The Starter

by Scott Sigler

  “What?”

  “Regarding your hateful nature,” Kinizzle said, “which of your teammates would you most like to kill?”

  They were baiting him, and he’d had just about enough. “You listen to me, you little piece of—”

  “And Elder Barnes’ time is up!” Quentin looked down to see Messal the Efficient, who now stood between Quentin and the reporters who had to tilt their microphones up and back to avoid poking them into Messal’s one big eye. “Thank you all for coming out, but Elder Barnes has several private interviews scheduled. Thank you!”

  Quentin felt Messal pulling at his left hand, leading him back to the tunnel. Quentin entertained one final, brief thought of ripping off the bat’s wings and drop-kicking him through the goal post, then let Messal lead him off the field. Reporters kept screaming his name, screaming asinine questions, but he ignored them.

  Was this what it would be like from now on? No. He had not yet played a single down of Tier One ball. Once the season began and the Krakens faced off against some of the best teams in the history of the sport, he knew things would get even worse.

  • • •

  QUENTIN WALKED UP TO THE LINE, looking from left to right, taking it all in. His offense, dressed in practice whites, facing off against the Krakens defense, dressed in practice blacks. The Touchback remained locked in orbit above Ionath City, making ship time roughly match city time. Noonday sun poured through the practice field dome, which Captain Cheevers had shaded slightly to block the worst of the light and heat.

  Quentin’s short passing game was looking strong, but his deep-throw timing just wasn’t connecting. The Krakens defensive line kept generating too much pressure.

  The left side of the Krakens offensive line was doing fine. Kill-O-Yowet didn’t have much trouble with the pass rush of right defensive end Aleksandar Michnik. Kill-O was in his ninth year as a pro, and was the kind of dominant left tackle that every quarterback dreamed of. He was also the alpha male among the hierarchical Ki. Kill-O kept the rest of his kind playing hard.

  Just inside of Kill-O was Sho-Do-Thikit, the Krakens left offensive guard. Sho-Do was a fantastic football player, but was having some trouble stopping Mai-An-Ihkole, the Krakens right defensive tackle. On each snap, the two linemen tore into each other with a frenzy that sent black blood flying. In his twelfth year, Mai-An was finally coming into his own. If he could battle Sho-Do to a standstill, push him back, even get pressure on Quentin every fourth or fifth play, it boded well for Mai-An’s season.

  Bud-O-Shwek, Quentin’s center, seemed flawless at both run- and pass-blocking. Quentin had no worries that Bud-O would protect him at all times.

  On the far right side of the line, offensive tackle Vu-Ko-Will did battle with left defensive end Ibrahim Khomeni. Ibrahim seemed to have lost a step or two, or maybe didn’t play that hard in practice. At any rate, he only occasionally got past Vu-Ko to lightly touch Quentin’s red do-not-hit jersey.

  Between Bud-O and Vu-Ko, however, lay the real problem — rookie right guard Shun-On-Won. Shun-On couldn’t stop defensive tackle Mum-O-Killowe, who seemed to be in Quentin’s face before Quentin could even complete a five-step drop and look downfield for a pass.

  While the violent and ill-tempered Mum-O was a star in the making, he shouldn’t have been in Quentin’s grille on every damn passing play. Shun-On-Won couldn’t block for crap. He looked a mess — helmet visor cracked, jersey torn, black blood dribbling down from his upper right forearm, all results of a constant beating at the hands of Mum-O-Killowe. And this was just practice. What would happen in a real game?

  Quentin bent behind center. “Green-ten, hammer route!” he shouted down the left side of the line. At the sound of green, heads turned his way. That word meant an audible, Quentin changing the play at the line of scrimmage. Calls of other colors, like blue or red, meant nothing. He called out a color every play to maintain consistency, so the defense wouldn’t know when he switched a play.

  “Green-ten, hammer route!” Quentin shouted down the right side of the line. His offensive players heard the call, then stared straight ahead once again, ready to run the play.

  His call of hammer route had changed the play from a deep drop-back to a quick pass. Instead of streaks and post-patterns that might go twenty yards deep and take several seconds to run, all receivers switched to pre-determined shorter routes: five-yard hook patterns, inside slants toward the center of the field, or the well-practiced out patterns that took the receivers to the sidelines. No receiver would run a pattern deeper than five or six yards. He could call an audible like this if he saw the defense was running a linebacker blitz, so he could get the pass off before he was sacked. Or, he could call it because his offensive line couldn’t block the defensive tackles.

