by Scott Sigler
“Coach,” Quentin said. “You wanted to see us?”
They waited, but Hokor didn’t look up.
“Coach Hokor,” Doc Patah said. “You have visitors.”
Coach still didn’t seem to notice. Doc Patah reached down a mouth-flap and tapped Hokor on the shoulder. Coach looked up, blinked his one eye, finally noticing that someone was in his office.
“Sit down,” Hokor said. “I need to review a roster change with you.”
Quentin and John sat.
Hokor waved his left pedipalp across the desk. The holographic field vanished. “We have a situation at defensive end,” he said. “Khomeni is out for the next two weeks, at least.”
John stood up. “What? What are you talking about? Two weeks?”
Quentin felt a chill. They were losing their dominant defensive end with two critical games left in the season.
“His knee,” Doc Patah said. “There is damage.”
John’s lip curled up. “So fix it, Doc. Put his ass in a tank and make it better. We need him.”
Hokor waved his pedipalps across the desk again, calling up his nav-icons. He poked a glowing image thumbnail, which increased to full size. A cross-section of a thick HeavyG leg, from the upper shin to just under the quadriceps. Muscles appeared as transparent red, tendons and ligaments as transparent blue, cartilage as transparent yellow. The white bones looked so real you could reach out and grab them.
Doc Patah pointed a mouth-flap at the tibia. Quentin noticed that the yellow cartilage looked ripped, a little ragged in one spot. Floating in it, he saw bits of white.
“Bone chips,” Doc Patah said. “He has a torn meniscus. That resulted in the femur grinding directly against the tibia. Bone chips are not a soft-tissue injury that I can fix quickly. The knee, in particular, is a difficult area with HeavyG due to the amount of weight they place on it.
“How long?” John said. “How long till you can get it fixed?”
“Two full weeks, as I told you,” Doc Patah said. “It is possible we will have him back for the second round of the playoffs.”
John shook his head. “We won’t make the playoffs without him. He’s our best pass-rusher. What about a patch-job? Bone graft and painkillers?”
Hokor’s eye swirled with black. He’d clearly already asked that question and received an answer he didn’t like.
“Absolutely not,” Patah said. “If the damage gets any worse, even reconstruction won’t bring Khomeni back to full speed. He’s out.”
John pointed at the floating doctor. “You don’t have that authority!”
“Gredok does,” Patah said. “I told him that Khomeni could either play now at about fifty percent and possibly end his career, or Khomeni can sit out while I do the job right and come back at about ninety-five percent next season.”
John’s nose flared with deep, angry breaths.
“John,” Quentin said quietly, “just take it easy. Players get hurt. We’ll find a way to win.”
“It is already settled,” Doc Patah said. “Khomeni is out. Gredok backs my decision. Coach Hokor, do you need me for anything else?”
“No,” Hokor said. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Patah floated up, then flew over Quentin and John’s heads and out of the room.
Hokor pointed to the chair. John sat.
“I was not happy with Rich Palmer’s performance against D’Kow,” Hokor said. “Perhaps he was nervous at his first time playing when a game is on the line. Maybe he will be better against the Dreadnaughts, but I can’t take that chance. I need options. I am activating defensive ends Cliff Frost and Wan-A-Tagol from the practice squad.”
John nodded. The news seemed to make him feel better. “Yeah, Coach, that’s a good idea. We can rotate those three in and out, keep them fresh. Palmer, Frost and Wan-A to fill in for Khomeni. But if you’re putting Khomeni on the practice squad and activating two players, that gives us forty-six players on the active roster. One too many. Who do we drop down? We’re thin enough at defense as it is.”
Hokor turned to Quentin. “We drop from the offense. I’m putting Starcher on the practice squad. He will not dress for the game.”
Images of a room painted with charcoal words flashed through Quentin’s mind. “Uh, Coach, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“He’s doing nothing for us,” Hokor said. “Warburg clearly deserves to start. Kobayasho is number two and if either of those two get hurt, we can play Tara the Freak at tight end. We need Starcher’s roster spot, Barnes.”
