by Scott Sigler
“This is special,” Cillian said. “My whole life, I never had anything like this. Is it like this on other teams?”
Quentin paused as John bent and jumped into the air, aiming for his brother’s shoulders. John misjudged the ceiling height and hit his head on a light fixture, breaking it, sending out a wave of sparks, but Ju adjusted with that insane athleticism that only he possessed, moving so that his brother’s thighs landed on his shoulders. John shook his head once to clear it, splattering blood from the fresh cuts, then smiled and started screaming.
“Undefeated and now de-cleated!”
“Undefeated and now de-CLEATED!”
Ju slipped. The Tweedy brothers fell face-first to the floor. The Sklorno misunderstood what was happening and dove on top of the brothers as if it were a touchdown celebration. Then Michael Kimberlin joined in — the singing degenerated into a huge pileup of laughing, shouting Krakens sentients acting more like children than grown adults.
“I don’t know, Dad,” Quentin said. “The Raiders weren’t like this. I don’t know if other Tier One teams are.”
Cillian nodded. “Huh. Well, hopefully, you never have to find out that they aren’t.”
Quentin laughed as he watched more Krakens jump on the Tweedy pile. Hokor came in and started screaming for the players to knock it the hell off and to stop playing grab-ass. They largely ignored him. Someone, probably John, grabbed a large drink cooler and up-ended it over Hokor. The team screamed and laughed as the coach’s fur clung to his skin, making him look thirty pounds lighter.
“Tweedy!” Hokor screamed. “That’s one hundred laps!”
“Worth it!” John screamed back, then picked up the coach and set him on his shoulders. Hokor demanded to be put down. John ignored him and started running laps around the small locker room.
Quentin felt a tap on his shoulder. Cillian, quietly trying to get his attention.
“Yeah, Dad?”
Cillian pointed to the other side of the room. “Who is that?”
Quentin hadn’t noticed before, but Crazy George Starcher was standing there, alone. Despite the energy, the action and the laughter, George looked isolated, almost as if a three-foot force field surrounded him, kept the others away.
“George Starcher,” Quentin said. “Tight end.”
“He didn’t play much tonight, did he?”
Quentin shook his head. “No. He’s in my dog house.”
“Like Warburg is?”
“No, different. Warburg is an ass. George could be great, could be an All-Pro, but he’s playing really bad.”
Cillian stared, then snapped his fingers. “Wait, I recognize him now. I read an article on him a few years ago in Galaxy Sports Magazine.”
“I thought you said you’re not a sports fan.”
“I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t, but they were going to make a movie about him.”
“A movie? About Starcher? What kind of movie?”
“He’s been kicked off a bunch of teams, right?”
Quentin nodded. “Yeah. He seems to play well for the first season he’s with a team, then things just go bad or something.” Quentin remembered how fantastic George had been last year. He also remembered Don Pine’s warning — don’t sign him, you’ll regret it. And, as usual, Pine was right — Quentin did regret it.
George, sitting there all alone, talking quietly to his towel. Then Quentin noticed two things. Tara the Freak was only a few feet from George. Standing alone, as Tara always did, but also watching George. What was that about? And George himself — Quentin looked back and forth between Cillian and the tight end.
“Hey, Dad. You look a little like George, you know that?”
Cillian shook his head. “Naw, not at all. Why isn’t anyone talking to him?”
Quentin shrugged. “The guys can’t stand him. He’s all ... weird. They don’t call him Crazy George for nothing.”
“So he’s mentally ill?”
Quentin started to speak, then stopped. He’d never thought of it in that light before. Was George ill? “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe.”
“Is he getting help?”
Another stunner of a question. No, George wasn’t getting help. George was being shunned. No one wanted to deal with him. No one except Tara the Freak, it seemed.
“Quentin, maybe you should talk to him.”
“I think George is having a nice conversation with his towel, Dad. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”
“Son,” Cillian said, his tone more firm, “I will not tell you what to do, but you need to listen to me on this. Someone needs to help that man. Think of all the happiness in this room and how none of it involves him. How would that make you feel?”
