by Scott Sigler
John walked off, LOVE IS IN THE AIR scrolling in a continuous circle around his big neck.
Kimberlin shook his head as he watched John walk away. “This is going to end in a Tweedy brothers argument. Or a fight.”
Quentin nodded, brushed more sauce onto the sizzling chicken. The sauce was Mister Sam’s special recipe — best in the whole damn galaxy. The food was just about ready. “Michael, hand me those buns, will ya? I want to toast them up.”
Kimberlin started pulling the buns out of the box and handing them over, one at a time. “I have to tell you, Quentin, that Don never thought of something this clever.”
Quentin’s smile faded. Leave it to Pine’s old teammate to mention the man Quentin hated more than anything in the galaxy. “Genius Don Pine never thought of cooking for the Ki?”
Michael shook his head. “No. Not even once. He told me that before I came over. He said he was very impressed.”
“And yet, he’s not here.”
Michael shrugged. “He did not feel well, apparently. He said that for all the times he ate — I’m quoting him here — the most disgusting crap one could possibly imagine — end quote — he did it for the team, but he never thought about turning the tables.”
Quentin shrugged as he placed the buns on the cooler areas of the grill. “Yeah, so he never thought of it? So what?”
“He said this is the kind of thing that will make you great.”
“Greatness is cooking burgers?”
“No, smart-ass,” Kimberlin said. “What will make you great is you think about things in ways that others do not. Humans and HeavyG have been eating with Ki teammates for a long time, part of the bonding process. But in all the years I’ve played, I never heard of a Human making Ki eat Human sustenance.”
Quentin gave the burgers one more flip. “Oh, come on. I ate their gross food, now they can eat mine and see what it’s like. This isn’t rocket science.”
“Which is fortuitous, as you are no scientist of rockets.”
Quentin looked up, smiled. “Big Mike, did you just rip on me?”
“It’s Michael. And yes, I did jest at your expense. No, it’s not rocket science, Quentin, but it is a very basic, simple idea that no one else thought of. That kind of insight can’t be taught. You either have it or you do not.”
“You and Don put a lot of importance on some ground-up meat.”
“And you don’t put enough importance on your brain,” Kimberlin said. “Perhaps someday you should think of using your natural abilities for something greater than football.”
Quentin paused. Hadn’t Yitzhak said something similar, back in Danny Lundy’s waiting area? Well, whatever. Kimberlin and Yitzhak could conjure up whatever they wanted, Quentin knew his destiny and would not stray from the path. “Hold those platters for me, it’s time to chow.”
Quentin quickly placed the patties on buns, then set the burgers on the first platter. He made sure to put the biggest one on top. He loaded the second platter with chicken. He set the spatula down and took the heaping platters from Kimberlin. Quentin walked to the stone table, then stopped in his tracks when he saw what was on it.
Becca was placing a huge bowl of what looked like potato salad on the table. The bowl was the last of a dozen neatly placed things including plates of sliced onions and tomatoes, diced pakka-bleffer, bowls of mustard and ketchup.
“Becca, what do you think you’re doing?”
She looked up as if she’d been caught stealing.
“I just ... I thought it was cool you were cooking for everyone. I ran to the galley, had the chefs give me some stuff to make it a real barbecue.”
“You’ve had barbecue? You’re not from the Purist Nation.”
She laughed. It was a beautiful sound. “Quentin, you think your culture invented barbecue?”
“Of course,” Quentin said. “Ranchers on Stewart invented it. Everyone knows this.”
She laughed again. He was partly offended, partly amused.
“I’m from Green Bay, on Earth,” she said. “Trust me, we know what a barbecue is. I just wish I had some bratwurst.”
“Brat what?”
She raised her eyebrows. “It’s a kind of sausage. You’ve never had a brat?”
Quentin thought, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. You mean like a hot dog?”
“Like a hot dog multiplied by eight million pounds of delicious.”
“That’s a lot of delicious.”
“It is,” Becca said. “Maybe I’ll cook you one sometime. As a peace offering.”
He looked at the decked-out stone table. She’d already made a peace offering and this was it. “Thanks, Becca. Thanks for getting all this stuff.”
