by Scott Sigler
Kotop the Observer walked down the line of Krakens players. It was a performance they went through each time the shuttle returned from out-system.
“The food must be very good on Orbital Station One,” Kotop said with disgust. “You’ve all gained weight.”
Quentin, like the other Human players, wore a baggy sweat suit — with a bulging, rounded belly. All the players had some new bulky area on their body: the Ki linemen had bulging backs, Sklorno tails were fatter and longer, and even the Quyth Warriors thighs seemed far thicker than normal.
Kotop stood in front of Virak.
“This must be a very proud day for a warrior like yourself,” Kotop said. “I wonder who will be hurt by your newfound wealth.”
Virak said nothing, simply stared straight ahead so he didn’t have to look down at Kotop. His eye showed no color. Moments later, the technicians exited the ship.
“No weapons, no explosives,” one of them said to Kotop. The Quyth Leader clapped his pedipalps together once, then gestured to the ship.
“You football players think you’re so special,” Kotop said. “You flaunt the law right in front of us, and there’s nothing we can do. Someday… someday things will change.”
“YOU SURE THIS IS the right way to do this?” Quentin sat in the back of a cramped hovercab. Virak the Mean sat on one side, Choto the Bright sat on the other.
“Do you want Pine’s debt cleared?” Virak asked.
Quentin nodded.
“Then we have to show strength. A Leader like Mopuk will not let go of a choice debtor like Pine. Not easily. You need to convince Mopuk it’s in his best interest.”
Quentin nodded again. He’d started this, and he’d finish it, but he hadn’t expected anything like what was about to go down. Virak, Choto, Shayat and John Tweedy were well versed in violence. Real violence, the kind where beings died. Quentin could hold his own in any fight, but this was something different.
He looked out the side of the open cab. They were in Ionath City’s club district, a seemingly endless row of bars and dance halls, the street lit with brightly colored holosigns. Beings of all shapes and sizes crowded the streets. At least two fights were already in progress, one down the street to the left, one just off to their right. Quyth Warrior constables casually worked their way through the crowd to break up the altercations.
“We move now.” Virak slipped over the cab’s edge and onto the street. Choto hopped out the other side. Quentin followed suit, walking behind the two Quyth Warriors towards a club called the Bootleg Arms. A holosign above the bar showed a Quyth Worker using his pedipalps to repeatedly pour a gin & tonic. A line of beings, mostly Quyth Workers although all kinds were represented, extended out the door and down the street.
A Quyth Worker and three Ki — large, but not as large as GFL linemen — stood near the door. The Quyth Worker instantly recognized the three Krakens players and gestured for them to walk past the line. Virak and Choto entered first, moving in front of Quentin like the blades of a snowplow. They ignored the Quyth Worker and the Ki.
“Elder Barnes,” the Quyth Worker said, perfectly pronouncing the respectable Purist Nation title. “Welcome to the Bootleg Arms. If there is anything you need, I am Tikad the Groveling, and I assure you I will tend to your needs.”
“We want to see Mopuk,” Quentin said.
Tikad bowed. “Mister Mopuk may be busy, Elder Barnes.”
“Go get him,” Quentin said. “Right now.”
Tikad bowed lower, said something to the Ki guards, then walked through the door. Virak and Choto followed Tikad, Quentin only a step behind them. They walked through the door and onto a lighted floor that swayed with dancers of all species. He wondered how anybeing could dance to that crappy Tower Republic music, but it was all the rage in the clubs.
Floating flashbugs gracefully avoided the swirling dancers. The bugs emitted bright colors in time to the music’s beat. The floor shook with the song’s low bass tones, frequencies that seemed to vibrate every atom in Quentin’s body. Smells filled his nostrils — like most clubs, designer pheromones permeated the air, guaranteed to put an erotic edge on every patron regardless of their species. He kept his eyes on Virak and Choto, doing his best to ignore the sensory assault.
The crowd parted before the two Quyth Warriors. Quentin couldn’t help but feel important. The two of them moved like walking statues that radiated confidence mixed with lethality. They followed Tikad to a back wall that seemed to vibrate slightly, in time to the bass beat — a hologram. Two Quyth Warriors stood by the wall, not-so-gently pushing back any dancers that moved too close. Tikad walked between them and right through the holographic wall.
