The Rookie gfl-1

by Scott Sigler

  “High One protects the faithful,” Warburg said as he walked over.

  “I see,” Pine said, drawing out the last word. “The faithful. And so therefore if a little child is killed by one of these bugs, then that’s because the child was not faithful. So the child dies, and it’s the child’s fault.”

  Warburg nodded.

  Pine shook his head. “Nice place you guys come from. Say, Quentin, Yitzhak and I are heading out on the town. There’s a great Chinese place just past the stadium.”

  Pine’s audacity amazed Quentin. The guy was pulling every string in the book to keep his starting job, and was two-faced enough to try and be friends.

  “I’ve got a place Quentin would be more happy,” Warburg said. “With his own people.”

  Pine looked at Warburg, then looked at Quentin, then shrugged and walked away.

  “Finish getting dressed,” Warburg said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “YOU’LL LOVE the neighborhood,” Warburg said. “There’s thousands of ex-patriot Nationalites on Ionath. Most of them came during the cleansing.”

  Their grav-cab floated along the magnetic track that led through the Human Cultural Area. Grav-cabs abounded in the domed city — you just hopped on, told it where you wanted to go, then enjoyed the ride. On Micovi, only the rich could afford any kind of car, let alone one with a driver. Here in Ionath City, cars were not only available to anyone at any time, they were also free.

  The four mile diameter dome created twelve square miles of ground, most of that space taken up by the main towering buildings of downtown Ionath City. The remaining space was home to the “Cultural Areas” of several species: Sklorno, Ki and Human; a fifty-story, high-pressure gas cylinder for the Harrah; aquatic centers for Leekee, Dolphins and Whitok. The Human Cultural Area consisted of only six city blocks, which didn’t leave a lot of room for individual neighborhoods that reflected the thousands of various Human cultures. The Human District, as the residents called it, was a hodge-podge of cultural influences crammed together in a claustrophobically confined space.

  “Wait ‘til we eat,” Warburg said. “An old couple owns the place, used to run a restaurant back on Allah. Down-home Nation cooking. They’ve got a habanero falafel biscuit that will put your mouth in punch space.”

  Quentin marveled at the area’s diversity. A hotel catering to League of Planets residents right next to a café that advertised food from the Tower Republic, next to a vodka-only liquor store that specialized in brands from across the galaxy. He saw dance clubs, restaurants, grocery stores, shops, all of which had signs written in Standard and hundreds of other languages. Shops and stores and restaurants packed one on top of the other and side-by-side. There were also dozens of places that — despite assorted cultural trappings — were easily identified by brightly lit signs showing stylized logos of liquor and beer, combined with some image of football. Bars, it seemed, looked the same all over in the galaxy.

  People of every type walked the streets. Back home, he was used to the skin tones of his countrymen: black, brown, yellowish and pinkish. But here, those tones mingled with others that never set foot on Nation soil: blue, bleach-white, reddish, and even the occasional deep purple skin of an amphibious Human from the Whitok Kingdom. The “mongrel” races, as they’d been called back home. And it wasn’t just Humans. Gaudily dressed Ki businessmen freely walked the streets, as did Quyth Leaders, Quyth Warriors, tiny Sklorno males and floating Harrah.

  Amidst the diversity, he suddenly realized that one species was notedly absent. “Where are the Creterakian soldiers?”

  “There aren’t any.”

  Quentin looked at Warburg. “There aren’t any? But, how is that possible? They rule the universe.”

  Warburg shrugged. “They don’t rule here. The Quyth are independent. The bats never conquered them.”

  The concept seemed impossible. All his life, he and his people had been ruled by Creterakians. Quentin had never known a time when the omnipresent bats hadn’t controlled everything.

  “So, in the war, the Quyth won?” The Quyth won while the Purist Nation was conquered were the words that went unsaid.

  “They can thank Satan for that,” Warburg said. “The Quyth are in league with the Low One. Temporary freedom for an eternity of fire, Quentin, it’s hardly a good deal.”

  Music of many differing styles filtered out of windows and open bar doors. Smells of enticing foods combined with the stench of garbage and the ever-present onion scent of Quyth Workers. Quentin had never before experienced such a concentration of sights, sounds and smells.

