud was nowhere near as talented as Ju Tweedy. Everyone knew it. ‘Soud walked to his locker. The Tweedy brothers did the same. The conversational buzz returned to normal.
Quentin had just started to head out to the field when Rick Warburg and Tom Pareless walked in. Everything went silent — ten Humans stared at someone they barely recognized. Quentin wasn’t even sure if it was Warburg. It had to be someone bigger ... stronger, maybe ... wearing a Warburg mask.
Rick Warburg had played the 2683 Tier One season at about 365 pounds. Six years of football had made Quentin pretty good at knowing a player’s weight from just a quick glance — Warburg now weighed at least 380. And all of those added fifteen pounds were muscle. More than the fifteen pounds, actually, as it appeared he’d lost some fat as well. Warburg looked like a seven-foot-tall, 380-pound bodybuilder.
Pine let out a long whistle. “Anyone seen Coach Hokor? Because I think Warburg ate him.”
“Shuck you, blue-boy,” Warburg said.
“That’s a relief,” Pine said. “For a second there, I thought you were an impostor. But no, you’re the same old Warburg we all know and love.”
A few uncomfortable laughs filtered through the locker room. The men turned back to their preparations. Warburg and Tom Pareless walked over to Quentin.
Tom extended his hand. Quentin shook it.
“Q,” Tom said, “have a good off-season?”
“Solid,” Quentin said. “How about you, old man? How’s the ankle?”
Pareless smiled. At thirty-six, he was the oldest Human on the team. His face showed fine scars. The left side of his jaw seemed a little lower than the right. Fifteen seasons in the league had taken their toll.
“Ankle is all re-habbed,” Tom said. “Looking forward to the season with you, whipper-snapper.”
Tom slapped Quentin’s shoulder, then walked to his locker — leaving Quentin alone with Rick Warburg. Rick offered his hand. Quentin didn’t want to shake it, but if he expected people to overcome their prejudices and play as a team, then he had to do the same. Lead by example. He shook Rick’s hand, feeling the power in the man’s grip.
“Warburg,” Quentin said. “Welcome back.”
“High One praise your travels,” Rick said. It was a friendly phrase from the Purist Nation culture, but there was nothing friendly about the tone. The way Rick said it made it clear he did not like the fact that most of Quentin’s travels were with the sub-races.
“Same to you,” Quentin said.
“I have worked very hard during the off-season.”
Quentin nodded. “I can see that.”
“This is the last year of my contract with the Krakens. It’s my eighth season in football and I’m a free agent at the end of it. I want off this team. I want a new start. I want a big contract.”
“Good luck with that,” Quentin said.
“You’re going to help me.”
“Afraid a big contract and a new team are beyond my control.”
Warburg smiled. “Don’t give me that. I’m in the best shape of my career and not just physically. I’ve been working on my route-running, my catching, my blocking. I’m better than I’ve ever been, better than him,” he said, jerking his thumb at George Starcher, who appeared to be having an in-depth conversation with an orange and black plaid towel.
“Quentin, you are my countryman,” Warburg said. “Maybe you don’t like me, but I will show you I am the best tight end on this team. And when I do, you will throw me the ball.”
Quentin felt his temper rising. “And if I don’t?”
Warburg shrugged. “If I’m the best and you don’t throw me the rock, then it just reveals that all your preaching about team and unity is pure crap. It’ll show that you’re just as much of a bigot as me. Only difference is, I take pride in who I really am. See you on the field.”
Rick turned and walked to his locker. Quentin watched him go, wondering about the tight end’s words. Was Rick right? Did Quentin avoid throwing Rick the ball because of Rick’s racism? And if so, was that wrong?
Quentin shook the thought away. It didn’t really matter — Rick might be bigger, but he was still third on the depth chart and wouldn’t see that much playing time. Despite the fact that George Starcher painted his face and talked to towels, he was poised to be the best tight end in the GFL that season. Ju wasn’t the only Kraken looking at an All-Pro year.
Warburg wouldn’t get the chance to test his claims.
Quentin headed for the field.
• • •
THE FIRST DAY of practice focused on route-running, re-familiarizing the quarterbacks with their receivers. Quentin’s whole body tingled as he looked around the quiet temple that was Ionath Stadium. Empty stands reached to the sky, stands full of blazing-orange seats. Orange, except for the seats that spelled out a hundred-yard-long IONATH on the home side, a hundred-yard-long KRAKENS on the visitor’s.
A light breeze crossed the stadium — either artificially pumped through the city dome or perhaps a natural occurrence from an enclosed space two miles in diameter. The breeze made Quentin look to the twenty-two towering pillars that lined Ionath Stadium, each pillar holding a long, lightly undulating banner from one of the Tier One teams. He saw the blood-red of the To Pirates, the deep purple and white of the Yall Criminals and the red and white of Ionath’s archrival, the Wabash Wolfpack. Other familiar banners lined the stadium — the blue polka-dots on yellow of the Coranadillana Cloud Killers and the gold, silver and copper of the Jupiter Jacks among them.
