The MVP

18





Week Six: Ionath Krakens at Buddha City Elite



PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION



4-0 Yall Criminals

4-0 Bartel Water Bugs (bye)



3-1 To Pirates

4-1 Jupiter Jacks



3-1 Wabash Wolfpack (bye)

3-1 Neptune Scarlet Fliers



3-2 OS1 Orbiting Death

3-1 Texas Earthlings



2-2 Alimum Armada

3-2 Vik Vanguard



2-2 Isis Ice Storm (bye)

2-2 Jang Atom Smashers (bye)



2-2 Themala Dreadnaughts

2-3 Bord Brigands



2-3 Buddha City Elite

2-3 Sheb Stalkers



1-3 Ionath Krakens

1-3 D’Kow War Dogs



1-4 Coranadillana Cloud Killers

1-4 New Rodina Astronauts



1-4 Hittoni Hullwalkers

0-5 Shorah Warlords





QUENTIN THREW UP into his golden bucket.

He wiped his mouth, set the trash can down, pulled out the plastic bag and tied it. As he did, his eyes lingered on the latest sticker applied by John and Ju.

An infinity symbol.

That symbol was the Buddha City Elite’s logo, but it held far more meaning for Quentin. It was also the symbol of the Purist Church, and the entire Purist Nation. When Quentin swore to himself that he would leave his home behind forever, he’d never thought he might return to play football.

“This was your home?”

Quentin looked to his left, at Cormorant Bumberpuff. It just didn’t seem real — bringing the Devil’s Rope to the Purist Nation? As a teammate, as a friend? Quentin nodded, then looked out the viewport window at Buddha City Station, the Purist Nation’s technological crown jewel.

A few other players were there to watch the arrival: Choto, Mum-O-Killowe, Sho-Do-Thikit, Alexsandar Michnik and Jason Procknow, the rookie defensive tackle. Procknow was the only other Nationalite on the team. He was on the other side of the room, and Quentin knew why — he wanted to be as far away from Bumberpuff as possible.

Bumberpuff’s presence was probably also the reason no Sklorno were there. In the past two weeks, Hokor had made room on the roster for the Prawatt by releasing Rehoboth, Luanda and Emmitsburgh. All three had survived the preseason cuts, but they weren’t as good as the four former Harpies. In total, four Sklorno gone to make room for four Prawatt, something that further escalated the internal tension between the two races.

“I lived in the Purist Nation, but not here,” Quentin said. “I lived on a colony called Micovi. I visited here a lot, though. Mostly to play football.”

“When you visited, did you win?”

Quentin started to answer, but the words froze in his mouth when he realized he wasn’t sure. After seven seasons of pro football, the memory of some games had faded. He mentally ticked off the seasons, counting the number of times he’d lined up on the Buddha City field.

“I played here five times,” he said. “And I won them all.”

“That is a good omen,” Bumberpuff said. “I hope you remain undefeated.”

Quentin studied his alien friend. All the X-Walkers looked structurally the same, but he had already internalized the subtle differences that made each of them recognizable as individuals. Some of it was body language, some was physical marks on their semi-see-through bodies, but much of it was verbal. They didn’t just sound Human, they spoke like Humans, revealing Human-like thought patterns, observations and reactions. Quentin realized that out of all the non-Human races, even including Choto the Bright, Bumberpuff was fast becoming one of his best friends.

Through that new familiarity and that budding friendship, Quentin picked up a vibe coming off of Bumberpuff — something was wrong.

“You okay, Cappy? You look nervous.”

“Nervous? Hardly,” Bumberpuff said. “When you’ve driven starships into battle, Quentin, something like visiting an archaic station hardly makes one nervous.”

Quentin heard something in those words. He heard overcompensation; Bumberpuff was speaking more to himself than to anyone else.

“Captain, come on,” Quentin said. “It’s okay to be nervous. I’m nervous every time I step onto a football field, and I’m sure as hell nervous about coming back to the Purist Nation.”

Bumberpuff’s body whirred as various dots and spots turned Quentin’s way. “You are nervous coming here? But these are your people.”

“I was born here, but these were never my people,” Quentin said. “They probably hate me.”

“At least with you it’s probably,” Bumberpuff said. “My kind has explored more than you might think, and in most places we are mistrusted. In the Purist Nation, it is far more than that. Here, don’t they think we are creatures of evil?”

The Devil’s Rope. Quentin wanted to reassure his teammate, say something to make him feel better about the situation, but to do so would be to lie.

“They do,” Quentin said. “It’s a backward place with backward people.”

“Are all the Nationalites full of hate?”

Quentin thought of Mister Sam, the restaurant owner who had taken him in and given him a home, a second job and — most importantly — all the food a growing, oversized boy could eat. Mister Sam hadn’t taken Quentin out of the mines, but he’d given Quentin direction and a hope of something greater than dying from a roundbug bite or a stonecat mauling.

“No, not all,” Quentin said. “It’s like anyplace else, I guess — there are good people and bad people.”

“I believe you,” Bumberpuff said. “There must be more people like you, good people who want to help others even if those others are from a different species.”

Quentin’s face suddenly felt warm.

“Ah, Captain … you didn’t know me then. I’ve changed since I joined the Krakens.”