Quentin looked around. He recalled his days with the Raiders, when the team would celebrate their wins — celebrate with each other, but not with their orphan quarterback.
“Pretty bad,” Quentin said. “I would feel pretty bad.”
“And you’re a smart, healthy kid,” Cillian said. “If George has issues, things like this can make it far worse. Can you talk to him?”
Quentin watched George. The man had always seemed ... eccentric. But it wasn’t eccentricity. It was something else, something dangerous.
“Okay, Dad,” Quentin said. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Good. That’s good. Now, you get yourself cleaned up. The stadium has a VIP area for players’ spouses, celebrities and things like that. I took Somalia there after the game. She’s waiting for you.”
Somalia. In all the excitement, the celebration, Quentin had forgotten she’d come out to watch the game.
“Son, that girl is something else,” Cillian said. “She’s not as pretty as your mother was. But then again, you mother didn’t have a spiked mohawk.”
His father approved? “Dad, she’s ... you know, she’s ...”
Cillian smiled. “Not from the Purist Nation?”
“No, I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Quentin. I don’t care what color her skin is, as long as she makes you happy. You should take her a present. Women love that kind of thing.”
“I don’t exactly have time to go shopping.”
Cillian pointed to the game ball. “You could give her that.”
Quentin looked at it. The brown leather, scratched and stained with flecks of blood. The shiny GFL logo embossed into the side. That would make a great present.
“Good idea, Dad. I’ll do that.”
Cillian slapped him on the shoulder. “Okay, it’s time for me to earn my paycheck. I’m proud of you.”
Cillian started picking up gear, jerseys and trash, hustling to move things to their proper bins. He was picking up what the players tossed away, yet he didn’t show an ounce of shame.
Why should he? It was his job and it contributed to the team’s success.
That was the kind of man you could be proud to call father.
Quentin felt eyes upon him. He looked up — Becca was staring at him. Staring with hurt eyes, angry eyes. She was close enough to have heard the whole conversation. She looked at the game ball, then at his face, then she shook her head with disgust. She turned and walked into the HeavyG locker room.
Was she mad he was giving a game ball to Somalia? Why?
Women. No figuring them, even the ones on your team.
Quentin walked to the Human locker room. He had to stop and let John rush past — a vociferously protesting and soaking wet Coach Hokor still on his shoulders — then headed for his locker to start cleaning up.
GFL WEEK NINE ROUNDUP
Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network
THERE ARE ONLY four games left in the 2684 season and the playoff picture is still very much up in the air, thanks to Ionath’s 28-24 upset over the formerly undefeated Wabash Wolfpack (7-1). The Krakens (6-2) silenced the critics that said they hadn’t defeated a quality team since Week One and also moved into a tie for third place in the Planet Division. Ionath quarterback Quentin Barnes started the game on fire,
going 10-for-14 with 182 yards passing. His biggest pass of the day was an 82-yard touchdown strike to second-year receiver Halawa. This is also the second year in a row in which the Krakens beat the defending Galaxy Bowl champions.
The Wolfpack’s loss allowed the To Pirates (7-1) to jump back into a first-place Planet Division tie. To’s 31-25 win over the Bord Brigands (3-5) sets up a critical Week Ten match up as the Pirates head to Ionath.
Themala (5-3), Yall (6-2) and Isis (6-2) all won this week to remain in the Planet Division playoff hunt.
In the Solar Division, wins by Neptune (7-1) and Jupiter (7-1) moved those teams to within one victory of locking up playoff berths. Based on the records of the other Solar Division teams, eight wins will guarantee either team a postseason appearance.
Vik’s surprising mid-season run continued as the Vanguard (5-3) notched a 13-6 win over the Sala Intrigue (1-7). With the score tied at 6-6 late in the fourth quarter, Vik linebacker Mur the Mighty picked off a Jason Harris pass and ran it in for the winning touchdown. At 5-3, Vik sits in third place in the Solar Division and controls its own destiny.