  The audible also changed the assignment of rookie running back Dan Campbell, who was lined up in a single-back set behind him. Instead of going out on a pass route, Dan would fake a handoff and help Shun-On-Won block Mum-O.

  “Hut... hut-hut!”

  The offensive and defensive lines smashed together, Ki and HeavyG bodies squeezing out grunts of rage and effort and pain.

  Quentin stepped back and to the right, stretching the ball out toward Campbell. Campbell raised his left elbow high, left hand on his sternum, right hand at his belt, pinkie touching his stomach, thumb pointed out. Quentin stabbed the ball at Dan’s belly, then pulled it back at the last second as Dan’s arms snapped shut, faking the handoff.

  Quentin ran one more step away from the line, then planted and turned. He instantly had to jump right to avoid Campbell, who was flying backward thanks to a hit from the onrushing Mum-O-Killowe.

  Last season, the sight of the four-armed, twelve-foot-long monster might have made Quentin pause, but such things had now become commonplace. He reacted on pure instinct, shuffling another step right even as Mum-O’s long body compressed and gathered, the thing a Ki would do right before launching for a tackle. In that split-second pause, Quentin saw tight end George Starcher hook up at five yards, just past the end of the line. Starcher instantly saw that Mum-O was blocking Quentin’s line of sight, so the big tight end shuffled to his left to make a clear passing lane. Quentin saw this, processed it in less time than it takes to blink, and flipped a hard pass at Starcher.

  The ball had no sooner left Quentin’s hands than Mum-O-Killowe’s body violently expanded like a striking snake — an angry, 580-pound snake. He smashed into Quentin, drove him backward into the nano-turf. It was a hard hit, but Mum-O hadn’t followed, hadn’t let his weight land on top of Quentin. Quentin would feel that hit through the next day, for sure, yet from Mum-O it was just a love-tap.

  Quentin rolled to his feet, seeing that Starcher had caught the pass and carried it another five yards before John Tweedy brought him down. Had this been a real game, Starcher’s automatic adjustment would have turned a blown block and a sure sack into a first down. Rick Warburg or Yotaro Kobayasho, as good as they were, wouldn’t have reacted as fast. Whatever Crazy George Starcher had in his head, it was worth the trouble.

  “Mum-O-Killowe!” Hokor’s speakers blared. “Did you just hit my quarterback?”

  The Ki lineman growled something low and nasty.

  “I’m fine, Coach,” Quentin called up to Hokor’s cart. “Just a little tickle, that’s all.”

  Mum-O growled something else, then scuttled back to the defensive side of the line. Quentin’s offense ran back to the huddle. Shun-On, the rookie right tackle, was the last to arrive, limping along on sore, tired legs, leaving a thin trail of black blood in his wake.

  Quentin shook his head. Just over two weeks away from the first game of the season against the Isis Ice Storm. Unless Shun-On-Won started playing better, or unless Coach put someone else in the lineup, the first three games were going to be very, very rough.

  • • •

  QUENTIN STEPPED OFF THE ELEVATOR onto Deck Eighteen, the Touchback’s top deck. He’d been up here only once before, during his first
tour of the ship after arriving as a rookie. That time, he’d been seeing the sights. This time, he’d been summoned.

  Summoned by his coach and the team owner to discuss a personnel decision. Quentin had run down to the Ki locker room to take a bath and scrub up proper, with hot water and soap. He knew the nannite showers in his quarters technically got him cleaner, but when he bathed in water he just felt better, more ready for the world. Hokor and Gredok would never know the difference, but it just felt more... respectful... to clean up the best he could.

  Gredok was a criminal and a killer, but he was also the team owner. He spent the money needed to find players like Starcher and the Awa twins. Keeping Gredok happy — happy and spending — was as much a part of the game as overcoming racism or eating with the team. In any context that involved pure football, Quentin would go out of his way to show Gredok proper respect. Maybe showing that respect could go a long way toward patching things up with the black-furred Quyth Leader.