As soon as they were through, the music dropped off to a distant thud of bass and nothing more. Soft lighting seemed a direct contrast to the dance floor’s garish flashbugs. Thick couches, some for all species but mainly tailored for the small bodies of Quyth Leaders, lined the walls of the small room. A large oval table sat in the middle, a clear glass top revealing a tank of swarming insectlike creatures.
On a chair behind the table sat Mopuk. His Ki bodyguards flanked him, one on each side. Quentin recognized them — they’d beaten the crap out of him back on The Deuce, and had tried to rough him up on The Ace. That was when Virak the Mean told the bodyguards that if he faced them again, he’d kill them. Quentin wondered if the two guards remembered the threat.
Tikad stood nervously, his pedipalps repeatedly cleaning his eye, which glowed a neon pink. Mopuk’s eyes, of course, remained perfectly clear. Sobox, Mopuk’s Creterakian lieutenant, perched comfortably on Mopuk’s small shoulder.
Virak and Choto each took a small step to the side. Quentin walked between them and sat down on a Human chair, directly across the table from Mopuk.
“Quentin Barnes,” Mopuk said quietly. “You saved me the time of coming to find you again. You’ve cost me a lot of money this season, money you will have to repay.”
“I owe you nothing,” Quentin said. “But I am here about money. He pulled out a contract box and slid it across the table. As the box crossed the glass, the insect-like creatures swarmed towards it, pressing hungrily against the glass top’s underside.
Mopuk picked up the contract box. “What’s this?”
“Four-point-one million. Every penny that Donald Pine owes you.”
Mopuk’s eye instantly changed to translucent black. He slid the contract box back across the glass. The bugs vainly tried again to eat it.
“That’s not enough,” Sobox said. “Mopuk the Sneaky does not accept your offer.”
“He’d better,” Quentin said. “Pine’s debt to you is paid. Now you stay away from him, and everyone else on the Krakens.”
Mopuk’s eye shifted to an even deeper shade of black.
“You come in here and tell me what to do? I say that’s not enough money.” Mopuk gestured to the glass table. “Get out of here before I feed you to my pets.”
“You will accept this,” Quentin said, leaning forward. “You don’t have a choice.”
Mopuk leaned back, seemingly speechless, then looked to his left and gestured a pedipalp at one of the Ki. The two big creatures started to move forward, but hadn’t even managed two steps before Virak and Choto launched into action.
Virak moved forward at blinding linebacker speed. He touched his pedipalps together once — when he pulled them apart, a thin glowing silvery line ran from one to the other. He looped this line around the first surprised Ki and then yanked it tight — black blood exploded like a water balloon as the Ki’s upper torso fell away from the lower body.
Choto moved almost as fast, producing a fat blade from a hiding spot inside the carapace of his right arm. He jammed the blade into the second Ki’s hexagonal mouth, bent it downwards, and thrust it right down the Ki’s throat.
Sobox flew up in alarm and reached into his tiny vest. Quentin didn’t know if they made entropic accelerators that small, but he wasn’t waiting to find out. He threw the contra
ct box like a missile. It smashed into Sobox, knocking the Creterakian backwards. Sobox hit the wall and fell to the floor, limp.
Just before Choto’s opponent hit the floor, Tikad pressed a button on his belt. The holographic wall vanished and an alarm screeched through the bar. The music kept playing, joined by noises of fear and surprise from the patrons. Flashbugs started filtering in, pre-programmed to diffuse evenly through any open space.
The two Ki bodyguards were not Mopuk’s only protection. Two Quyth Warriors sprinted towards the back room, each pulling a small pistol as they ran. Before the guns cleared their concealed holsters, flashes of black cloth hit them like phantasms. Both guards went down under the weight of a pair of Sklorno females: Hawick and Scarborough on one, Mezquitic and Denver on the other. As soon as the Quyth Warriors hit the ground, John Tweedy slid out of a booth, head down, hateful eyes up, moving like a silent tiger. DON’T MESS WITH DON PINE scrolled across his forehead. With a growling snarl, he put his fist clear through the first Quyth Warrior’s eye and deep into the brain. Clear liquid splashed up and out, covering Tweedy’s psychotic face.