He’d left the Purist Nation as a bigoted, selfish child out to show everyone just how good he was. Four years later, he returned a different man. He’d gone from hating anything non-Human to being the advocate for integration, from knowing how to kill the alien races to stopping wars between them. He’d gone from worshipping the one, true god to — literally — being considered a god himself. He’d gone from being a locker room pariah to a true leader, someone who really cared for his teammates and wanted them to succeed.

He had changed so much.

Buddha City Station also seemed to have changed. It was the same orbital complex as before, sure, but now it looked small. It looked old. It looked … worn out. The Station’s fifty-seven decks of steel and aluminum alloy composites were lined with decorative green enamel, but also dotted with the remains of burn marks, with panels that didn’t match the original construction material, all legacies of battle-damage from the church’s endless internal power struggles.


When he had played here in the PNFL regular season against the Buddha City Crosses, or in the playoffs when he’d won his two league titles, the Nationalites had loved him. How would they feel about him now, now that he was returning and bringing the Devil’s Rope along for the ride.

? ? ?



[FIRST SHUTTLE FLIGHT PASSENGERS TO THE LANDING BAY. SHUTTLE DEPARTING FOR BUDDHA CITY STATION.]

“Captain, you ready for this?”

“I am not sure,” Bumberpuff said. “Will we be safe?”

Quentin again thought of saying something reassuring but again decided to just tell the truth.

“Probably,” he said. “I’m sure Froese and GFL security will see to it, but this is a wild place ruled by religious crazies. Nothing is for sure. Do you want to sit this game out and stay on the Touchback?”

Bumberpuff rattled in annoyance. “Are you going to sit this one out and stay on the Touchback?”

Quentin shook his head.

“Then neither will I. I threw my lot in with you, Quentin Barnes — wherever you go, I will go as well.”

The two teammates walked out of the viewing bay and headed for the shuttle.

? ? ?



BUMBERPUFF AT HIS SIDE, Quentin stepped off the shuttle into a roar of anger and hatred.

Buddha City Station’s sprawling landing deck was as he remembered it: filled with shuttles and small transport ships, bustling crews and fluttering Creterakians. The air smelled of combustion exhaust, rubber and sweat. Mostly Human sentients walked along clearly marked pathways, pathways that steered them clear of industrial trucks and lev-sleds that loaded and unloaded cargo from across the galaxy. As the Purist Nation’s only intergalactic port that allowed alien races, as the sole trade gateway to eleven billion Nation citizens, Buddha City Station ran full-out at all times.

That part was as Quentin remembered, but this time there was something new. Fences had been erected that sectioned off large areas. In front of those fences, the green-armored presence of the Buddha City Station Police, their dark face shields making them both intimidating and anonymous. Behind those fences: shouting, angry, blue-clad people packed in close together, pushing against the chain link. The people held up signs, both holo and paper, signs that said things as hateful as their voices.

Devil’s Ropes go home!

Barnes consorts with the satanic races.

I hope you like the heat, because hell is waiting.

High One hates the letter X.

Satan takes many forms.

Hey Barnes, if you don’t die on the field, we’ll get you after the game.

Quentin actually felt embarrassed. He’d spent so much time in racially integrated Ionath City that he’d forgotten this kind of hate existed anywhere outside the Blessed Lamb. Well, exist it did — especially in the system of his birth.

“They don’t seem happy,” Bumberpuff said. “Funny, I thought there would be cake.”

“Do you even eat cake?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” the captain said. “Our creator was apparently quite fond of it. When she was biological, of course, before she uploaded.”

Quentin started to walk off the ramp, but a big three-fingered pincer pressed against his chest, keeping him in place. Choto the Bright stepped in front of him, his one eye scanning the hostile crowd.

“You stay behind me, Quentin. You as well, Bumberpuff.”

Virak walked out to join Choto. “I despise these primitive screwheads.” Virak didn’t like Quentin, and Quentin didn’t like Virak, but for some things, team came first.

Quentin and Bumberpuff followed Virak and Choto off the ramp, the other first-shuttle players close behind.

John stared at the protesters. He hocked a loogie and spat it on the landing bay deck. “I’d like to booger the lot of ’em. Wow, Q — now, I know where you get your sparkling personality.”

“Don’t lump me in with these jerks,” Quentin said. “I’ve got nothing to do with this.”

John shrugged. YOU CAN TAKE THE BOY OUT OF THE HATE, BUT A ZEBRA’S SPOTS RUN DEEP scrolled across his face.

John was just joking — probably — but Quentin felt his face flush hot.

Becca walked up to stand by his side. “Quentin, you okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine. He looked out at the fenced-in mass of hate. He flashed back to Bumberpuff’s words on the viewing deck: are we safe? Quentin didn’t feel safe, not one bit — they hadn’t even left the landing deck, and already this was the most hostile place the Krakens had ever played.

A column of Humans in green-armored riot gear walked across the bay toward the Krakens. Quentin felt his stomach churn, felt an echo of the fear he’d once known looking at men like these.

The Buddha City Station Police, also known as the Greens.

They held shock-sticks in one hand, kept the other hand on the hilt of their holstered nail guns. Those pistols fired high-density plastic fasteners, the same “nails” used for any internal station construction. The fasteners would put a nasty hole in people, would shoot through doors and most internal walls, but would bend and flatten if they hit the station’s outer hull — that little bit of physics let the trigger-happy Greens shoot at will without concern for punching a hole into space.