Deaths
No deaths reported this week.
Offensive Player of the Week
To quarterback Frank Zimmer, who completed 33 of 41 passes for 328 yards and three touchdowns in the Pirates’ come-from-behind win over the Bord Brigands.
Defensive Player of the Week
Ionath Krakens defensive end Ibrahim Khomeni, who had three sacks and three solo tackles in Ionath’s 28-24 win over the previously undefeated Wabash Wolfpack.
20
WEEK TEN:
TO PIRATES
at IONATH KRAKENS
PLANET DIVISION
7-1 Wabash Wolfpack
7-1 To Pirates
6-2 Ionath Krakens
6-2 Isis Ice Storm
6-2 Yall Criminals
5-3 Themala Dreadnaughts
3-5 Coranadillana Cloud Killers
3-5 OS1 Orbiting Death
2-6 Alimum Armada
2-6 Hittoni Hullwalkers
0-8 Lu Juggernauts
SOLAR DIVISION
7-1 Neptune Scarlet Fliers
7-1 Jupiter Jacks
5-3 Vik Vanguard
4-4 Bartel Water Bugs
3-5 Bord Brigands
3-5 D’Kow War Dogs
3-5 New Rodina Astronauts
3-5 Shorah Warlords
3-5 Texas Earthlings
2-6 Jang Atom Smashers
1-7 Sala Intrigue
THE GRAV-CAB SLOWED, then pulled to the side of Spoke Road 8. In the back, a one-eyed Quyth Worker’s face flared to life on a small, static-speckled holotank mounted behind the driver’s seat.
“That will be thirty credits,” he said.
Choto the Bright leaned forward. “We are not there yet. You need to drive through the next ring-road.”
“No,” the driver said. “You need to walk through the next ring-road. This is as far as I go.”
Quentin could understand why. Outside the cab’s windows, he saw the signs of abject poverty, of crime, of danger. The place was much safer than Micovi, to be sure, but there was no denying this was in the bad part of Ionath City.
Choto pressed a pedipalp finger to the screen to pay. “Driver, you will stay here. We have a dinner scheduled with Gredok the Splithead. Do you know who Gredok the Splithead is?”
The Worker started to visibly shake. “Yes, I know who he is.”
“Then you will wait for us,” Choto said. “If you leave us here, Gredok would not be happy with you.”
The Worker said something in the Quyth language. Quentin didn’t know the words, but didn’t have to to understand the meaning — the cabbie would wait in this very spot for a decade, if need be.
A tap on his shoulder. Choto the Bright, his eye swirling with a darker green — stress, anxiety.
“Quentin, are you sure you need to go here? Can’t you make George Starcher come to your place?”
“I tried,” Quentin said. “He won’t answer any calls. At practice, he just won’t talk. I have to see him here.”
“Why? If he won’t talk, he won’t talk.”
“I think he might be in trouble.”
“Really? From who? Gredok will smash anyone that threatens his players.”
“Not from someone else,” Quentin said. “George might be trouble from himself.”
Choto leaned back, his eye cleared. “I see. Well, if that is what George wants, then that is what George wants.”
“He doesn’t want it, Choto. I think he might not be able to help it.”
“Ludicrous,” Choto said. “In life, Quentin, you get what you want. If this is the life George Starcher leads, then that is how he wants it. Life is choice.”
“Maybe he’s not able to make the right choice.”
“Then let him go,” Choto said. “His job is to block and catch passes, yet he fails at both. We have no need for him. Certainly no need that merits placing you in danger. This part of town is for the detritus of our society, those that no one wants. Those that will not fight to make a better life for themselves. Tara the Freak lives around here. Need I say more?”
Quentin felt his temper rising. Was it Choto’s personal belief that you didn’t help those that needed it? Or maybe that was prevalent throughout Quyth culture. Probably the latter, considering how the rest of the team had treated Tara.
“Choto, I’m going to George’s apartment. If you don’t want to come with, then leave.”
