The Starter

by Scott Sigler

For the physical attack, the first-born cuts off the testes of half of his sac-mates. These castrated Quyth grow to become the Warrior caste. Quyth Warriors are much larger than Leaders. On average, Warriors are over twice as tall and weigh six times as much. This large growth rate is actually a form of gigantism that is naturally controlled by a regulatory hormone produced in the Quyth’s testes.

  The first-born allows half of his brothers to keep their testes, but bombards them with a hormone that permanently alters their brain structure, making them docile. The Quyth affected by this hormone become the Workers. Fascinatingly, the docility hormone only becomes active when it mixes with the growth-control hormone, which is prevalent in Workers because they still have their testes. Hence, the hormone has no effect on the castrated Warriors.

  Quyth larvae stay in the sac for two to four months after hatching from their eggs. About a day or two before the brood exits the sac, the single Leader finishes the job and castrates the Workers. As the brood enters the world for the first time, there is only one individual capable of eventually breeding.

  Hormonal control continues through childhood, into adolescence and then adulthood. Warriors naturally imprint on their Leader brother, but can switch allegiance to another Leader. Sometimes this is a conscious decision, but often it is due to circumstances of proximity, overcrowding, or mandatory military service.

  Warriors naturally desire to follow a Leader. Evolutionarily speaking, the reason is simple — the Warrior cannot reproduce, so if his genetic line is to survive he must ensure that his Leader brother breeds. Modern Quyth civilization has hijacked this instinct. That same imprinting tendency results in Warriors following military officers, employers, criminals, community organizers and, yes, sports coaches and team owners.

  While Workers become docile followers, Warriors retain high levels of natural aggression. Contact sports — both lethal and non-lethal — provide a critical outlet for those urges. When you combine a Warriors size, strength, speed, and natural aggression with their innate desire to follow, it is no surprise that they make excellent soldiers and athletes.

  • • •

  MESSAL THE EFFICIENT LED QUENTIN and Don Pine down the Touchback’s corridors toward the practice field. Media Day had arrived.

  “So,” Don said, “not to treat you like you’re an idiot or anything, Q, but how about you go over my rules?”

  Quentin sighed. Sometimes, Don walked a fine line between being a source of invaluable wisdom and an annoying nag.

  “Think before I talk,” Quentin said. “Don’t rush my answers. A pause actually makes me look smarter, more introspective.”

  “Uh-huh,” Don said. “And when you do answer, what do you not say?”

  “Anything bad about my teammates or the franchise. And nothing that could be locker room fodder for our opposition.”

  “Good,” Don said. “And what can we say about the opposition?”

  “That we are excited to play them,” Quentin said. “Whatever team the reporters are asking about, I say that the team is a quality organization that has a lot of threats. Ionath will practice and prepare, then play as hard as we can on the field.”

  Don’s wide smile showed white teeth that blazed from between his blue lips. “Nice, Q. Nice. Just remember the think before you talk part, you’re not so good at that.”

  “Thanks.”

  Don shrugged. “This isn’t the time for me to beat around the bush. If you get flustered, just take a breath. It’s a bit of a zoo out there.”

  “Whatever,” Quentin said. “How bad can it be? They’re just reporters.”

  They turned a corner into the tunnel that led to the practice field.

  “It can get bad,” Don said. “Just trust me on that. And if it gets too bad, Messal will step in and bail you out. Right, Messal?”

  “Absolutely, Mister Pine. You couldn’t be more correct. I will stay near Elder Barnes every moment and offer assistance if needed, although I’m confident Elder Barnes will exceed everyone’s expectations.”

  “Thanks,” Quentin said, and then the three of them walked onto the practice field where Quentin saw something he’d never seen before — sentients other than his teammates or coaches out on the turf. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Many were from the species that made up the GFL: Humans with their skin-tones of tan-pink, brown, black, bleach-white, blue; HeavyG with their shades of light brown and tan-pink; Sklorno females covered head-to-toe in robes of more shades and colors than Quentin could count; multi-legged Ki dressed in the fine clothes so common to that culture’s non-combatants; Quyth Leaders, their fur a myriad collection of shades and striped patterns; floating Harrah that ranged from the utterly smooth skin of young adults to the bony, scaled skin of the elders.