  “Look at this place,” Warburg said, gesturing to the brightly lit signs of three different churches lined up side-by-side. “Look at all the blasphemy that goes on in the galaxy, Quentin. It’s as if a new religion pops up every other day.”

  Churches of every type filled tiny buildings, offices and upper-story lofts. He’d never imagined there were so many different religions. On Micovi, you either followed the Purist way or you followed no way at all — practicing other religions in Nation space got you thrown in jail, if you were lucky, or dragged before a tribunal, which usually resulted in jail, public beatings, or being stoned to death.

  “Someday, Purist Nation troops will walk down this street,” Warburg said. “Someday, all of these sinners will burn.”

  Quentin said nothing. He didn’t feel anger or disgust, he felt excitement. Excitement at something new and different. He suddenly realized that, for the first time in his life, he was free of not only the Creterakian Empire’s watchful eye, but also the Purist Church’s constant restrictions.

  “Here we are,” Warburg said as he hit the stop button on the automated grav-cab. Quentin got out in front of a building with a flickering holo sign of the infinity symbol. Below the flickering sign were the words “The Blessed Lamb,” and below that a nondescript brown door. Some graffiti covered the plain black walls. Quentin couldn’t make out most of the writing, but one message in Standard read haters go home.

  Warburg walked in and Quentin followed. There was a brief pause as the men entered and heads turned, followed by a chorus of cheers and calls of “Praise High One.” Over half the crowd of fifty-plus patrons wore the blue. Most of the men bore the infinity tattoo on their foreheads.

  “Welcome, Brother Warburg,” said a fat man in priest’s robes. “We enjoyed your performance today.”

  “Thank you, Father Harry.” Warburg warmly shook the man’s hand. “Three catches is a good day’s work.”

  “Three catches for twenty-eight yards,” said a man on their right. He wore Purist blue and held a coffee mug in his hand. “And let’s not forget the highlight of the day, when you put that cricket in the hospital.”

  “Thanks, Elder Greyson. Any word on his condition?”

  Father Harry smiled. “ESPN reports the beast is out for two to three games. Said her leg was nearly severed at the knee!”

  A snarl-smile covered Warburg’s face, and he pumped his fist. “I tried to make the thing come right off.”

  The words shocked Quentin. He stared at Warburg, wondering if the man was joking. Had he really tried to maim the Wallcrawler defensive back?

  Warburg stood tall and raised his voice. “Hey, listen everybody. I want to introduce you to the latest Purist Nation export, Quentin Barnes.”

  A round of cheers and applause filled the small bar. Hands reached out to pat Quentin’s shoulder or shake his hand. He couldn’t help but smile at the outpouring of affection. These were Nationalites, Church members, and they seemed to instantly accept him. Quentin didn’t know what to make of it.

  “A blessed game you played today, my son,” Father Harry said. “Two-for-two, for eighty yards and a touchdown! Now that’s showing the galaxy what a Nationalite can do.”

  “Maybe you’ll be starting soon,” Greyson said. “Get some more passes to Rick, here. High One knows he’d have more catches if that damn blue-boy quarterback would stop throwing to that scum Kobaya
sho. He doesn’t even have half of Rick’s skills!”

  Warburg shrugged and held up his hands as if to say what can I do?

  Quentin’s thoughts came back to football, and he felt his face turn red with embarrassment. He wouldn’t be starting, he wouldn’t even be playing in the next game. Benched. Benched.

  Quentin and Warburg were the center of attention as the bar owners, a husband-and-wife team named Brother Guido and Monica Basset, brought plate after plate of classic Nation dishes. The conversation revolved around the hated Planetary Union, the hated League of Planets, the hated Tower Republic, the demonic Ki, the demonic Sklorno, the demonic Quyth, et cetera, et cetera. It was the same conversation Quentin had heard every day of his life, yet somehow, in this alien city, with his alien teammates probably only a few blocks away at their own cultural centers, the conversation seemed out of place. It even seemed wrong. He suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.

  And, he wanted a beer. Several beers. Back on Micovi, he didn’t care who he offended with his preference of beverage, but these people were so nice, and Warburg really had tried hard to make him feel at home. For the first time in Quentin’s life, he didn’t want to offend the people around him.