Her smile faded. Her cheeks flushed red. She looked at the ground, then turned and walked away.
What had he said? The one time he’d tried to be nice to her and she walked away? Girls were weird. Even football girls.
He set the platter on the table. “All right, Krakens, let’s eat!”
The players crowded in. Human hands reached out first, grabbing plates, scooping out potato salad. A big hand snatched the top-most burger. Quentin thought it was John, but when he turned he saw Ju.
“Hey!” screamed John as he ran to the table. “The big burger is mine!”
“Shouldn’t have boogered me,” Ju yelled back, then crammed half the burger into his smiling mouth.
John skidded to a halt, his feet kicking up leaves and twigs. He stared in disbelief at his brother, stared with the intensity of a mother looking at the murderer of her only child.
“But that’s not fair!”
Ju smiled, his mouth full of food. “Ish sho.”
“You’re an idiot!”
“Nof, yerf an i-iot.”
“Boys,” Quentin said. “Take it elsewhere. Time for our hosts to eat.”
The Humans and HeavyG finished loading their plates, then backed away, leaving the Ki room to slowly scuttle up to the table. Their black eyes widened at the site of the bun-covered burgers, much the same way Quentin’s had at the deer/spider thing he’d seen strapped to this very table.
“It’s safe,” Quentin said. He was loving every minute of this. “I checked with Doc Patah. Ki digestion can handle anything a Human can handle, even cooked food. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just protein, my friends, now enjoy!”
The Ki didn’t move.
Quentin picked up a burger and held it out to Sho-Do-Thikit. “Aw, come on, don’t be shy. If you guys don’t eat, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
Quentin kept a straight face, but inside, he was just dying. He watched Shizzle translate the phrase, knowing the translation would insinuate that a refusal to eat would insult Quentin’s honor. Honor was a major deal in the Ki culture — you did not dishonor friends or fellow soldiers and to the Ki, Quentin was both.
Sho-Do took the burger, then hesitantly put the whole thing in his hexagonal mouth. His triangular lips closed. His eyes narrowed. He put a hand on the table, twisted his head. His body made a strange sound like a gong dropped inside a tunnel made of meat.
He almost puked, Quentin thought. That was a Ki gag reflex. Oh my High One, this is AWESOME.
Another noise, then Sho-Do stood straight. He had swallowed it down. “Yull essech shad.”
Quentin looked at Shizzle.
“The Impressive One known as Sho-Do-Thikit says your food was delicious,” Shizzle said. “He is honored that you shared a meal, but now he must go study for the game against Yall Criminals.”
“Reelek shad!” Mum-O-Killowe said, then turned to walk away from the table. Sho-Do’s arm shot out and flicked Mum-O’s vocal tubes, bringing forth a yelp of pain. The elder Ki then pointed an arm at the table. Quentin couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. It was like a hulking, horrifying alien version of a father telling his hulking, alien son to sit down, shut up and eat your Brussels sprouts!
The team watched as Quentin slowly, dramatically held out a burger for
Mum-O.
“Here you go, my friend. Enjoy!”
Mum-O took the burger and stared at it with unblinking, black eyes.
John elbowed Quentin in the shoulder, then leaned in. “You’re a real jerk, Q. I like it.”
Quentin nodded. “Back in the Nation, we believe in an eye for an eye. Best to not cross me, Tweedy.”
John shook his head. “Oh, hell no. After seeing this, I don’t want any part of being on your bad side.”
Mum-O bit into the burger. Quentin knew the young Ki had made a mistake by taking a bite and not eating the whole thing, as Sho-Do had done. Hot juice dribbled out of the torn meat and rolled down Mum-O’s mouth and his hand.
John Tweedy leaned in, gleeful at seeing one of his teammates in harmless misery. “Come on, Mum-O! Eat it down!”
Mum-O’s body made that same dropped-gong noise. He convulsed. The team started to chant Mum-O’s name. Quentin laughed so hard he had to put both hands on the table to keep from falling over.