Quentin leaned back. George was having a hard enough time as it was. He wouldn’t take this well. “Okay,” Quentin said. “I’ll tell him.”
“It’s already done,” Hokor said. “I called him in his room before the two of you arrived. That’s all.”
Hokor activated his holographic football field again. He started running the play forward, then backward, then forward again. The home Armada in their navy-blue uniforms and white helmets attempted over and over — and failed over and over — to stop an off-tackle play by Themala running back Don Dennis, his tiny, white-jerseyed and crimson-legged form ripping through Alimum’s ineffective linebackers.
John stood up and left. Quentin watched Hokor run the play forward and backward another three times, then headed for his room.
• • •
QUENTIN WALKED into his quarters.
He’d had to rush out of the locker room to meet Coach Hokor, so he’d settled for a nannite shower instead of hitting the Ki baths. A soak in that scalding water would do the trick, but he didn’t have time. The Dreadnaughts in two days. That meant more study. Tonight, Ma Tweedy would be sending Quentin a test on his knowledge of the Themala roster.
Quentin was 7 feet tall, 380 pounds — he had no idea why that tiny woman terrified him, but she did. So, more study.
Always more study. Maybe it would help. Every time he didn’t have a football in his hands or a team on the holotank, he thought of Sarge Vinje, of how the man had lied. Quentin also thought of Gredok, how the team owner had stooped to unbelievable levels to land the contract.
If Quentin played football, it would be in Ionath.
And he would play hard, play to win, because he didn’t know how to do anything else. Gredok had understood that early on. He had known that no matter what evil thing he did, Quentin Barnes would still line up on Sunday and play his ass off.
Quentin walked to his couch. The playoffs were just two wins away. Despite all of Gredok’s manipulations, Quentin’s lust for the postseason hadn’t faded an ounce.
There was a neatly folded towel sitting on the couch. Quentin moved it aside, sat, then clapped twice to bring the holotank to life.
“Computer, give me Dreadnaughts versus Alimum, Week Eleven. Themala on defense only.”
[STANDARD CAMERA POSITION?]
“Yes.”
[EDITING]
The first play popped to life. He preferred to watch game film from the same angle he played football hologames — behind the quarterback, about fifteen feet up. From there he could see the entire defense react to the play.
He pushed the towel a little farther away, then settled in to watch.
A piece of paper fell out of the towel and dropped to the floor.
Quentin looked at it, confused. Wait a minute ... he hadn’t left a towel on the couch. And if he had, it sure as hell wouldn’t be neatly folded. Had Pilkie been in here again, straightening up?
Quentin bent and picked up the piece of paper.
Quentin. Thank you for giving me one last chance. I am sorry I failed you. The Old Ones must collect on their debt. The Void welcomes. The Void caresses. The Void loves.
I want you to have my towel. Please speak kindly to it. It can be overly sensitive when it comes to political discussions.
Quentin lowered the piece of paper. He looked to his left, at the towel sitting on his couch. Orange-and-black plaid, with streaks of faded color from George’s many face-paint combinations.
“Oh no.”
Quentin leapt over the back of the couch and sprinted out of his quarters, heading for the landing bay.
• • •
CORRIDOR LIGHTS WERE already flashing the yellow color of warning.
[MANUAL SHUTTLE BAY OPENING IN PROCESS, DECOMPRESSION IMMINENT. CLEAR THE LANDING BAY. CLEAR THE LANDING BAY]
He saw the bay doors closing. Quentin sprinted down the corridor. A memory of the Combine flashed before him, of sprinting down a similar hall because the decompression alarms were blaring away. How ironic — back then, he was pushing his body to new levels to avoid decompression and now here he was running straight for it.
He dove head-first, extending his arms and turning his body sideways to slip through the closing doors. His toe caught on the edge — he made it through but was thrown off balance. He hit the landing bay deck hard and clumsy.