A white infinity symbol on a shield marked the left breast of each guard’s chest armor. Each man’s name was stenciled below that shield.

The Greens wielded significant authority on Buddha City. Only the bats had more pull, but the bats rarely got involved. Day-to-day order and discipline fell to the Greens. On a station with a half-million residents, a station that included organized crime of all stripes and was the center point for smuggling throughout the Purist Nation, the Greens were known as the biggest gang in town.

The column stopped in front of Quentin and Messal the Efficient, who — as usual — had magically appeared from nowhere. The first man in the column had the name J. CARTWRIGHT stenciled on his armor.

“I’m Officer Cartwright,” he said. “I’m in charge of the security detail.”

Messal took a step forward. “Elder Cartwright, we are glad that —”

Cartwright’s stun-stick whipped down. Quentin thought it would hammer Messal’s head, but the end of the stick stopped an inch from the Worker’s softball-sized eye.

“Call me Officer,” Cartwright said. “I am not an Elder, understand?”

Messal’s eye swirled with crimson and pink. “Yes, Officer. I understand.”

“Good,” Cartwright said. “All of you, come with me.”

The green-armored police surrounded the Krakens as if the Krakens were criminals. Hands patted stun-sticks, fingers wiggled on gun handles.

John huffed. “They don’t look so tough.”

Quentin reached out and grabbed John’s arm. “Uncle Johnny, not here. I’ve seen these guys in action before.”

“They can’t touch me,” John said. “GFL immunity. I might want to test the quality of that armor they’re wearing, you know?”

“John, if you do something stupid you won’t just get us sticked —” Quentin pointed to the angry crowd pressing against the chain-link fence “— you’ll antagonize them. We’re here to play football, not to get into a fight. Understand?”

John’s eyes narrowed in a way that wordlessly said who do you think you’re bossing around? Quentin didn’t like the expression, not one bit. John glanced briefly at Becca, then back at Quentin. In that moment, Quentin realized that he had just embarrassed John in front of his girlfriend.


“Okay, Q,” John said. “I’ll play nice. Thank you so much for the behavioral correction.”

He snapped his arm free and walked away, as far as he could within the boundary of police escort.

Officer Cartwright waved his stun-stick in the air. “All visitors, keep your hands and feet inside the perimeter. Try not to make eye-contact with the crowd. It’s a few hundred yards to the lev-train that will take you to the stadium, where you’ll be more secure.”

Cartwright started walking. His men followed, ushering the Krakens along like cattle. A wheel-truck started towing the shuttle to an airlock for a return trip to the Touchback. As Quentin walked, he couldn’t help but give the protesters one last look.

Four years ago, how many of those same people cheered my name? And now, they want me dead.

? ? ?



THE KRAKENS GATHERED in the tunnel of Infinity Stadium. Quentin and John were in front. As captains, it was their honor to lead the team out and to do the pregame coin toss at mid-field. With them was a Prawatt, Katzembaum Weasley. Quentin had chosen him as honorary captain for two reasons: it was Weasley’s first start at free safety, and it was a giant slap in the face to the racist Purist Nation crowd.

Quentin looked out at the field, a deep green lined with white. It was Kentucky Bluegrass, imported from Earth and cultivated on a Station agriculture center solely dedicated to growing it. That was one of the perks of being the richest city in the Nation — while some eighty percent of the population lived below the poverty line, many of those starving, the Station could afford to pay a staff of twenty-five to do nothing but grow grass. That fact made Quentin feel horrible that he loved playing on that field — it was always firm and pliant, great for making fast cuts.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the domed stadium.

“Devout worshippers, the Church of Purism would like to welcome our visiting team, the Ionath Krakens.”

Quentin, John and Katzembaum led the team onto the field amidst a wave of polite applause. Quentin could practically feel the hate, the fear, the suspicion, but to boo or curse at visitors wouldn’t be very Purist. So much of the religion revolved around thinking one thing, but saying and doing another.

With a capacity of 45,000, this was the smallest stadium in Tier One. Row after row of blue-clad fans filled the stands. GFL tickets were expensive, after all, and for the most part, only confirmed church members could afford them. As Quentin ran to the sidelines, he was taken aback by the sameness of the crowd: Humans in blue robes. While other races were welcome to trade on Buddha City, they weren’t welcome to do anything else.

He and his teammates gathered at the sidelines. Quentin started to talk, but before he could say anything, John Tweedy started screaming.

“We get things back on track right now!” John banged a fist against his armored chest. “Everyone steps up! Everyone does their thing. If we go one-and-four, that will suck, so let’s make sure we don’t!”

The defensive players shouted in support. So did some of the offensive players, but others gave half-hearted encouragement, and still others just looked confused — they had been expecting Quentin to lead the pregame chant.

John raised his right fist. “Bring it in!”

The players pressed closer, raising their hands to John’s. Quentin thought of saying something, but to do so now would cause even more confusion, so he raised his hand to John’s just like everyone else did.

“Destroy on three,” John said. “One, two, three.”

“Destroy destroy destroy!”

The Krakens broke up and spread out down the sideline. Quentin wondered what had just happened. Was John still mad about the incident on the landing deck? Was he showing off for Becca? Or, maybe, was he showing that Quentin didn’t have to run everything all the time?