Ju joined the fray. “Don’t be a baby! Eat it down! Mum-O! Mum-O! Mum-O!”
Mum-O lifted a trembling, burger-holding hand to his mouth. Triangular lips curled back, but triangular black teeth stayed locked tight.
John pumped his fist and screamed so loud that his neck veins bulged. “Come on! Pretend it’s Rick Renaud. Eat him up, eat him up, rah-rah-rah!”
Mum-O’s teeth started to open, then clacked shut. The meatgong sound again ripped through his body. He dropped the burger, lowered his head to the ground and threw up.
The Krakens cheered and made noises and laughed in disgust. Some walked away, shaking their heads and waving hands in front of their face. The smell.
Despite the vile scene, Quentin could contain himself no longer. Laughter took his stomach hostage. His legs failed him. He fell to the plant-covered ground and just shook.
Revenge, it seemed, was a dish best served barbecued.
Report from the Creterakian Ministry of Religion (CMR)
The Church of Quentin Barnes
An alarming situation has come to the attention of the CMR. Two years ago, the Church of Quentin Barnes (CoQB) was a small, provincial religious factor located only on Planet Yall. The first estimation of church membership numbered somewhere between 100 and 200 individuals, mostly female.
In the past two years, however, the CoQB has undergone explosive growth. At this time, the CMR’s best estimate is that the CoQB has 500,000 followers, with dioceses on all five Sklorno planets.
Granted, that number is significantly lower than other key sports-related churches. The Ministry of Pete Poughkeepsie, for example, has an estimated 2.1 million, while the Church of Don Pine has more than 5 million followers.
However, it is not the total followers that we find alarming at this point; rather it is the rate of growth. The Church of Don Pine is 13 to 14 years old. Pine did not exceed a million followers until 2675 when he won a Galaxy Bowl with the Jupiter Jacks. By way of comparison, when the Church of Don Pine was five years old, it had 500,000 followers. The CoQB has achieved that same number in just over two full seasons.
It is the recommendation of the CMR that additional resources be placed on measuring and monitoring the CoQB. At current growth rates and depending on the success of the Ionath Krakens (Quentin Barnes’ team in the Galactic Football League), it is possible that by the 2686 season, the church will have a membership ranging anywhere from 10 to 50 million followers.
As is well documented, any non-governmental individual capable of generating more than 15 million followers is considered a potential threat to the Creterakian Empire. The CMR is formally requesting help from the EBSI as well as the Non-Creterakian Intelligence Agency (NCIA).
We feel strongly that only NCIA operatives can properly track the political ideology, beliefs and potential threat level of Quentin Barnes.
• • •
THIS TIME QUENTIN DECIDED he would tough it out on the observation deck. Flying still scared the hell out of him. He managed travel within punch-space just fine, but the punch-in and the punch-out still twisted his stomach into knots and tried to wring out whatever food or drink he’d taken in.
He stood at the observation deck’s floor-to-ceiling crysteel windows, his hands locked on the brass rail. It was coming, the shimmer, the half-here, half-not-here sensation. All the team’s Sklorno players were packed into the window on his left and the window on his right. Halawa, Wahiawa and Milford had all been born on Yall. They were already jumping with anticipation. As soon as the planet came into view, raspers would roll out and flying spit would cover the windows. Quentin had used his demigod status to request a window all to himself. Hey, if you can’t use holy powers to avoid Sklorno slobber, what could you use them for?
“Hey! Killer-Q!”
Quentin looked over his shoulder — Ju and John, walking onto the observation deck.
“Now’s not a good time,” Quentin said.
John held up a metal bucket. Gold paint reflected the observation deck lights. Something lined the top — a plastic trash bag. A purple and white Yall Criminals sticker clung to the outside, showing that team’s logo of a running Sklorno with a convict’s ball and chain trailing behind.
John waggled the bucket. “We got you a present!”
“It’s a golden puke bucket,” Ju said. “Since you’re facing your fears and all up here with the rest of us.”
BE A BRAVE LITTLE CAMPER scrolled across John’s forehead.
“Uh, guys, this isn’t funny.”
