The Starter

by Scott Sigler

  Quentin nodded. If someone asked him if he liked football, he would probably just say yeah. Doc Patah, apparently, was far more eloquent.

  “So why stay with the Krakens?” Quentin said. “Why not get back into it?”

  Doc Patah was silent for a moment. Quentin waited, wondering how to phrase the question he really wanted to ask.

  “I have a past, Quentin,” Doc Patah said. “I will not get into it, but that past has caught up with me. I am here, and I don’t have a choice. Gredok the Splithead saw to that.”

  His was an artificial voice, interpreted and refined by the speakerfilm on his backpack, and yet Quentin could hear the bitterness in those words.

  They sat in silence until Doc Patah took the lead. “You have something you want to ask me,” he said. “Something — unsavory — I think. I suggest you get it out in the open.”

  Now or never.

  “When you were a trainer, did you ever help your fighters... cheat?”

  Doc fell silent. Quentin waited, feeling ashamed it had come to the point where he even had to talk about it.

  “I had situations,” Doc Patah said. “Situations that called for creative solutions. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I may need a creative solution.”

  “This involves Ju, does it not?”

  Quentin fumbled for the words. Eloquence was the domain of doctors, not quarterbacks.

  “Quentin, what is it you want?”

  “Ju is killing the team, Doc. He wants to be the captain. He wanted to fight me for it, one-on-one. I refused.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s not who I am anymore,” Quentin said. “I’m learning you can’t solve every problem by punching it.”

  “An honorable stance,” Doc Patah said. “Quite civilized. But can I give you some advice, young Quentin?”

  Quentin nodded, for once not offended in the least by that ubiquitous question.

  “Being civilized is honorable,” Doc Patah said. “But sometimes, civilization fails. You have to decide if this is one of those times.”

  “We have two games left. We have to win them both. To win them, I need Ju Tweedy running hard. To get that, I need to convince him it’s my team, not his. And to do that, I have to fight him, but there is too much on the line. If I lose and honor the bet, the team will be very confused, confusion that will cost us. They follow me now because I’ve earned it out on the field. If I lose to Ju, I think we lose the last two games and drop out of Tier One. I’m willing to do anything to stop that, even...”

  “Cheat,” Doc Patah finished. “You want to rig the fight.”

  Quentin felt his face flush red. To hear Doc Patah say those words, it brought the situation into focus.

  Quentin nodded.

  “I see greatness in you, Quentin,” Doc Patah said. “I see in you the cage fighter that will do anything to win. I may be stuck with the Krakens, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want the championship. With Ju’s leadership, the Krakens will flounder in Tier Two. But you? Someday soon, you can take us to the title fight. And I should also say that I do not like Ju. He is arrogant. Spoiled by his abilities. I will help you. When do you need this... assistance?”

  “Probably about fifteen minutes after I get out of the rejuve tank.”

  Doc Patah paused. Quentin could have sworn he heard the speakerfilm give out a very Human sigh.

  “How do you think he will fight?”

  “I made him mad,” Quentin said. “I think he’ll come at me all wild, enraged.”

  “I see,” Doc Patah said. “Just sit there and let the bone-stitcher do its work. I’m sure the repair will last all of ten seconds once you start your idiocy with Ju. I will prepare what we used to call the Neptune Neck Kiss.”

  “Do I have to kiss him?”

  Another sigh. “No, Quentin, you do not have to kiss him. However, I hope that you are not afraid of needles.”

  Doc floated off to his station, mouth flaps sorting through bins of equipment.

  Actually, Quentin was afraid of needles, but he wasn’t about to say anything. He put his head back on the tank’s edge, closed his eyes, and started to sort through his memories of how Ju Tweedy moved.

  • • •

  THE HUMAN LOCKER ROOM had emptied. Quentin sat in front of his locker, fingertips probing the skin above his just-repaired rib. Doc Patah had said the wound would be healed in a few days — if, that was, Quentin didn’t get, say, punched in those same ribs by a world-class professional athlete.