The yell of the announcer’s voice drew Quentin’s attention back to the tunnel.

“And now, chosen people of the High One, bring your hands together and let the heavens hear a joyous sound as we welcome our blessed home team, the Buddha … City … Eeeeeeeeeelite!”

The crowd lost its collective mind. Quentin saw people leaping, screaming and falling on each other. He saw people fainting, raising their hands to the sky. From long years of experience, he knew some of them were speaking in tongues. They probably loved football, sure, but that wasn’t the real reason for such over-the-top excitement — if they didn’t cheer loud enough, intensely enough, someone in the seat behind them or from a nearby row might report that person as not having enough love for the Church. That could lead to a purity investigation. A purity investigation always led to something bad. Sometimes it was a public dressing-down. Other times, it was a public flogging. Occasionally, even for the confirmed, a purity investigation meant death. Once the investigation started, something had to be wrong because High One was never mistaken.

His native religion corrupted everything, even the simple joy of watching a football game.

The Elite players stormed onto the field. Purist racism didn’t extend to the level where football games were unwinnable, it seemed — when it came to the gridiron, the Ki, the Sklorno and the Quyth were downright regular folk.

Buddha City’s uniforms were something to behold. When Quentin played in the PNFL, all teams had plain uniforms. Save for the primary color of each team, in fact, the uniforms were identical to those of the Micovi Raiders — silver helmet with a black stripe down the middle, black jersey with a silver RAIDERS on the chest and a silver number beneath, silver leg armor, black shoes. No individuality, no decoration, the same template applied to each of the league’s twelve teams. Lack of decoration bespoke modesty, humility in the face of the High One who had gifted each of the players and coaches with their unique abilities.

That modesty was nowhere to be seen on the uniforms of the Buddha City Elite. White-facemasked, emerald-green helmets sparkled in the stadium lights. A wide, white-lined black stripe ran down the middle of the helmet. On each side was a white infinity symbol trimmed in black.

The jerseys were also a sparkling emerald green. A wide, black-trimmed white stripe started on each shoulder pad and narrowed to a point below the center of each race’s respective chest. Black-lined, white numbers sat nestled above the V made by the narrowing shoulder stripes. Below the point of that V, the word ELITE, also in black-lined white. A black belt wrapped around emerald-green leg armor and shoes. Wide, black-lined white stripes ran from the hips to a point atop each knee.

Quentin recognized the long gait of a Human: number 46, Rick Warburg. Quentin didn’t follow the progress of offensive players because he didn’t face them on the field, but from what little he’d seen Warburg was having a great season.

Perth, however, was a different story — Quentin would face her on the field. Up until the preseason, she had been part of the Orange and the Black. He knew her in-depth familiarity with the Ionath offense would pose a problem as the afternoon wore on.

The Elite gathered on their sideline, jumping, shouting, going through their own pregame ritual. Sure, they were newly promoted, but this season they had two victories to the Krakens’ one.

Whistles blew. The zebes fluttered to mid-field and called the captains of both sides for the coin toss.

Time to get down to business.

? ? ?



THE ELITE PLAYED a conservative defense, making sure they didn’t get burned on big plays. That left the underneath routes mostly open. Quentin took what they gave him, throwing out-patterns to Denver, Halawa and Milford, crossing routes to Tara the Freak and hooks to George Starcher. On the first drive, Quentin went 8-for-8 for 78 yards, completing a seven-minute drive with a 5-yard pass to Yassoud Murphy for the touchdown.


? ? ?



BUDDHA CITY RAN a spread offense, so-called because five receivers stretched from one sideline to the other. On most plays, Elite quarterback Gary Lindros lined up in the shotgun with an empty backfield. That meant no running back or fullback to help with the pass rush of defensive ends Alexsandar Michnik and Ibrahim Khomeni. Lindros had to take the snap, quickly check through his receivers, then deliver the ball fast or he’d get his head taken off. Lindros did just that, hitting short slants and hooks in much the same way Quentin had done. Ionath’s Prawatt defensive backs were still learning — quick-hitting, almost instant throws left them a half-step late to knock down the ball.

Lindros wasn’t as efficient as Quentin, but he got the job done. On the Elite’s first drive, he went 7-of-ll for 80 yards, tying the game on a 7-yard corner-fade touchdown pass to Metairie.

? ? ?



IN THE SECOND QUARTER, both teams struggled to move the ball into scoring position. The Elite chewed up a lot of clock with slow, controlled drives. They took the lead with just 1:32 to play when Lindros hit Warburg on a three-yard touchdown pass.

On the very next drive, Quentin kicked in the two-minute offense: short passes designed to get receivers out of bounds to stop the clock. The defensive backs came up to try and stop these passes, and when they did Quentin dropped back five steps, let Denver sprint down the field, and he hit her in the end-zone’s back corner for a 56-yard touchdown strike.

At the half, the two teams were tied 14-all.

? ? ?



THE ELITE’S STRATEGY was obvious — slow down the game, chew up as much time as possible and keep the ball out of Quentin’s hands. And that strategy was working.