“It is to us,” John said. “Like, super-mega-awesome funny. We’re gonna watch you puke.”
Quentin started to talk, then he saw John blur and shimmer. Quentin shut his eyes, but it was too late — he’d seen it. He felt his body separate, split, felt himself in two places at once. At least two, maybe more like ten or twenty.
Thanks to the Tweedy brothers’ little joke, Quentin hadn’t had time for his mantra of everything is going to be okay.
And then it was over. He was still there, safe, like he always was.
And he threw up, like he always did.
Quentin grabbed the golden bucket as his stomach rebelled. A seasoned veteran of his body’s response to flight, he knew enough to eat small meals during the last few hours of a punch. If he ate too much, it all came up. If he didn’t eat anything, dry heaves would have him doubled over for at least ten minutes. What little he had eaten hit the plastic bag inside the bucket.
Quentin set the bucket on the deck, then looked at it for a second. He bent and lifted the bag. It had a drawstring in it, which he pulled tight. His lost lunch, all sealed up in plastic. Nice and neat. How about that? Maybe the Tweedy boys were having fun at his expense, but this simple process would let him stay on the observation deck with the rest of the team.
Still holding the bag, he looked out at the planet Yall. What little area that wasn’t covered by the black tendrils of civilization gleamed a burnished blue. A little bigger than Ionath. Directly below them: Virilliville. The largest city in the Sklorno Dynasty, although as on most Sklorno worlds, it was impossible to tell where one city stopped and another started.
Virilliville. Home of the 2684 Galaxy Bowl. Would the Krakens play here again sixteen weeks from now? Would they make it through the playoffs and line up for a shot at glory?
[FIRST SHUTTLE FLIGHT PASSENGERS TO THE LANDING BAY.]
“Come on, Q,” John said. “Let’s go. Monday Night Football, man, can you believe it? The entire galaxy will be watching us.”
Quentin nodded. He carried his trash bag to a refuse chute, then followed John out of the observation deck toward the landing bay.
• • •
QUENTIN STOOD IN THE TUNNEL of the stadium called The Tomb of Virilli. From out on the field, he heard the crowd’s intensity bubbling, simmering, waiting to boil over. That crowd would get a show tonight, that was for sure.
From the shuttle, he’d watched the approach to Virilliville, but not with the wide-eyed wonder
of seasons past. Towering buildings painted white and purple, multilayered roads, clouds of pink smoke and sentients packed in with unthinkable density. Another time, perhaps he’d gawk and stare and take it all in. This time out, however, he couldn’t draw his mind away from game prep, from visualizing what he would do on the field.
Monday Night Football.
An entire galaxy watching.
A showdown with Rick Renaud, the best quarterback in football.
Second-best. Quentin would show them all.
The winner of this game moved to 2-0. An early-season test. If the Krakens won this, then there was no longer any question — they were for real.
The announcer’s echoing voice called the Krakens to the field, first in a chittering screech that made no sense whatsoever, then in English.
Quentin ran out of the tunnel to the sounds of hatred. Humanlike boos filled the air, a concentration of derision he hadn’t heard since away games back in his PNFL days. The Sklorno not only learned English to be closer to the origins of football, they learned the other associated Human noises as well.
He reactively ducked when something hit his helmet, slapped against his shoulder pads, bounced off his back. He raised a forearm above his helmet to protect his eyes as ran for the sidelines. There, a clear, curved awning covered the Krakens bench. He ran under it, noticing that the awning looked makeshift, like someone had figured out how to put it up only hours before.
The sound of a wet rain slapped against the clear material. He saw wet things sliding down the other side, leaving streaks of slime in their wake. Rotten vegetables, pieces of spoiled meat, other things he didn’t recognize and didn’t really want to recognize.
Garbage.
The crowd had hurled garbage at him.
The other Krakens arrived around him. There was no joyous, unifying sideline huddle this time — they all sought shelter under the awning. He saw Michael Kimberlin, wiping bits of splatter from his arms.
“Michael, what the hell? Why are they throwing garbage at us?”
“At you, mostly,” he said. “You and Ju Tweedy. The rest of us are caught in the crossfire.”