  And there were also Creterakian civilians dressed in their crazy, harlequin-esque suits of every horrible color-clashing pattern you could imagine. The civvy bats circled around the heads of the Krakens players. Quentin shuddered. He reminded himself to move slowly, to be respectful — even though these were civilians, where there were bats there were entropic rifles.

  And a new creature. Leekee, the amphibious sentients that made up a big part of the Tower Republic’s population. Quentin had seen them swimming in the aquatic centers of Ionath City, and in his one visit to Hudson Bay Station, but never out of the water. Hunched-over bipeds built low to the ground, the small Leekee had long, vertically flat tails. The line of that tail continued onto the back as a ridge of small spikes ending at the creature’s pointy head. The Leekee all had bright-blue skin marked with wide, black stripes. The stripes were thick at the spiky back ridge, tapering to points on the sentients’ smooth sides. Leekee bodies looked streamlined and muscular. A small, yellow eye dotted either side of the pointy head.

  A hand on his shoulder.

  “Kid,” Don said. “You all right?”

  Quentin looked at Don’s blue face, then back to the circus out on the practice field. “I don’t know, man. This has nothing to do with football. I think I’ll skip it.”

  “Can’t,” Don said. “League requirement. Trust me, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of Commissioner Froese. And this has everything to do with football. The media covers what we do in the GFL. That coverage is for the fans. Fans watch the broadcasts, and that brings in advertising revenue. Fans buy jerseys, memorabilia, team clothes — just about any kind of crap you can imagine as long as it has a team logo. Fans buy tickets and pack the stadiums every Sunday. Know what you and I do for a living if not for those fans?”

  Quentin shook his head.

  “Well, I don’t know either,” Don said, “but it sure wouldn’t be football, and I’m sure I wouldn’t like it. Without fans — and therefore, without the media — we would be universe-class athletes playing on some stone-filled field, practicing with a club team after we get out of work. What jobs have you had before football?”

  “I worked in the mines,” Quentin said. “Only job I ever had.”

  “Oh, right. Well, without fans, you’re still working in the mines, Q. This is Media Day. In Tier Two, every football fan on Ionath wanted to know more about you. Now you’re in Tier One, and every football fan in the galaxy wants to know more. Media scrutiny is part of the job you fought for, my friend.”

  Quentin looked out at the collection of reporters circling around his orange-and-black-clad teammates. It looked like a feeding frenzy, like giffler fish ripping apart brimler-ants that fell into the steep-walled quarry lakes back on Micovi. Hundreds of reporters, so many body shapes, colors, and floating holo-cameras.

  “Maybe you can do it with me?” Quentin said. “You know, just for the first time out there? Just kind of... stay close.”

  Don leaned back and sucked in air through clenched teeth. “Yeah, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. If you and I are standing together, every question is going to be about who will start, whether I’ve still got it, stuff like that. The focus should be on you, not on a quarterback controversy. Messa
l will be with you, though.”

  Don was right. At some point there would be a quarterback controversy. When the Krakens lost, fans would be screaming for Don Pine to replace Quentin Barnes. It was just the way of things. Quentin didn’t need to fuel that fire ahead of time.

  “All right,” Quentin said. “Any final advice?”

  “Yes. Don’t be yourself.”

  “Huh?”

  “Quentin, anyone ever tell you you’re too intense?”

  Quentin nodded.

  “That’s someone’s nice way of saying you’re an overbearing jerk,” Don said. “Just relax, answer the media’s stupid questions. Don’t say things like you think we’ll win eight games and go to the playoffs.”

  “But we will win eight games,” Quentin said. “We will go to the playoffs.”

  Don sighed and looked to the sky. He took a breath, then looked at Quentin again. “Kid, remember all those times I gave you advice and you ignored it?”

  Quentin looked down. He had done that, too many times, and every time Don turned out to be right. If Don thought Quentin was an overbearing jerk, then maybe Quentin was an overbearing jerk. “Am I really that bad?”