  Quentin had even dressed in his best clothes. Or tried to, only to realize he didn’t even have a suit. A quick call to Messal the Efficient resulted in Pilkie showing up at Quentin’s quarters, a sport coat in hand. It fit okay, but was tight in the shoulders and back. Another call and Messal said he would acquire a new wardrobe. For now, however, Quentin had to make due with the ill-fitting sport coat.

  He had fixed his hair, he’d shaved, and his body felt relaxed from the Ki pool’s near-scalding water. Oh, that reminded him... he had yet to sit down for a meal with the Ki. The Ki, who ate their food alive. One thing at a time. Maybe making nice with Gredok first, then eating live animals.

  Quentin walked into the administration area. Orange walls complemented the white-and-black carpet. Once again he took in the furnishings that catered to every species, two each for Human, Quyth Leader, Sklorno, HeavyG, and Ki. He admired the holo-frames showing twenty-one years of Krakens greats, all moving in an endless repeat of some glorious play.

  He walked past the holo-frame of the greatest Kraken of all. No matter where you went in the Touchback, the stadium, the Krakens building, you were never far from a reminder of Bobby Adrojnik. The holo-frame showed the baby-faced quarterback being held aloft by two Ki linemen. He held the GFL championship trophy high, pumping it up and down so it caught the field lights, his moment of achievement captured forever in computer memory. The image reminded Quentin of Bobby’s short career, which in turn reminded Quentin of the bombing at the victory parade. Was someone out there really trying to kill him? He put the thought out of his mind. For now, up here on the Touchback, he was safe.

  Quentin left the holo-frame behind and walked past doors and desks. Some of the desks had staff: Quyth Leaders, Workers, a few Humans. There were even a couple of Sklorno males, the tiny, furry “bedbugs” that went insane during the football games when their females soared high to fight for passes twenty-five feet in the air. Had all of these sentients been here the first time Quentin had visited Deck Eighteen? And why hadn’t he seen any of them during his months on the ship?

  He suddenly realized why, and it embarrassed him. The Touchback was a big ship, but not that big. The reason he hadn’t seen these staffers was because they weren’t allowed to circulate on the player decks.

  As he passed the staffers, everyone smiled at him or gave their species equivalent of a smile. They were clearly excited to see him up here. The fact that they weren’t allowed on the field, on the player decks, it reminded Quentin of the places on Micovi he hadn’t been allowed to go because he was an orphan, because he wasn’t part of an upstanding church family. Restaurants, clubs, some shops, the decent grocery stores — he hadn’t been allowed to set foot in those places. Not until he became a football star, anyway.

  Quentin tried to nod at the stares and smiles. He realized they were looking at him the way he had once looked at the rich Churchies back on Micovi, the people who enjoyed privilege, prestige, who ate the finest foods while poor children were hung for stealing bread. Well shuck this — these sentients worked for the same team that he did. He would take it up with Gredok, but later in the season. One thing at a time.

  He reached Hokor’s control room and pushed the buzzer next to the door. The door opened and Quentin walked in. Part of his brain took in this room he’d never seen before. The entire back window looked out onto the practice field eighteen decks below. A dozen holotanks lined the window. Only two were on. One tank showed highlights of a big HeavyG offensive lineman dressed in a silver, gold, and copper uniform. The other showed a Sklorno in practice whites. Halawa, Quentin realized.

  A small part of his brain took this in, but the majority of his thoughts centered on the control room’s occupants. Coach Hokor, Gredok the Splithead... and Donald Pine. Hokor sat behind a black desk, Gredok sat in a chair off to the side, and Pine was in one of two chairs in front of the desk.

  Quentin felt a rush of jealousy and annoyance at seeing his blue-skinned teammate, who wore an immaculate suit perfectly tailored to his athletic frame. Quentin felt instantly silly and inadequate in his poorly fitting, borrowed sport coat. Quentin had been called in to talk personnel with the top two people in the Krakens organization, and yet Pine was already here, giving his opinion before Quentin could. Was Pine making a play for the starting job?

  No. No, Pine was a mentor, a friend. Quentin had to stop reacting to things with anger. If Pine was here, there was a reason, and that reason was probably to help Quentin.

  “Barnes,” Gredok said. “Have a seat. Nice coat.”

  Quentin felt his face turn red.