The door slid shut behind him.
No alarms. No noise.
Quentin scrambled to his feet, looked around the landing bay.
There, on the far side of the domed room — George Starcher, all 7-foot-6 of him, all 400 pounds of him, standing by an open panel marked emergency release.
Inside that panel, a horizontal handle, mostly obscured by George’s gripping fist.
The handle flashed. Each time it did, George’s hand seemed to glow from within as if it were filled with neon blood.
“George, don’t!”
George turned to stare at Quentin, stare with eyes that were even more tired, more sunken ... more hopeless.
“Get out of here, Quentin.”
Quentin shook his head. He was so scared, each breath a clutching ache. If George pushed that lever all the way up, the bay doors would fully open. The two of them would be sucked into space. Quentin’s chest felt tingly, the thrusts of a million tiny spears telling him his time had come.
This could be it. His life could be over.
Speakerfilm blared Captain Kate’s voice through the shuttle bay. “Starcher! What are you doing? You shut that manual override down right now, or I’ll kick you in the—”
George hit a button in his panel, cutting off Captain Kate’s voice. Her last syllable echoed, faded.
“Quentin, get out.”
Kate had ordered George to shut things down from in here. Did that mean she couldn’t stop this? Yes, because if she could have, she would have already done something from the bridge.
If Quentin didn’t stop this, no one could. “I’m not going anywhere, George.”
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” he said. “No one is. I was careful, Quentin. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
George nodded. “Yes. I hurt all the time. I have to end it.”
Quentin took a step forward, knowing it was a mistake even as he did it.
George lifted the lever. A blast of cold terror rippled through Quentin’s body. The landing bay’s dead-quiet vanished, replaced by the clang of huge doors, the high-pitched screaming of air shooting out into the void beyond.
Quentin turned to stare at death. The huge, horizontal doors opened — but only half an inch. George hadn’t pushed the lever all the way up. Out there, waiting — the blackness of space, of certain death, only a few hundred feet of landing bay deck away. Quentin’s shirt flapped in the fatal wind.
“Quentin, I mean it!” George shouted, barely audible over death’s screeching howl. “Turn around and get out of here!”
Quentin wanted nothing more than to do just that. Every atom of his being begging him to turn and go, turn and run, run for the inner door, for safety.
But he could not.
“I’m not leaving, George. If you wanna die, you’re going to have to kill me.”
George flexed his fingers on the glowing handle. “Do you want to die, Quentin?”
“Shuck no,” Quentin said, hearing a sickening laugh escape his own lips. “George, I want to live and I want you to live. The team needs you.”
“You lie. I’m not even on the active roster anymore. I don’t get to dress for the game. My career is over. The Old Ones are calling me home.”
“George, there are no Old Ones! You’re sick. I’ll get you help. There are no Old Ones! Don’t believe in that!”
“Do you believe in your High One?”
Quentin blinked, had to remember to breathe, to suck in a breath against the whipping wind. Of course he believed in the High One. High One was real, George’s Old Ones were not. But could he explain that now? Did he have enough time?
“The team hates me,” George said. “They hate me unless I am perfect. I can’t be perfect. They hate that I am ... confused.”
Quentin banged his fist against his chest. “I don’t hate you. You are the best tight end I’ve ever played with.”
“No! I am worthless. My whole life has been this, Quentin. My whole life. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.”
Despite the fear, despite a primitive urge to get the hell out of there, the look on George’s face gouged at Quentin’s soul. The man had physical gifts, a real work ethic, a deep love of the game and an endless desire to win, yet some seriously messed-up mental loop twisted him, forced him to see everything as bad.
George’s fist tightened on the handle. The handle’s red glow lit up individual veins in George’s fingers.
“Quentin, get out. My time has come to an end.” George started to cry, a noiseless, unmoving thing, all the more heart-wrenching for its stoicism.