In the second half, Rick Warburg took over the game. Lindros hit him repeatedly, on curl patterns over the middle and short out-routes. John Tweedy, Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright brought the house, hitting Warburg with everything they had — the big Human gave better than he got. Mid-way through the third quarter, Warburg caught a hook pass, turned quick and leveled a vicious head-to-head hit that knocked Virak the Mean out of the game. Rookie linebacker Pishor the Fang filled in and played well, but his inexperience showed when Warburg turned a short pass into a 22-yard TD after spinning off Pishor’s attempted tackle.

Aside from Quentin’s long pass to Denver, the Elite just wouldn’t give up the big pass. Perth seemed to know where every receiver was going; she was always there to break up the deep passes. Quentin continued to complete short patterns. He almost couldn’t miss — by the end of the third quarter, he’d completed 28-of-31 passes for 312 yards.

At the end of the third quarter, Quentin hit Ju Tweedy on a wheel route to the left. Ju took the ball up the sidelines, outran the linebacker covering him, then ran over safety Bogalusa and high-stepped in for a touchdown to tie the game at 21-all.

? ? ?



ALEXSANDAR MICHNIK FINALLY GOT to Lindros in the fourth quarter, dragging the QB down for a sack. But on the very next play, Lindros saw Bumberpuff in one-on-one coverage against wide receiver Metairie. Metairie ran a slant and Lindros pump-faked, drawing Bumberpuff in. The Prawatt only lost a step, but that was all the speedy Metairie needed. Lindros threw long to the back of the end zone. Metairie ran under it and caught it in stride for a 43-yard TD pass.

Buddha City again had the lead, 28-21.

? ? ?



ON THE NEXT DRIVE, Quentin hit Denver for 8, Starcher for 9, Tara for 5 and Tara then again for 14. A Ju Tweedy run brought up second-and-eight, then Denver dropped a pass. On third down, Quentin suffered his only sack of the game when defensive tackle Don-Wen-Sul beat his block and came in clean. Quentin barely had time to duck before the Ki was on him. That brought up fourth-and-13 on the Elite 30.

Arioch Morningstar came in and nailed a 47-yard field goal, cutting the lead to 28-24.

? ? ?



ELITE COACH EZEKIEL GRABER had the lead and wanted to burn up as much clock as possible. He called runs up the middle and screen passes, making sure the ball stayed in-bounds and the clock kept ticking.

The Krakens’ defense couldn’t force a stop and couldn’t force a turnover. When the Elite moved past the Ionath 30-yard line, the “D” had to start making changes. Hokor called a blitz, sending Pishor and Choto driving in hard to try and force a mistake. That left John Tweedy in single coverage on Warburg. Lindros saw the blitz coming; knowing he would take a big hit, he stepped up and threw a bullet down the middle. Rick Warburg went up for it — John Tweedy raked at the man’s arms before the ball even arrived. Pass-interference flags flew, but they didn’t matter, as Warburg somehow pulled in the pass one-handed while falling to his back. He landed in the end zone. Buddha City declined the penalty, keeping the touchdown.

Quentin pulled on his helmet. One minute, 45 seconds to play, and the Elite led 35-24.

? ? ?



BUDDHA CITY PLAYED a “prevent” defense, keeping D-backs far downfield to prevent a big play. Quentin’s two-minute offense worked his team down the field. Sometimes Krakens receivers got out of bounds, sometimes they didn’t. The Krakens used all three timeouts on the drive. When Quentin finally delivered a 17-yard pass for Denver’s second touchdown catch of the game, there were still 45 seconds left on the clock. Buddha City 35, Ionath 31 — it would all come down to the onside kick.

? ? ?



ARIOCH MORNINGSTAR RAN toward the ball. He hit it lightly with lots of spin. The ball bounced forward five yards, then hit and sprang high into the air as the kickoff and kickoff return teams collided. Denver leapt for it, but so did Metairie — the Elite wide receiver wrapped her tentacles around the ball and fell to the ground.

The crowd of 45,000 confirmed churchies went wild. With the sound of defeat ringing in his ears, Quentin closed his eyes and hung his head. All the Elite had to do was take a knee twice. The game was over.

The Ionath Krakens, once favored to reach the Galaxy Bowl, were now 1-4.

? ? ?



QUENTIN WALKED TO MID-FIELD, joining the players from both sides who were greeting each other after the game. Despite the raw hostility of the Purist Nation fans and citizens, there was, ironically, little animosity between the teams. The Elite had just come in with a better game plan, a plan specifically tailored to beat Ionath.

The two quarterbacks met at mid-field.

“Great game, rookie,” Quentin said. “You tore it up.”

Lindros laughed. “Compared to your day, I was a scrub. I almost feel bad that you threw for over four hundred yards and lost.” He winked. “Almost”

“Good luck this season.” Quentin slapped his opponent’s shoulder pad, then walked over to Ezekiel Graber, coach of the Elite. Quentin didn’t want to speak to the man, but it would be an insult to not give him the credit he deserved.

“Coach Graber, congrats on the win.”

Graber turned and smiled at Quentin. The infinity tattoo on his forehead looked even more faded than when Quentin had played for the man four years earlier.

“Great game, Barnes,” Graber said. “We squeaked out of this one.”