The second Quyth Warrior kicked out, knocking Denver on her back. The Warrior’s pedipalps whipped like snakes, wrapping around Mezquitic’s slender neck. Tweedy flew through the air, dropping all his weight on the prone Warrior.
As John Tweedy and the Warrior grappled, deafening roars erupted, far louder than the bass-driven music. Five sets of waving, multi-jointed arms drew all eyes as the Krakens’ offensive line, who had been quietly dancing only moments earlier, stood tall on their rear legs, twelve-feet high and more imposing than a rabid Mullah Hills bull-cat. Bar patrons needed no further urging — they ran for the door, a stampede of every species moving as one panicked mass.
Tweedy rolled on top of the Quyth Warrior, grabbed his thick head in both hands and jerked to the right. A loud crack marked the end of the conflict as the Quyth Warrior quivered once, then fell still, motionless save for a quivering pedipalp.
“Touch my quarterbacks, you loser,” Tweedy said in a growl. “Losers don’t get to make that mistake twice.”
Black blood spread across the floor like a giant amoeba. Quentin had never imagined Ki had so much blood in their tubular body. He felt his lunch rising up in his stomach, but he steeled himself against the sickness. The game was on, and he’d stick with it.
Tikad cowered on the floor, his body already covered in black gore as he rolled about, quietly begging not to be killed. Mopuk was still in his chair, his eye now the pure blue of total fear. Streaks of black blood covered him, even on his eye — he was too stunned to clean it off. Virak and Choto stood rock still on either side of him, awaiting Quentin’s orders.
Quentin picked the contract box up off the ground. He walked back to his chair and sat, then slid the contract box across the table once again. The insects seemed angrier than ever, but the glass still held them at bay. The contract box slid off the glass and onto Mopuk’s lap.
“Last chance,” Quentin said. “You get your money, Pine is free and clear. Do you accept?”
Mopuk picked up the contract box. He slid the tip of one pedipalp finger inside. The box’s light switched from red to green, signifying a completed transaction.
“That’s that,” Quentin said. “Now that you’re paid, I don’t have to worry about you coming after us. I don’t want to see you again. And don’t think of letting it slip to Gredok as a way of getting back at Pine. You know what will happen to Pine if Gredok finds out, but you also know what will happen to you if Gredok finds out you were messing with his team and his players, right?”
“Yes,” Mopuk said. “I agree. We will keep this to ourselves.”
“And what about them?” Quentin asked, gesturing to the two dead Ki that took up half the floor, and the two dead Quyth Warriors.
“An accident,” Mopuk said. “You will not be involved.”
Quentin nodded again. The music continued to blare, but over the horrible noise he heard the high-pitched rhythmic chirp of constables approaching.
“Tikad,” Quentin said. The Quyth Worker didn’t seem to hear. Quentin reached out with a toe and kicked him.
“Yes Elder Barnes!” said Tikad the Groveling. “Please is there anything I can do for you?”
“You got a back door in this place?”
“Yes Elder Barnes! Right this way!” Tikad scrambled to his feet, his body trailing dripping black strands of thick Ki blood. He ran deeper into the club. Quentin followed, Virak and Choto in front of him once again, the rest of his teammates behind. As the first constables ran into the Bootleg Arms, Quentin and the Krakens were nowhere to be seen.
• • •
IN LESS THAN twenty-four hours, the bandages were gone, the rejuv bath had been removed, and Don Pine’s healed arms crossed over his chest as he lay back in his hospital bed, staring incredulously at Quentin.
“So you paid it?” Pine said. “Are you kidding me?” While his eyes showed doubt, they also showed just a flicker of hope.
“Yes,” Quentin said. “The debt is paid.”
They were alone in the room. Teammates sat outside. Not a moment had gone by when there weren’t at least two Krakens players guarding their veteran quarterback.
“But they’re not going to just let me go,” Pine said, shaking his head. “They make more on one game than my debt is worth, easy.”
Quentin shrugged. “It’s taken care of.”
Pine looked away. “Those Ki scumbags that broke my legs, cut me up… they’ll be after me again, I know it.”
“They won’t be after anyone, ever,” Quentin said. “Virak and Choto saw to that.”