  He finished his fourth helping of habanero falafel biscuits, his mouth a dichotomy of tasty pleasure and fiery, burning pain. He stood and smiled. “Thank you all for your hospitality.”

  “You’re leaving?” Warburg said amidst the groans from the other patrons.

  “This is my first time in the city,” Quentin said apologetically. “I want to walk around a bit.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  Quentin shook his head. “No, thanks. You stay. I just want to take in the sights by myself.”

  Warburg stood and shook Quentin’s hand, starting a cavalcade of hand-shaking and back-patting from smiling, happy expatriot Nationalites.

  Father Harry stood. That took some effort thanks to his ample girth. He handed Quentin a plastic call chit. “Quentin, my son, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, you have but to call. We have a network of Nationalite business owners and travelers who can help you no matter what the problem.”

  Quentin took the chit. The offer didn’t surprise him — he’d received preferential treatment ever since he’d started his first game two years ago. But this was different. Before, he’d been treated with deference just because he was a quarterback, but here he had the feeling it had nothing to do with football. Well, almost nothing. It was mostly because he was a Nationalite.

  “There is one thing.”

  “What is it, my son?”

  “I… I’m looking for my parents.”

  “Are they on Ionath?”

  “I, um, I don’t know. I haven’t seen them since I was maybe three. I think they left Micovi but I don’t know.”

  Father Harry nodded knowingly, a sad nod, a supporting nod. “I see. Don’t be embarrassed, Quentin. Your story is quite common. Many of us, even in this room, had to leave the Nation suddenly, either leave or die. Families are scattered throughout the universe.”

  “So how do I find them?”

  “What are their names?”

  “I don’t know,” Quentin said, staring at the ground. “I don’t remember. I know their last name is Barnes, but that’s all.”

  “Do you have any other family?”

  Quentin held his breath. Here it comes, he thought. Now they find out I have no family, and they treat me like garbage, just like they treated me back on Micovi.

  “Quentin, do you have any other family? Brothers? Aunts or uncles?”

  “No,” Quentin said in a whisper.

  Father Harry clapped Quentin on the shoulder. “Then we’ll have to start from scratch, my son. We’ll put the word out. Last name Barnes, left Micovi about sixteen years ago?”

  Quentin looked up, into Father Harry’s eyes. The man was still smiling, still supportive. “Yeah, fifteen or sixteen years ago.”

  “If they can be found, we will find them. Now go enjoy your sightseeing. You are welcome here anytime.”

  Quentin mumbled thanks, then walked outside. He didn’t know what to make of it. These people were a support network, a small tribe in a hostile land. He felt the sense of community, of brotherhood. They offered to help him not because he was a football player, but because they automatically considered him to be one of them. He had to travel hundreds of light years from his home to be accepted by his own people. It was so confusing it made his head hurt.

  He started walking. He’d never been treated like that before. Those people were so nice to him, so gracious and friendly and loving — just because he was a Nationalite. And yet, those same people hated everything that was different from them. Not just hated, but wanted to destroy.

  He had walked only a few short minutes when the environment changed. The buildings looked the same, but the glowing signs showed alien words. Strange music flowing from open doors. If you could call it music — some horrible screeching sound with rhythm. Quentin looked around him, realizing he’d walked right through the Human District and into the Sklorno Cultural Area. Tall Sklorno females wrapped in heavy clothing walked about. Sklorno males abounded, but here the tiny creatures moved in an orderly, calm fashion, nothing like the bouncing madness he’d seen at the game.

  He also realized he’d drawn a crowd. Looking about, he saw he was surrounded by Sklorno females. They kept their distance, a good fifteen feet, but ringed him nonetheless.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s out on the town!”

  Quentin cringed when he heard the deep Human voice — John Tweedy. He turned to see Tweedy and Yassoud standing there. Perhaps leaning was a better description. Both men held magnicans of beer, and both looked like they’d been drinking for hours. They were both stylishly dressed, although the clothes looked a bit worse for the wear, as if they’d both fallen down several times during the night. Tweedy also wore a bandoleer filled with magnicans. TAKE ONE DOWN PASS IT AROUND scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.