Quentin clenched his teeth and nodded. “Metairie had a whale of a game. Looks like your Satanic races played well today.” He knew he shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t help the dig. The last time he’d seen Graber had been when Quentin was leaving the Raiders. Graber had tried to make him stay by saying that Quentin wasn’t ready for the big-time and that Quentin would be corrupted by exposure to the “satanic races.” How funny that when Graber became a coach in the GFL, those same satanic races weren’t so satanic.


“She played well,” Graber said. “High One is helping some of these sentients see the light, Quentin. I’m helping them to come around to our ways.”

Quentin smiled and shook his head. Graber was justifying his beliefs against his actions? Of course. That was the way of Purism — for a religion of endless, unforgiving rules, there seemed to always be a way to make anything acceptable if it suited you.

“Have a great season, Coach,” Quentin said, then walked off to find Rick Warburg.

Warburg was standing with John, Ju and Virak. Virak’s middle right arm was in a sling. No one had liked Rick when he’d played for the Krakens, but there was no denying his performance had led the Elite to a victory. The gathering of sentients showed Quentin something sports had taught him a long time ago: respect and like are two different things.

“Rick, you killed us,” Quentin said. “Great game.”

Warburg was all smiles. “Thank you, Quentin. You were unstoppable today. Just imagine what we could have done together this season.”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, like you wanted to stay in Ionath.”

Rick shrugged. “No, not really. Still, I hope you guys are around next year for a rematch.”

John’s chest puffed up. “What do you mean around next year? If you guys keep winning, we can get our rematch in the playoffs, and we’ll kick your asses there.”

Warburg threw his head back and laughed. “Playoffs? Maybe you guys should worry about Shorah instead of the playoffs. If you lose to the Warlords, you’ll officially have the worst record in football. Forget the playoffs, I’ll see you next year — unless you get relegated.”

Rick turned and jogged off the field.

I’LL GUT YOU AND WEAR YOUR STOMACH AS A HAT scrolled across John’s sweaty face. Strong words, but all four of them knew that Rick was right — the playoffs were the last of Ionath’s concerns.

? ? ?



PLAYERS SHUFFLED SLOWLY into Infinity Stadium’s visitor’s locker room. The place felt like a funeral. Quentin leaned against a wall, watching his teammates, analyzing who was okay with the loss, who was down, who was angry and who was devastated. Things had to change and change fast or Warburg’s prophecy would come true.

The slam of a body against a locker drew Quentin’s attention. Players backed away from a fight between a Sklorno and a Prawatt: Vacaville and Bumberpuff, a tangle of tentacles and whipping bodies.

Quentin ran to them. Vacaville rolled on top of Bumberpuff and wrapped her raspers around the Prawatt’s right arm. She yanked them away, sending bits of metal flying.

“Damnyoursoul, demon, you lost us the game!”

Quentin dove in, knocking Vacaville off of the Prawatt. Bumberpuff should have gotten up and moved away, but instead he stood and dove on top of Quentin and Vacaville, whipping his flexible arm down on Vacaville’s head.

“I played hard!” Bumberpuff screamed. “You didn’t play at all, you stupid cricket scrub!”

Suddenly more Sklorno rushed in, hitting and tackling and digging with raspers. The other Prawatt players slammed into the pile. Both sides screamed racial epithets; Quentin found himself at the bottom of a miniature race war.

“Guys, knock it off!” Quentin almost stood but was knocked to his back again when Tommyboy tackled Cheboygan. Then another weight fell on top of him — Choto the Bright, diving into the pile to cover Quentin’s body with his own.

A heavy impact suddenly rolled the entire pile of some ten players to the left. Bodies spilled across the floor. Everyone looked up to see the shirtless Tweedy brothers, standing there with their fists clenched and their muscles rippling.

John snarled. His face tattoo played an angry wash of bright colors. “That’s enough! The next one of you that throws a punch is going to get squashed!.”

“Mega-squashed!” said Ju and thumped a fist against his chest.

“Super-mega-squashed,” John said.

Choto pulled Quentin to his feet. Quentin’s eyes watered, and he felt blood on his face. Fingertips sought the center of pain — his nose was broken, and badly.

The Sklorno stood and gathered on one side of Quentin, the Prawatt on the other. Both sides stared at each other, eyestalks vibrating and lenses whirring. They wore the same team colors but couldn’t possibly look more separate. For a moment, it seemed like the fight might erupt all over again, then John stomped toward the Sklorno and Ju stomped toward the Prawatt. The Sklorno scurried to their locker room. The Prawatt didn’t have a species-specific place, so they moved to the back of the central locker room and stayed there.

Coach Hokor came running in. “Is there grab-assing going on? I told you players there is no grab-assing! Who’s at fault here?”

Ju thumped his chest. “It’s fine, Coach — we got it under control.”

“Mega-control,” John said.

Hokor’s black-swirling eye stared at the Tweedy brothers, then at the Prawatt. Finally, he looked at his bleeding quarterback, and the one big eye narrowed to a hateful slit. “I want to know who started this,” the coach said. “I want to know now.”

John shrugged. “Started what?”

Ju’s face furrowed with fake confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Coach.”

Hokor stared at the Tweedy brothers, then he turned to Quentin.

“Barnes! We have to end this grab-assing. Who started it?”

Quentin looked at the Tweedys. Did they have something in mind?

“It’s under control, Coach,” Quentin said. “The players will handle it.”