He also saw two banners that had not been there the year before — the red, white and blue star of the Texas Earthlings and the metalflake-red circle on the flat black banner that belonged to the OS1 Orbiting Death. Those teams had earned promotion during the Tier Two Tournament, fighting their way to Tier One and replacing the relegated franchises of Mars and Chillich.
That was the nature of Tier One; nothing was promised and every game mattered. Even if you had a losing record, you needed to play your asses off to stay in the big-time. At the end of the season, if your team was the worst in your division? Bye-bye. So sad, too bad, you’re dropped down to Tier Two. The system ensured high-quality play throughout the campaign. Even teams with losing records fought like mad to stay off the bottom.
On the blue playing field, players worked in position-specific groups. Near the orange end zone, the offensive line ran through drills.
In the black end zone, John Tweedy led the defense through drills. Human and Quyth Warrior linebackers, Sklorno defensive backs, HeavyG defensive ends and Ki defensive tackles ran through blitz schemes and defensive rotations.
; The Ki. Quentin had once thought of the Ki as nightmares. Well, they were nightmarish, to be sure — thick, twelve-foot-long, tubular bodies bent at the middle, half that length staying parallel to the ground, half rising up to support four muscular, multi-jointed arms and a horrific head. Five equidistant eyes let the Ki see in all directions at once. Below that ring of eyes, the mouth of six, triangular lips that peeled back from six black, triangular teeth. Above the eyes, the species’ unique, dreadlock-like cluster of vocal tubes. Three pairs of legs supported bodies that ranged from just over 500 pounds to just under 700. Skin tones ranged from deep reddish-black to brownish-orange, all of it embedded with enamel dots that made the creatures gleam in the sunlight.
Chirps and squeals drew Quentin’s attention back to the middle of the field. His receivers waited at the 50-yard line. He laughed and shook his head at the exuberant Sklorno. They jumped, shook and even fainted as he approached. While it might be uncomfortable to be thought of as a deity, it was also damn funny to watch the reaction from his “followers.”
Hawick, his number-one receiver; Milford, his number-two who had been a rookie alongside him back in the seemingly distant Tier Two season of 2682; Halawa, third receiver and last year’s rookie standout. Halawa was just a hair bigger than her twin sister — defensive back Wahiawa — which made Halawa the biggest Sklorno on the team. The veterans Mezquitic and Richfield rounded out his receiving corps.
If Gredok signed both Cheboygan and Tara the Freak, where would they fall on the depth chart? Would Cheboygan be able to challenge Mezquitic for the number-four spot? Would Tara? Richfield’s spot was safe because of her kick-return ability, but the addition of two rookies meant the Krakens had seven receivers. Someone would be bumped down to the practice squad or cut from the team altogether. For his receivers, that meant every pass in practice counted. He, Hokor and Don Pine would be watching.
“Ladies,” Quentin said when he reached midfield. “Did you all have a good off-season?”
Hawick shook, but maintained her composure. Halawa started running in circles. Milford hopped in place, each light leap taking her ten feet into the air. “Quentinbarnes the holy one welcome home welcome!”
“Milford,” he said. “Do anything interesting in your time off?”
“Oh yesyes! Stockbridge and I went on a missionary mission to spread the word of the Church of Quentinbarnes!”
Quentin’s smile faded. “You what?”
“Spreading the gospel!” Milford jumped a little bit higher. “Converting the unconverted to the gospel of Quentin Barnes!”
“Didn’t know I had a gospel.” Every time he thought he was comfortable with his holy position, the Sklorno did something to remind him he was not. His starting receiver and backup cornerback were also his missionaries? “And, uh, how many, uh, converts did you get?”
“Three hundred, forty two thousand, one hundred and twelve,” Milford said. She stopped jumping. “Was that not enough? Have I failed you, oh Quentin Barnes?”
“No! No, that’s ... that’s fine.”
Three-hundred thousand converts? To his “church,” something he didn’t acknowledge in any way? It hurt to even think about it. He didn’t want to think about it. Fortunately, he knew one thing that would block out all other thoughts.
“Line up, ladies. Let’s do our favorite, out-patterns to the right.”
The Sklorno receivers squealed with joy, happy to get a few passes in before the tight ends and running backs came out to practice. Quentin grabbed a ball off a rack. He bent in a fake-snap position. He looked to his right, at Hawick, who was first in the line of quivering Sklorno.
“Hut-hut!”
He slapped the ball in his hands to simulate the snap, brought the ball up to his left ear as he dropped back three steps. His eyes followed Hawick as she shot off the line and made her cut. By the time the ball left his hands, Quentin no longer had thoughts of his church, Warburg, Becca or anything else that might distract him.
He thought of nothing but football and his soul swelled with his own form of rapturous joy.
• • •
THE LAST TIME QUENTIN HAD BEEN in this place, he’d still been shaking from a suicide bomb that had ravaged the Krakens’ victory parade. And that day? That day seemed safer than this.
Gredok’s private chamber was on the top floor of the Krakens building. Priceless paintings and sculptures lined the circular walls, each lit up by its own small spotlight, illuminated like the treasures that they were. In front of Quentin, the ten-foot high, white marble pillar that held Gredok the Splithead. Gredok sat in his cushy, black throne, looking down at Quentin and Danny Lundy.