Quentin took another breath, held it, wondered if it would be his last. No one would stand by George Starcher in life? Well, Quentin Barnes would stand by his friend in death.
Tears trickled down George’s face, making it halfway before the whipping wind pulled them off his skin and toward the Void. “Get out, Quentin! Please!”
Quentin released that breath, felt his lip curl into a sneer.
“Shuck you, Starcher. If you’re going, I’m going with you.”
Quentin started walking toward George.
Starcher opened his mouth in some soundless scream of anguish, then lifted the handle another inch.
The door rattled, groaned opened a little bit more.
The screaming wind turned into a roar.
Out there in that vertical, two-inch strip of black, Quentin saw nothing, for there were no stars in punch-space. He suddenly realized that he didn’t even know what punch-space was.
Messal the Efficient kept the landing bay immaculate, not a stray bit of trash or dirt to be found, so the wind pulled at the only things not locked down — Quentin and George, their clothes, their hair.
It was getting hard to breathe. The ship was probably pumping in air, but not fast enough to keep up. Quentin took another step and almost stumbled — the wind was so strong it pushed at his feet, his legs, threatening to throw him off balance.
Then, up above, motion.
Quentin looked up and back down in the same instant. The snap-shot glance gave him hope, but he couldn’t let George know something was up there.
That something? Tara the Freak.
The mutant Quyth Warrior was using his thick, long pedipalp arms to slowly descend the dome’s metal girders. Quentin had seen monkeys once in a zoo on Stewart — that’s what Tara looked like now, his chitin rippling from the exertion of muscles beneath. Like a spider crawling down a wall, Tara moved closer to George.
Quentin forced himself not to look directly at Tara, who was maybe fifteen feet above George’s position.
Quentin waved his arms over his head. “George! Okay! I want out!”
George’s big biceps flexed. He was about to push the handle all the way up. Quentin looked left and right, trying to find something to grab, a way out — he’d made a huge mistake and he was going to die for it. He could run for the interior door, but if he did, he might die anyway. And if Tara tried to save the day and Quentin wasn’t there to help?
Q
uentin had to get Starcher to close the landing bay door. Then Tara could make his move.
“George, please! Just push the handle back down. I have to get out of here!”
“You promise you’ll leave?”
Quentin nodded furiously. “Yes! I swear.”
“I don’t want you to die, Quentin. The Old Ones have not called for you yet.”
“Then close the shucking doors!”
George licked his lips. He pulled the handle all the way down. The doors groaned and slid together, the hungry wind’s roar lowering to a whine of loss before it dropped off altogether.
Quentin took deep breaths, held his hands up palms-out. “Okay, just let go of the handle so I can get out of here.”
“No.”
“George, I can’t get to you fast enough to stop you from lifting it and I’m too scared to turn my back if you’re holding it. Just let go.”
George looked left, then right, seeing if anyone was close, if there was some kind of trick.
Just don’t look up, just don’t look up.
George saw nothing. He let go of the handle, held up his own hands, palms-out. “This is your last chance, Quentin. Go now or join me in the Void’s embrace.”
Quentin saw a shadow drop from the ceiling. Tara smashed into George, driving the big Human hard to the deck. George screamed in surprise, in betrayal. Quentin sprinted toward them. Tara wrapped his big pedipalp arms around George’s neck, choking him, trying to hold him down. Despite the extra 360 pounds, George Starcher put a hand on the ground, got to his knees and started to rise, one hand reaching for the glowing red handle.
That was as far as he got.
Quentin jumped, brought his right knee forward as he did, smashing it into George Starcher’s mouth.
George sagged to the deck. He didn’t move. Quentin and Tara the Freak panted, almost waiting for the big doors to open anyway.
For the first time, Quentin noticed that Tara’s cornea swirled a solid, neon pink — the Freak had been just as terrified as Quentin had.
“Thanks,” Quentin said. “Thanks for helping me.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Tara said. His eye color slowly cleared.