Hokor stomped a little foot. “Well, no more grab-assing, understand? I’m already trying to prepare for Shorah.”

Quentin looked for and found Yassoud. Quentin tilted his head toward the Prawatt. “Get them out of here, will ya? Take them to our locker room.”

Yassoud walked to the Prawatt, holding both hands wide as if he was corralling wayward sheep. “This way, you crazy kids. Let’s go cool off.” He gently herded them into the Human locker room.

With the combatants gone, Quentin, John and Ju moved close together so they could speak quietly.

“This is bad,” Quentin said. “This racism, we have to make them work together or we’re going back down to Tier Two. What can we do?”

“Beat the living crap out of them,” Ju said. “A good-old fashioned whoopin’ will do the trick. Hey, John, do the Prawatt have asses? I’m not sure how to kick their asses if they don’t have asses.”

John sighed and shook his head. “My dearest brother, always with the corporal-colonel punishment. When it comes to discipline, we know who we need to ask.”

MOTHER KNOWS BEST scrolled across John’s head.

Ju smiled and nodded. “Good idea, Ma will take care of this.”

Ma Tweedy? Were the two brothers joking? “Guys, we’re talking centuries of hate here. I don’t think Ma can kiss it and make it all better.”

“Ma will know what to do,” John said. He looked at his brother. “Somehow, she made the two of us get along.”

Ju smiled one of his more evil smiles. “And compared to how my brother and I treated each other? Centuries of hate ain’t nothing. Q, you better see Doc Patah about that nose. It’s messed up.”

“Mega-messed up,” John said. “But you were kind of ugly to begin with.”

The Tweedy brothers headed for the Human locker room.


“Elder Barnes?”

Quentin jumped at the unexpected voice behind him. He turned to see Messal the Efficient standing there.

“Messal, how do you do that?”

“Do what, Elder Barnes?”

“Sneak up on me like that!”

“I assure you, Elder Barnes, I would never intentionally startle you,” Messal said. “Miss Yolanda Davenport asked me to tell you that she requests an exclusive interview, right here on Buddha City Station.”

Jeanine … Yolanda might have information on my sister.

“Um … did Yolanda say what it was about?”

“I’m afraid she said it is about the franchise’s dismal record,” Messal said. “And also she is researching an ancient offense for a historical article. Elder Barnes, have you ever heard of the Muybridge offense?”

Muybridge … Fred’s code-word. Yolanda did have information about Jeanine.

“I’ve heard of it,” Quentin said. “It’s really obscure. Book the interview, Messal.”

Messal bowed slightly. “Yes, Elder Barnes. Right away.”

? ? ?



QUENTIN PACED in his guest suite in the Buddha City Station Hilton, waiting for Yolanda Davenport. She had booked the room so they’d have privacy, away from the other reporters and away from Quentin’s teammates. He hoped she hurried up, because this place gave him the creeps.

The guest suite was certainly beautiful. Expensive art flashed in holoframes, statues stood in each corner, the smartpaper looked brand-new and each piece of furniture was worth more than Quentin had made in an entire year of mining. Even with the money he’d earned playing for the Raiders, he wouldn’t have been able to afford staying here. All of this for rich guests while citizens starved? The art alone would have bought many months of food for thousands of people.

He was antsy. Did Yolanda have info on his sister, or was this just another football-related story? Well, if it was the latter, it couldn’t hurt to give the interview. Yolanda had done him wrong, true, but she’d made up for it and put herself at great risk to do so. She’d even been roughed up a little by Anna Villani’s goons, and that Quentin had to respect — Yolanda was willing to put herself at risk and play through the pain to get a job done, just like he was.

[ELDER BARNES, MISS DAVENPORT HAS ARRIVED.]

He walked to the door. It hissed open. Two armored Greens were waiting outside. Behind them, a white-uniformed, white-furred Quyth Worker standing next to the purple-skinned, white-haired Yolanda Davenport. Both cops had a hand on the hilt of their holstered nail guns. The one on the right looked normal, but the one on the left was a woman — a bit of a rarity in the Greens.

Quentin smiled at her. “Aren’t you a little small to be a Green?”

He couldn’t see her expression behind the face shield. The name on her chest-plate read R. MCGUILLICUDY. The man’s chest-plate read X. XHIANG.

“Funny,” Xhiang said. “You all done being a comedian?”

“High One guides us to our true calling,” Quentin said. “I just got to be me.”

Xhiang’s fingers tightened on the nail gun’s handle, reminding Quentin that on Buddha City Station, accidents happen — even to star quarterbacks.

“Uh … sorry,” Quentin said. “Please, come on in.”

Xhiang stepped in, followed by Yolanda, the Worker, then the other cop.

The door shut. Five sentients stood in the well-decorated living room. Quentin waited for someone to talk.

Yolanda looked at the Worker and nodded. The Worker pulled small devices from his pockets and set them on a coffee table, on the backs of chairs, all over the place. He fiddled with these devices for a moment, then turned to Yolanda.

“The room is clear,” he said. “I found two recording devices, but now they are both jammed. We are free to talk.”

Yolanda let out a big breath. “Finally,” she said. “Quentin, your people are so damn paranoid about heretics spreading a message of this or a message of that.”

He nodded. “I’m familiar with the concept.”