  “Hey, Q,” Yassoud said.

  “Hey,” Quentin said, staring at Tweedy, bracing himself for some kind of conflict.

  “So what’s a racist waste of skin like you doin’ in the Sklorno District?” Tweedy said, his words slurring slightly.

  Quentin started to answer, but Yassoud cut him off. “Aw, leave him alone, Johnny. He’s here, ain’t he?”

  Tweedy seemed to seriously consider this for almost five seconds, as if it were an advanced trigonometry problem. “Uh… yeah,” he finally said with a definitive nod of the head.

  Yassoud laughed. “I’m finding our world-class linebacker ain’t too sharp after you get a few in him.”

  Tweedy reached into his bandolier and pulled out a magnican. “Hey, Q, you want a beer?”

  It was the last thing he’d expected to hear from John Tweedy. “Sure,” Quentin said, and took the offered can. He twisted the top, feeling the can grow instantly cold in his hand. He took a long drink — the amazing taste exploded in his mouth. He looked at the can: Miller Lager.

  “Where the hell did you get this?”

  Tweedy’s face furrowed in confusion. “From a beer store.”

  “Yeah, but, I mean, how much did this cost?”

  Yassoud laughed. “Five credits for a ten-pack.”

  “Five credits? You’re joking.”

  Yassoud and Tweedy looked at each other, then at Quentin, and both laughed.

  “Okay, fine, so it’s cheap beer,” Yassoud said. “Go to the store and get what you want.”

  “No no, it’s great!” Quentin took another long pull, draining the can. “I don’t know how you got it for that price. Is there any left at that store?”

  Yassoud laughed and shook his head. “Are you kidding me? There’s a whole wall of it.”

  They had to be joking, of course. Miller Lager was ten credits a can back home.

  Tweedy and Yassoud started to walk towards a door. Quentin didn’t know what the buildi
ng was until he saw the glowing holosign: some logo he didn’t recognize, with words he couldn’t read, but in the middle of it was the familiar outline of a football — a sports bar. Tweedy and Yassoud made it as far as the wall before they fell down in a heap. Yassoud attempted to rise, while Tweedy didn’t move.

  Quentin sighed. All of the sudden he was the sober one, and knew he had to get his teammates home. He signaled a grav-cab and helped Yassoud stumble in. Then he struggled to lift Tweedy’s 310-plus pounds, breaking a sweat before he rolled the big, muscular man onto the cab’s floor. The vehicle was built to carry all types of sentients, including Ki, which meant there was still plenty of room.

  “The Krakens’ Building,” Quentin said. The grav-cab slid noiselessly down the track.

  WEEK ONE LEAGUE ROUNDUP (courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

  Opening week of the Quyth Irradiated schedule held few surprises. The Glory Warpigs (1–0) topped the Grontak Hydras (0–1) thanks to a pair of interceptions by the Warpigs’ All-Pro corner-back Toyonaka.

  Last year’s rookie sensation Condor Adrienne showed why he’s the hope of the Whitok Pioneers (1–0), throwing for 334 yards and three touchdowns in a 42–10 blowout win over the Quyth Survivors (0–1).

  Donald Pine, quarterback of the Ionath Krakens (1–0), showed no signs of his age, throwing three TD passes in a 31-7 win over the Woo Wallcrawlers (0–1).

  The Sheb Stalkers (0–1) couldn’t manage any answer to “The Mad” Ju Tweedy, who ran for 212 yards to lead the Orbiting Death (1–0) to a 32-7 win. Ju notched three rushing touchdowns, and knocked two Stalkers defenders out for the season.

  The Bigg Diggers (1–0) edged out a 21–16 win over the Sky Demolition (0–1).

  DEATHS:

  Princeton, a kick returner for the Bigg Diggers, was killed on a tackle by Yalla the Biter. League officials ruled that it was a clean hit.

  WEEK #1 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

  Offense: Condor Adrienne, quarterback, Whitok Pioneers. 31-of-42, 334 yards, three TDs, no INTs.

  Defense: Arkham, cornerback, Bigg Diggers. Six tackles, one sack, two interceptions, five passes defended.