  Quentin had sent Messal with a message for Ju — meet me in the VR room. Right or wrong, it had come to this. Quentin had tried to do the right thing, but violence had found him yet again. He didn’t like it, not one bit, but the team came first.

  And for the team, Ju Tweedy needed to get knocked the hell out.

  Someone walked into the room. Quentin looked up, assuming it would be Ju and that the fight would go down here, not in the VR room.

  But it wasn’t Ju. It was his brother, John Tweedy.

  “Hey, Uncle Johnny.”

  John started to talk, then choked up for a second. He cleared his throat and pressed on. His face carried an expression of internal pain, and his face tattoo scrolled gibberish.

  “I hear you’re going to fight my brother.”

  Not Ju, but rather, my brother. Even if John thought Ju was a selfish jerk, they were still family — no question where John’s true loyalties fell.

  “I’ve got to do something, John. He’s fumbling on purpose.”

  John’s eyes squeezed tight, his head turned away.

  How had John found out about the fight? Maybe the team knew this was coming, maybe not, but John’s arrival just minutes before the fight... Ju had told him. Just as Quentin was trying to get in Ju’s head, Ju was trying to get in his.

  “Quentin,” John said, “I feel real bad, cause I think we’re friends and all —”

  “We are friends. And nothing you have to do for your family is going to change that.”

  John smiled, then nodded. “Thanks. That means the world. I can’t let you fight my brother. Ma wouldn’t like it. I’ll stop you right here if I have to, but I don’t wanna have to.”

  Quentin stood and offered his hand. “Look, John, if you don’t want me to fight your brother, I won’t.”

  John looked suspicious. “Really? You mean it?”

  Quentin smiled. John reached out and took Quentin’s right hand. As soon as he did, Quentin yanked him forward and landed a powerful, short left on John’s jaw, right where it met his skull. John Tweedy dropped to the locker room floor.

  “Sorry, John,” Quentin said. “Fighting one Tweedy is work enough. Two is more than I can handle.”

  He hoped John would forgive him for the sucker-punch. John probably would, but if not, well... the team came first.

  Quentin headed for the VR room.

  • • •

  QUENTIN FELT a calm coldness as he walked into the VR room. Ju Tweedy was waiting for him. Ju still had his leg armor on, his wrists were still taped — he must have been waiting here since the end of the game, as if after Quentin’s on-field antics he’d known the fight would go down. Ju wore a sweaty, gray “Property of Krakens” T-shirt with the collar ripped out and the sleeves cut off. His thick, muscular, exposed arms gleamed with sweat.

  He looked at Quentin with an expression that was part eagerness, part rage, part respect.

  “I didn’t think you’d show,” he said.

  “Yes, you did,” Quentin said. “That’s why you came here right after the game.”

  Ju thought for a second, then nodded.

  “You embarrassed me out there today,” Ju said. “You embarrassed me in front of a hundred thousand sentients.”

  “Actually, one hundred, eighty-five thousand, three hundred and twelve,” Quentin said. “I checked the attendance. Thought you’d like to know exactly.”

  Ju’s smile faded. His eyes widened. In that moment, he had never looked m
ore like his brother.

  “That was just in person,” Quentin said. “Don’t forget the broadcast audience. We’re talking at least five hundred million sentients that have seen it already, with another quarter-billion as the signal is relayed through the shipping channels. By the time replays are done, Ju, our little escapade will be seen by close to a trillion beings. Nothing like an audience, eh?”

  Ju’s chin dipped down. He glared out, eyes visible just under the ridge of his hairy eyebrows. This was the face captured in highlight holos and advertisements, the face of the real Ju Tweedy when he actually came to play.

  “And your brother won’t be bothering us,” Quentin said. “I just kicked his ass. I already sent a message to your Ma, because Doc Patah is taking John to the hospital.”

  The eyes widened further. Maybe Ju was a self-centered jackass, but his reaction spoke volumes about his love for John. There was a soul in there after all — Quentin just had to beat it out of him.

  “You for real with this?” Ju asked, his voice calm and slow. “Winner take all?”

  Quentin nodded. He rubbed his hands together, fingers tracing the inside of his right wrist. He felt the needles embedded under his skin. Maybe he wouldn’t need them.