  “In the locker room or the practice field? No. You are exactly what you need to be. Outside of those places? You’re a mouth machine that needs a new muffler.”

  Quentin laughed. Don Pine had such a way of putting people at ease.

  “This is part of our life, Quentin. Just get out there and be nice.”

  Don patted Quentin on the shoulder twice, a manly go get ’em pat, then jogged out onto the field. Quentin watched him go, watched the reporters recognize him and flock to him.

  Quentin waited another couple of minutes, then walked onto the field himself, Messal the Efficient just a step behind.

  • • •

  AS A KID, QUENTIN HAD WATCHED Church holos about Earth history. Most of those movies were about the persecution of the chosen people. Some of them even went back to medieval times. Holos like that were filled with heroic tales of those in service to High One. They were also full of swords, knives, spears: all kinds of pointy things designed to poke holes in bodies. As Quentin looked out at three dozen microphones jabbing toward his face, that was all he could think of. Too many sentients yelling at him all at once, all asking stupid questions.

  “Quentin!” a bleach-white Human reporter from Tower shouted. “Quentin, Harold Moloronik from Grinkas NewsNet. Do you think the Krakens will be relegated this year?”

  “Uh...” Quentin said, then paused, trying to channel his inner Donald Pine. Think before I speak. Quentin took a slow breath, then gave his answer. “Our goal is to win every game. If we play hard, things will take care of themselves.”

  “Quentin!” A Creterakian civilian dressed in a fuchsia suit, perched on the shoulder of a smallish, fat Ki. “I speak for Ron-Do-Hall, Ki Empire Sports Fest. Rumor is that Yassoud Murphy isn’t cutting it as your starting running back. Is that why the Krakens brought in Jay Martinez and Dan Campbell?”

  Quentin started to talk, then stopped. Think first. He’d been about to say that Yassoud needed to step it up in practice. ’Soud’s performance thus far did not speak well for the season. But Don had told Quentin not to say anything bad about his teammates.

  “Yassoud is our starting running back,” Quentin said. “Martinez and Campbell practice hard. I know they will contribute to the team.”

  “Quentin!” shouted a voice from below, a Leekee who had slithered his way between the legs of the other reporters. “Kelp Bringer from the Leekee Galaxy Times.”

  “Kelp Bringer?” Quentin said. “That your real name?”

  “Rough translation. Why? You want to hear the real pronunciation?”

  The Quyth Leader reporters took off running, while the Human and HeavyG reporters immediately started shaking their heads, but Quentin only noticed that after he’d already nodded. The streamlined, four-foot-long, black-striped blue sentient let out a five-second string of piercing noises that ranged from ear-splitting high notes down to lows that Quentin felt vibrate through his stomach and privates. It was an assault of sound. He winced and covered his ears, as did all the other Humans and HeavyGs.

  “Okay, okay,” Quentin said. “I think Kelp Bringer works just fine. It’s like my favorite name of all time.”

  The collection of reporters laughed. Quentin smiled. He’d made a joke, and they had laughed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Quentin took an automatic step back — he saw something moving on Kelp Bringer’s back... several somethings, spindly somethings.

  “Uh... Kelp Bringer, you got... something on your back there.”

  Kelp Bringer twisted his pointy head to look. The spindly things were right in front of his yellow eyes. “What?” he said. “I don’t see anything.”

  Quentin pointed. “Right there, those buggy things crawling on you.”

  There was a pause, then a single laugh. Kelp Bringer’s stripes changed from black to an iridescent yellow, a color that just looked angry. Another Human giggled, and then all the reporters started laughing.

  But this time it wasn’t because he’d said something funny. Quentin felt embarrassed — he didn’t know what he’d said, but he knew it had been something stupid. Again.

  “Those buggy things?” Kelp Bringer said. “What are you, some kind of racist?”

  Quentin felt his face flush red just as fast as the Leekee’s stripes had turned yellow. “What? Racist? But I... and you... no, uh... sorry?”

  “These buggy things are my symbiotes.”

  “What is a symbiote?”

  The clutch of reporters laughed even harder.