“And if you are hurt and I have to face Gredok’s wrath? I would be better off being shot in the eye and dying here. I will go with you. But if you insist on going, I want you to take this.”
Choto reached into his gray pants. He pulled out an object and offered it to Quentin.
Quentin stared at it in disbelief. “Is that a gun?”
“No, it’s a piece of delicious candy packaged in a pistol shape. Yes, it is a gun.”
“But those are illegal.”
“As is organized crime, which would never happen in Ionath City.”
Quentin looked up. “When did you become a sarcastic smartass?”
“This isn’t sarcasm, it’s annoyance,” Choto said. “Now take it.”
Quentin shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Look at what you are wearing. You look like a very rich sentient.”
Quentin wore a perfectly tailored suit, a pearlescent white shirt and glossy shoes. His hands lifted to his head, feeling his perfectly done hair. He’d dressed up. His father would be at this dinner, as would Ju and John. A celebration of the long-awaited win over Gredok’s archrival. All decked out, Quentin would look like a fat target for mugging despite his huge size.
“Quentin, this weapon is almost harmless,” Choto said. “It is a deterrent, a scare factor. Since there are so few weapons under the Dome, just showing it will make most sentients back off. It is undetectable by most of the city’s scanners. Even if you do get caught, you’re a football player. The worst thing that can happen is they take it away. If you do have to use it, it is a very low-power, low-caliber weapon. It will make a lot of noise and cause pain, but mostly superficial.”
“Mostly? You’re telling me this gun can’t kill?”
“Only if you press it right up against a sentient’s brain case and pull the trigger.”
Choto made it sound so easy, like there were no consequences to carrying the weapon. Quentin shook his head, then stepped out of the grav-cab.
The first thing he saw was a pack of three Quyth Warriors chasing a bleeding Human. The Warriors were carrying baseball bats. The Human ran down a narrow alley, out of sight. The Warriors followed.
Quentin leaned back into the cab and extended his hand. “Okay, give it to me.”
Choto did. “It is nice to see you listen to reason for once,” he said, then got out.
Quentin and Choto walked up Spoke Road 8 toward George Starcher’s apartment.
• • •
“HIGH ONE,” QUENTIN SAID. “This doesn’t make any sense. He’s got money.”
Garbage littered the halls. Quentin had to step over two Quyth Workers who were passed out on the floor, an empty juniper sprig between them. They had eaten raw berries, so far gone in their addiction they couldn’t wait for, or maybe couldn’t afford, actual distilled gin.
The place smelled of urine, spoiled food and other indefinable-yet-awful smells. George Starcher, professional football player, lived in a flop-house.
Another Worker stumbled down the hall. He held a clear jar filled with hazy liquid. Choto instantly stepped between Quentin and the Worker, grabbed the smaller creature and shoved him to the floor. The Worker’s drink spilled all over him. His eye flooded pink. He didn’t get up.
Quentin felt bad for the Worker. He looked so pitiful.
“Choto, do you need to be so rough?”
“Yes,” he said. “And do these conditions surprise you? Do you not have places like this on Micovi?”
“We do. I lived in one most of my life. We just don’t have sentients like this.”
Micovi had hungry children, starving adults, blood feuds and revenge killings, but drug use was rare. If you were caught abusing the body that High One gave you, it was often a capital offense. Homelessness and drug abuse were not among Micovi’s many problems, mostly because people who suffered those conditions were taken away, never to be heard from again.
They turned a corner. There, standing in front of a door smeared with a caked, brown substance, stood Tara the Freak. The big, misshapen Warrior saw them — his eye instantly flooding black.
“Tara,” Quentin said. “What are you doing here?”
Tara stared at Choto. Quentin looked between the two, wondering if this would erupt into another fight.
Choto broke the silence. “I have no quarrel with you, Tara.”
Tara kept staring, but the black color gradually dissipated. Quentin relaxed a little. Maybe Tara and the other Warriors would never be buddies, but I have no quarrel with you was a huge improvement. Tara’s play had earned him at least tolerance, if not acceptance.