  Ju twisted to the left, then to the right, his spine cracks echoing through the VR room.

  “Gonna bust you up,” he said.

  Quentin waved him forward. “Go for it.”

  Ju walked in. He didn’t run, didn’t come in off-balance. Maybe he was infuriated, sure, but not enough, not yet. Quentin had to push more buttons, get the guy so enraged he would make mistakes.

  Quentin fell into his fighter’s stance: right foot forward, left foot back, open right hand out in front, left fist just in front of his left cheek — both to protect and to be ready to strike. His left was the hand that could throw a football eighty miles per hour, the hand that had ended almost every fight Quentin had ever been in.

  Ju closed the distance. Quentin shuffled back a couple of steps, drawing the bigger man in, then planted on his right foot and pushed forward, snapping out a right jab. The fist caught Ju in the temple, popping his head back. Quentin was already in motion, whipping his shoulders and twisting his hips for a vicious left hook. He had the briefest moment to think the fist would land right on the hinge of Ju’s jaw, ending the fight in a one-two combo, then Ju ducked the punch and drove a right hook of his own into Quentin’s ribs.

  The same ribs Quentin had broken during the game.

  Ju’s first punch felt like a gunshot.

  The blow had so much power it knocked Quentin sideways. Ju’s big left hand followed it up, coming for Quentin’s chin, but the younger man shuffled back. The knuckles hissed past so close he felt a puff of air tickle his skin.

  Ju threw a right, but telegraphed it. Quentin stepped inside the punch, Ju’s inner forearm hitting harmlessly on Quentin’s shoulder. Quentin brought his knee up — hard — landing it square in Ju’s testicles, lifting the big man up off the ground.

  Ju let out a grunt of surprise and pain. His feet seemed to slip as he came back down. He landed on his knees. Quentin had a moment — a brief, idiotic moment to think he’d ended it — then Ju threw his right elbow down in a short, savage arc. The tip of his elbow hit the top of Quentin’s toes. Quentin heard and felt the snap of something giving way just before molten-metal pain raged through his foot.

  Quentin fell backward, following the instinct to get away. He landed on his butt, both hands clutching his broken toes.

  “Shuck... er...” Ju said, forcing out the words. He was tucked into a fetal position, both hands at his groin. “Fight... dirty...”

  “You... know it...” Quentin said, trying to focus through the pain. “Fight... to... win.”

  Ju rolled to his hands and knees. If Quentin could have pressed the fight, it would have been over, but he couldn’t rise. Quentin knew he had to get up, had to attack.

  He struggled to stand, hopping on just his right foot. Even that motion jarred his left toes, making them feel like the flesh was sliding across broken glass. Quentin hopped toward his foe.

  Just as Ju started to rise, Quentin reached him and threw a hard overhand left. The blow caught Ju on the temple, instantly ripping open a long gash. Ju’s head snapped down, but popped back up. Quentin reared back and landed a second left, this time cutting Ju’s cheek. He raised his hand for a third, but Ju’s right hand grabbed the back of Quentin’s right heel and yanked.

  Quentin’s foot shot out from under him. He landed hard on his back. Instinctively, he brought both fists up over his face, elbows tight to his ribs. Ju straddled him in an instant, blood sheeting off his enraged face, dripping down in streams rather than spatters.

  The first right hit Quentin’s left shoulder, concussive force ripping through his chest. Then a left that Quentin blocked, then a right he also blocked, then a short left elbow that somehow slipped through and caught him in the mouth.

  More snaps, this time, from his teeth. Blood and bits of tooth filled his mouth. Quentin couldn’t see, he could only feel. He felt Ju sitting back, rearing up high — the big right hand would be up at his ear, ramping up for an all-in haymaker.

  Quentin waited for that first sensation of movement, then arched his hips high as hard as he could. Ju’s punch was already bringing him forward — Quentin’s bucking motion threw the big running back off-balance. As both of Ju’s hands hit the ground to catch his fall, Quentin reached his left hand behind Ju’s head and grabbed a handful of thick hair. Quentin planted his right foot and twisted hard to the left, pulling Ju’s hair in the same direction.