  “I just talked to Messal,” Gredok said. “I appreciate that you are improving your image, it reflects well on the organization. I told him to send your measurements to my tailor. He’s the best, you know. I’ll pay for it all.”

  “Thank you, Gredok, but I’ll pay for it.”

  Gredok stared, said nothing. Quentin couldn’t make out the owner’s mood. Hopefully he hadn’t offended Gredok by turning down the hospitality. Quentin was young, sure, but he’d been around organized crime his whole life — you did not want to be indebted to a sentient like Gredok the Splithead. Not for clothes, not for a flippin’ bowl of soup, not for anything.

  Coach Hokor’s upper left pedipalp gestured to the open chair next to Don. Quentin sat.

  “Barnes,” Hokor said, “we have an opportunity. The regular season starts in just over a week, and we have shortcomings. We have a chance to improve those shortcomings, but we wanted to talk to you about it first.”

  Quentin looked around the room, quickly taking in each face. The first face was the clear, one-eyed, cold stare of Gredok. Nothing to read there, but Quentin knew that Gredok was reading him. Quentin took a quick, deep breath and forced himself to be calm. If Gredok wasn’t going to show emotion, Quentin wouldn’t either.

  Coach Hokor’s eye swirled with a touch of green — the color of stress, sometimes anxiety. His fur seemed a bit more fluffed than usual.

  Finally, Quentin looked at Pine. Pine looked... sad? Corners of his mouth turned down, just a bit, eyes soft.

  Quentin looked back to Hokor. “Okay, Coach. What’s this opportunity?”

  “We have a major issue at right guard,” Hokor said. “Would you agree?”

  Were they going to buy a free-agent right guard? Maybe an All-Pro? Quentin fought to keep himself calm. A high-level right guard would solidify the offensive line, give him time to throw.

  “Yes, Coach. I would agree.”

  “Put yourself in my position,” Hokor said. “If you were me, what would you do about Shun-On-Won?”

  Quentin thought for a moment. Two weeks into practice, and Shun-On hadn’t shown significant improvement. He just wasn’t good enough. There was no way around it. Sad for the rookie, but that’s the way it was. Still, Quentin was the team leader, and if someone had to make a tough decision that benefited the franchise, he would be the one to do it.

  “Shun-On is a liability,” Quentin said. “But we have Aka-Na-Tak com
ing back in week four.”

  “Week four,” Gredok said quietly. “We could be oh-and-three by then. Winless. In last place.”

  Quentin shook his head. “Not gonna happen, Gredok. We’ll win at least one, maybe two.”

  Quentin automatically looked at Pine for confirmation. Don just raised his eyebrows, then dropped them back down again. An unreadable reaction.

  “Barnes,” Hokor said, “we have a trade offer for Michael Kimberlin, right guard from the Jupiter Jacks.”

  Michael Kimberlin? Quentin’s eyes flashed to the holotank showing the player dressed in silver, gold, and copper. Kimberlin. An All-Pro, a veteran and one of the few non-Ki offensive linemen in the GFL. While the HeavyG was probably in the final few years of his career, there was no question that Kimberlin could instantly solve the Krakens’ offensive line problem. Probably solve it permanently — when Aka-Na-Tak came back from injury, he wouldn’t have a starting job waiting for him.

  This should have been good news, exciting news, but Quentin sensed a coldness in the room. Nothing from Gredok, of course, but Hokor seemed bothered, and Quentin picked up even more of that sadness from Pine.

  “Kimberlin,” Quentin said, knowing he had to ask the next question, knowing he would hate the answer. “Who do the Jacks want for him?”

  “They need receivers,” Hokor said. “Scarborough and Denver.”

  Quentin just stared. That was a ridiculous offer. “Scarborough is my top receiver. And Denver, she’s... she’s our future.”

  Quentin almost bit his tongue after he’d spoken her name. He had been about to say she’s my friend. That was his first thought. An alien, one of the Satanic races... his friend.

  “It’s a good offer,” Hokor said. “Both teams prosper. The Jacks have a second-year right guard. They think he’s going to give them ten seasons. That means they can afford to deal Kimberlin.”

  “But we can’t afford to deal Scarborough,” Quentin said. “Like I said, she’s my top receiver.”