Pine’s expression relaxed into wide-eyed amazement. “But why, Quentin? Why would you do this?”
“I didn’t do it, the team did it.”
Pine nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure of that, but off the field most of these guys can’t even stand to look at each other. Someone had to make them work together, and I know it wasn’t Virak and Choto. It was you. So why did you do it? All you had to do was stay out of it, and the team was yours.”
Quentin looked at the floor. “I don’t know. You needed help, and I helped. That’s it.”
Pine extended his blue-skinned hand. Quentin had shaken the man’s hand before, but this was different. Quentin stared at it for a second. Ten weeks ago, to think a blue-boy would be a true friend, well, that was simply unthinkable.
Quentin shook Donald Pine’s hand.
“I won’t forget this,” Pine said. “Not ever.”
• • •
QUENTIN ROLLED to the left as the rest of the team moved right. Hokor had held the naked boot in reserve all day, but played that card late in the fourth quarter. The Krakens held on to a slim 2019 lead, and they needed to put the Bigg Diggers away.
Surveying his options, Quentin kept the ball on his left hip as he started turning upfield at the Diggers 28. Kitiara Lomax, the Diggers’ all-pro linebacker, saw the naked boot and gave chase, but he was the only one. Quentin looked downfield — Rick Warburg had blocked down then bounced left on a 10-yard out, and Denver was angling for the end zone’s back left corner, covered closely by Arkham.
Run or pass. With the speed of a supercomputer, the options flashed through Quentin’s brain. He had three or four steps on Lomax. Arkham already had three interceptions on the day, and had kept her team in the game by preying on Quentin’s passes like a piranha on raw meat. Rick Warburg was open — but he was also a racist jerk.
BLINK
Quentin tucked the ball under his left arm and angled for the sidelines. He sensed everything: the home Krakens crowd jumping and roaring, the missing patches of Iomatt where cleats had torn up the turf, the smell of dirt and sweat and blood, Lomax’s desperate efforts to cut him off, Warburg’s look of fury when he realized that Quentin wasn’t going to throw.
Quentin leaned into the run, his legs chewing up the yards. Lomax was faster than he’d calculated, and dove for Quentin just as
the young QB reached the sidelines and turned upfield. But Warburg was there, coming free and fast, and blindsided Lomax with a devastating, head-snapping hit.
Quentin’s long, graceful strides belied his speed. The yards slid by like water on glass. Denver tried to block Arkham, but the cornerback effortlessly pushed the receiver aside and came up the sidelines at Quentin. It would be a head-to-head battle.
Intercept me? Payback time, lady.
Arkam’s legs blurred as she kamikazied her way forward. At the eleven, Quentin screamed and lowered his head, smashing into Arkham, more a linebacker delivering a concussive blow than a quarterback scrambling for yards. Arkham was bigger than most Sklorno, and faster, and she carried a devastating amount of force.
Quentin ran her right over.
He stumbled after the hit, legs pumping high to avoid a trip. Arkham crashed to the ground, defeated, crushed. Her raspers reached out at the last second, scraping long strips of skin from the backs of Quentin’s hands.
BLINK
The world slammed back to reality as Quentin crossed the goal line trailing a stream of his own blood. He chucked the ball into the stands, then stood with both arms outstretched, redness dripping to stain the blue lomatt, his tilted head looking at the roaring, adoring crowd.
That’s right, he thought as he turned, surveying his fans. You do not mess with Quentin Barnes.
From the Ionath city Gazette
Backup leads Krakens to fourth straight win
By Toyat the Inquisitive
It seems that the Purist Nation finally has an export that interests citizens of the Quyth Concordia.
That export is Quentin Barnes.
The rookie quarterback once again came to the Krakens’ rescue, filling in for oft-damaged starter Donald Pine who was out with unspecified injuries. Barnes led the Krakens (5–2) to a 27–19 win over the Bigg Diggers (2–5), and put on a showcase that combined unstoppable talent, rookie inexperience and more speed than any Human has a right to possess. Barnes threw for 305 yards and two touchdowns, as well as running for 82 yards and adding another touchdown on the ground. This all-pro caliber performance was marred by inconsistent passing — Barnes was 19-for-35, including three interceptions.