“Gredok, my client has been treated like a serf, a servant, a slave.”
“A slave?” Gredok said. “In what culture do slaves earn one-point-two megacredits a year?”
Quentin stood quietly, watching the drama play out. Both Yitzhak and Pine had told him to keep his mouth shut, to let his agent do the talking. Quentin had never worked with an agent. He had, however, worked with Gredok the Splithead, vicious crime boss, sentient capable of ordering your death, team owner that Quentin had tricked into traveling to OS1 to sign Ju Tweedy. There were few ideas worse than making Gredok angry, yet that seemed to be Danny’s specific goal.
“Slavery takes many forms,” Danny said. “For what you pay your starting quarterback, you might as well make him a chained-up chew toy for a pet fizzle-carp.”
Gredok turned his single, softball-sized eye toward Quentin. “That can be arranged.”
Gredok’s fur fluffed up a bit, but there was something ... fake about it. Quentin couldn’t put his finger on it. His instincts told him that while Gredok was clearly angry, the crime boss was trying to play it up to a more intimidating level.
Had Quentin learned so much about Gredok he could spot when his boss was acting?
“Gredok, don’t talk to my client,” Danny said. “I’m the one doing the negotiating.”
“Negotiating?” Gredok continued to stare at Quentin. “Is that what you call it, Dolphin? Because by your insolent tone, it seems more like you’re looking for a way to wind up on some Sklorno’s dinner plate. I hear Dolphin steaks are quite the prized delicacy.”
“Just stop with the threats, Gredok,” Danny said. “They’re boring. You’ve already dealt with me for John Tweedy’s contract and the contracts of Yitzhak Goldman, Vu-Ko and Bud-O. We worked those out, did we not?”
Gredok’s fur fell flat again. He seemed calmer, more resigned to the process. “You’re right, Dolphin. We’ve negotiated in good faith. So, let me begin. We will triple Quentin’s salary and make a five-year commitment.”
Quentin had a brief second to comprehend the numbers — 3.6 megacredits a season? — but only a brief second, because Danny’s insulting squeal-giggle filled the rounded room and bounced off the priceless works of art.
“Three ... point ... six?” The Dolphin had to choke words out between intense blasts of laughter. His wet, rainbow-colored body shook. “Three? I ... and you ... three? ... and then ...”
Danny’s mechanical legs seemed to give out on him. He fell to his side, shivering, squeals of laughter damn near piercing Quentin’s ear drums.
Gredok’s black fur fluffed. “Dolphin, I am not enjoying your insulting display.”
“And you ...” Danny said. “And then ... three? ... oh, oh ...”
The laughter continued. Gredok’s fur fluffed farther and this time Quentin could see it was no act.
“Barnes,” Gredok said, “this is what you chose as your representation?”
Quentin looked down at the squealing, shivering Dolphin, then back up at Gredok atop his ridiculous white pedestal.
“Uh ...” Quentin said.
Danny’s laughter suddenly died out. His silver legs flexed. He stood. “Quentin, don’t answer that question. Gredok, your offer is pathetic, piteous and puny. We want twenty megacredits a season.”
Quentin stopped breathing.
G
redok leaned forward. “Did you say ... twenty?”
“Twenty. Per season. For five seasons.”
“For five seasons? That’s a hundred million!”
“Oh,” Danny said, as if he’d just remembered a trivial detail, “and fifty million of that guaranteed. Up front.”
Gredok’s eye flooded black. “Fifty up front?”
“Fifty up front,” Danny said. “And performance bonuses. Would you like to repeat that as well?”
Gredok stared, his eye so black it looked like a gemstone, his fur so fluffed he looked bigger than Quentin had ever seen. If Danny’s game was to anger Gredok, then the Dolphin had just scored a blowout victory.
“Ridiculous,” Gredok said. “You’re only trying to highball me because I tried to lowball you.”
“Why, Gredok, I didn’t know,” Danny said. “I assumed your opening offer was a sincere gesture of Ionath’s belief in my client.”
“Your offer would make Quentin Barnes the highest-paid quarterback in the league. Higher than Frank Zimmer. Even higher than Rick Renaud. Zimmer has won championships. Renaud has put teams in the Galaxy Bowl.”
“And Barnes is going to do both,” Danny said.
“He’s done nothing yet, Dolphin.”
“Dragging your team out of Tier Two and keeping them in Tier One for a second season is nothing?”
“Those things are not the same as a playoff victory. Definitely not the same thing as a GFL title.”
“Of course not,” Danny said. “But Barnes is going to give someone playoff victories and a GFL title. If not the Krakens, then another team.”
Danny let the words hang in the air. The room fell to a deathly silence.
Quentin swallowed, so loud he heard the noise echo off the priceless sculptures. Sure, he had thought himself a good manipulator — new to the game, but a student of the process, on his way to rivaling Gredok’s skill. No matter how much Quentin learned about manipulation, however, he now understood he would always be a rank amateur compared to Danny Lundy.