  Ju flew away, partially from his own movement, partially from Quentin’s. Ju rolled once, then came up on his knees, head low, glowering eyes peeking out from beneath his eye socket ridges.

  Quentin stood on his one good foot, blood pouring out of his mouth. He spat once. His right front tooth landed on the deck in a glob of blood. Damn, why was it always that tooth that got knocked out?

  Quentin held up his left hand to show a bunch of Ju’s hair, the ends still clinging to a small chunk of flesh that had come out with it.

  Ju’s eyes widened. His hands felt at the back of his head, his fingertips came away bloody.

  “What’s the matter, Ju?” Quentin said. “They don’t teach you rich boys how to fight for real?”

  Ju screamed and shot forward like a sprinter coming out of the blocks.

  BLINK

  Like his best moments on the football field, Quentin’s world slowed to a crawl. Ju, his face sheeted with blood, his eyes wide with rage. This had been the effect Quentin had wanted, for Ju to be out of control. In his fast-processing mind Quentin thought of the old folk saying be careful what you wish for.

  Quentin felt the bones in his foot grinding against each other, felt the stub of his right front tooth stinging with each breath. He’d blasted Ju hard, yet the big running back kept coming.

  Quentin had to use what Doc Patah had given him.

  He dove forward, the two footballers smashing into each other like a head-on linebacker blitz without pads. As they collided, Quentin slid his right wrist across the left side of Ju’s neck.

  The needles were set up almost like sand paper, a dozen or more of them packed closely together. A quarter-inch long, they drove deep into Ju’s skin and immediately began to dissolve. The dissolving was the important part, Doc Patah had said — anyone testing after the fight wouldn’t find needles, and would only discover the cheat if they were checking for that specific drug.

  BLINK

  Quentin flew backward, realizing that Ju’s arms were around his back, Ju’s shoulder in Quentin’s chest. Quentin reached over and grabbed Ju’s waist as he fell back, twisted to the right, throwing Ju off of him. They both landed hard on their sides. Ju let out a grunt of pain, as if he’d landed on something the wrong way.

  Both men slowly stood.

  Ju raged forward again, blood-smeared lips curled back from exposed teet
h, eyes wide and wild. As he came in, Quentin saw Ju’s right hand drop.

  An opening.

  Ju seemed to stumble, just a bit. Had he slipped in blood? Was it the drug?

  Quentin timed it perfectly. As Ju rushed in, head down, right hand at his chest instead of up by his cheek, Quentin bent on his good leg and hopped forward and up. Ju automatically lifted his head in reaction, just a bit, but it was exactly what Quentin had hoped for.

  As Quentin flew through the air, he put his right hand out and drew it back, twisting his shoulders and hips, driving his left fist forward. The punch slid over Ju’s lowered right fist and hit the bigger man on the tip of the jaw.

  Quentin felt a knuckle break, but he knew, he knew, that the punch had ended the fight.

  Quentin landed on his broken foot and dropped, screaming in pain.

  Ju stumbled once, then fell forward and landed face-first, not even bringing up his hands to block the fall. He hit, and stuck.

  Ju Tweedy did not move.

  • • •

  QUENTIN BARNES LIMPED down the corridor, his left arm over Ju Tweedy’s shoulder. Ju supported much of Quentin’s weight, so Quentin didn’t have to step on the broken toes. Blood still poured out of the cuts on Ju’s face, staining the corridor with a splattery red trail.

  “So,” Ju said, “what did you throw to knock me out? I remember coming at you after you hip-tossed me, then nothing.”

  Quentin nodded. “It was a Superman punch.”

  Ju groaned, and not from his obvious physical pain. “Oh, for real? Are you sure?”

  Quentin nodded.

  “Damn,” Ju said. “That’s the kind of thing you use to knock out amateurs. How did you land that?”

  “You got mad,” Quentin said. “You dropped your right hand, I came in over the top of it.”

  “Man, that’s weird,” Ju said. “I always keep my guard up. I’m not bragging, either. I mean that’s something I always do no matter how tired I get.”