  Kelp Bringer’s stripes changed from yellow to a neon orange. “Are you mocking me, Human?”

  Quentin shook his head, hard. “No, I... look, I have no idea what’s going on here. You’re the first Leekee I’ve seen in person.”

  The laughter faded instantly.

  Kelp Bringer’s orange stripes shifted back to yellow, then to mostly-black. “You’re serious?” he said. “You’ve never met my kind before?”

  “Sorry, no,” Quentin said. “No offense or whatever, but... ah... where I come from, there are only Humans.”

  Quentin noticed that all the reporters were suddenly keying that information into palm-ups and messageboards.

  “Ah,” Kelp Bringer said. “Yes, you’re from the Purist Nation. Fine, I will accept your apology, but only if you answer my question.”

  Quentin nodded, grateful to put the embarrassing moment behind him.

  “So my question is, how does it feel to start the season with a certain loss against the Isis Ice Storm?”

  Think before you speak. “We are excited to play the Ice Storm. They are a quality organization. We’ll practice and prepare, and play as hard as we can.”

  “So you’re predicting a win?” Kelp Bringer said. “You are going on record saying the Krakens will win big against the Ice Storm? Maybe three or four touchdowns, you think?”

  Quentin hadn’t said anything of the sort. What was this weird-looking sentient talking about? “No, I didn’t say that. That’s not... I’m not predicting anything.”

  “Quentin!” A Quyth Leader shouted. Apparently the Leaders had returned to the mix just as quickly as they’d left. “Pikor the Assuming, UBS Sports. How do you feel about the assassination attempt on your life?”

  “Assassination... well, we don’t know the guy was coming after me.”

  “Assuming he was,” Pikor said, “how does it feel to know eight police officers died to protect you?”

  Quentin hadn’t thought about it that way before. “I... uh...”

  Microphones moved in closer, a phalanx of stabbing black points.

  “Quentin!” a reporter shouted, her voice drowning out the other dozen sentients screaming exactly the same name. “Sara Mabuza, Earth News Syndicate. Since someone is out to kill you, wouldn’t it make more sense to start Don Pine, so there’s no
team setback if the assassins strike again?”

  The reporters switched from dead police to a quarterback controversy without missing a beat? What the hell was wrong with these sentients?

  “Look, guys,” Quentin said. “I’m the starting QB, okay? And I don’t feel comfortable marginalizing the loss of those police officers by discussing it here, on Media Day for a football team. Doesn’t anyone have questions about the Krakens?”

  “I do.”

  Quentin looked left, toward the source of the voice. When he saw her, everything else instantly faded away. Purple skin, much deeper and richer than the blue skin of Don Pine. Glossy, black eyelashes framed bright blue eyes, blue that popped thanks to artfully applied white eye shadow. A perfect mouth, shaped so thick and full that he immediately wondered what it would feel like to kiss it. Hair the color of snow, worn short but meticulously styled. She couldn’t possibly be more beautiful.

  “Yolanda Davenport,” she said. “Galaxy Sports Magazine.”

  Quentin nodded, still unable to look away from her eyes. “You... you had a question about the Krakens?”

  “Sure do. I want to know how Ionath’s starting quarterback would feel if he saw himself on the cover of Galaxy Sports?”

  Quentin just blinked. He felt stupefied by her looks, and yet she was dragging his brain from one promised land to another — the hallowed ground of the ultimate recognition of athletics, the cover of Galaxy Sports Magazine.

  “Uh...” Quentin said. “He’d feel... amazing, I guess.”

  She smiled. He’d been wrong, she could be more beautiful. Her thick, dark lips framed white teeth that blazed brighter than the yard lines.

  “You guess? Well, that’s not a very definitive answer. If the Krakens stay in Tier One next year, we might just have to find out.”

  “Quentin!” another reporter screamed, so loud his head reactively snapped around to look. This one, a bat, fluttering in place, dressed in a lime green body suit with blue paisley trim. “Kinizzle, Creterakian Information Service. Now that you’ve played a year in the GFL, would you say you’ve stopped being a racist? Or is that still active?”