She gestured to the Worker. “Meet Whykor the Aware. He works for Commissioner Froese and also helps me with stories from time to time.”

The Worker offered a pedipalp hand. Quentin reached down and shook it.

“Exceptional game this afternoon, Mister Barnes,” Whykor said. “The second-best completion percentage of your career, including your time with the Raiders.”

Was that true? Quentin had no idea. “If you say so. Nice to meet you.”

Yolanda then gestured to Xhiang. “And I believe you already know this guy.”

The cop pulled off his helmet.

“High One,” Quentin said. “Fred?”

Frederico smiled. “I wouldn’t call it my best disguise ever, Q. Face shields are almost like cheating.”

“How did you get here?”

“Your yacht,” Fred said. “We flew it to Stewart, then we took a commercial flight to the Station.”

“We?”

Fred smiled and looked at McGuillicudy. She raised her face shield — Quentin found himself looking at the woman of his childhood memories.

“Jeanine?” The word came out as a whisper. He could barely believe it.

She took off the helmet. Brown hair spilled down around caramel skin. She smiled at him.

“Hello, brother.”

He didn’t know what to say. Then it hit him — what better place for Fred to set up a meeting? Jeanine was a native Nationalite. She could effortlessly blend in on the Station, on Micovi or on any of the Purist Nation worlds. How Fred got his hands on a pair of Greens uniforms was another thing entirely, but everything had a price, and Fred had unlimited access to Quentin’s massive bank account.

Quentin stayed very still, as if a sudden movement might make his sister run screaming from the suite. “I … I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

She nodded. “I didn’t. Like Fred told you, I needed some time.” She looked around the room. “Do you think I could speak to my brother in private?”

Yolanda walked to the bedroom door. “Whykor, come on, let’s go over some notes on that story about Don Pine’s return to Jupiter. Fred, can a girl buy you a drink? I brought a bottle of Isis Whiskey.”

Fred followed Yolanda and Whykor to the bedroom. “None for me, thanks,” he said. “The Station might be easy to infiltrate, but it’s still a place where one wrong word can get someone looking at your papers. I’ll just have water.”

They entered the bedroom and shut the door behind them, leaving Quentin alone with the sister he’d never known.

She sat on the couch, then gestured that he should do the same. He sat next to her. Was this really Jeanine, or was someone playing games with his heart again? The thought of that man who had pretended to be his father, the man Gredok had used to trick Quentin, to …

She smiled. “You’re wondering if I’m really your sister?”

Quentin laughed, the sound carrying embarrassment and relief. “Yeah, a little.”

She reached out and took his hand — her caramel-colored skin against his light brown. “I know Gredok lied to you, but I am your sister. I think you know that. I held you when you were a baby. When you were about as big as your head is now, I changed your diapers. I fed you, helped take care of you.”

She spoke the truth. He knew her face, a face that was burned into his earliest memories. There could be no mistake. He felt tears welling up in his eyes. After spending his childhood wishing that his family would find him, after scanning the stands at each and every game hoping to see someone who could connect him to something beyond his lonely existence, after allowing himself to be duped and used, he finally found himself looking at family.


He wiped away tears with his free hand. “Fred said you were afraid of me. Are you still?”

She nodded. “Yes, I am. My past is … I’ve had issues with angry men, Quentin, and from what I’ve seen, you’re angrier than most.”

“So why did you want to see me?”

“Because of the Orbiting Death game,” she said. “Yalla the Biter tried to get you to fight, and you walked away.”

Quentin felt a surge of anxiety — he’d come so close to hitting Yalla, to giving into the anger. If he had, would it have cost him his sister? If she feared who he was, he couldn’t pretend that he’d mastered his lifelong temper — he had to tell her the truth.

“I only walked away for the team,” he said. “I … I wanted to kick the crap out of him.”

She patted his hand, held it tight. “You wanted to, but you didn’t. That’s what matters. I barely know you, little brother, but you made me proud.”

The words sent a surge through his chest. She was proud of him? Not for his on-field accomplishments or for being an inter-galactic star — she was proud simply because he’d controlled his anger.

She smiled at him again. He marveled at her blue eyes, the same eyes he saw whenever he looked in the mirror. He wished he had the words to tell her what it all meant to him, but somehow, he knew she understood.

He touched her brown hair. “I remember you being blond?”

She laughed, a small thing brought on by a distant memory of her past.

“Yeah. Dying my hair pissed Dad off, so I did it a lot. I had blond hair, purple hair, green, blue, red … you name it. This is my real color, boring old brown.”

She looked off, seemed to be thinking, remembering. “If you’re anything like Dad was, walking away from that fight had to be hard.” She stared at him again. “High One, look at you — you could be Dad’s twin.”

“What was he like?”

Her smile faded. “You were too young to remember, but … well, when I was a teenager, there were a lot of hard times in our house. He was gone a lot. When he was home, there were problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

She waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter now.” She bit at her lower lip, chose her words carefully. “Dad did the best he could to provide for us, but he saw horrible things. And he didn’t talk about it, but he did horrible things as well.”

Quentin had just assumed his father worked in the mines like everyone else. “What did he do?”

“He was a mercenary,” she said. “He was a teenager himself during the Takeover. He fought against the Creterakians. After that, he hired out to whomever could pay him. He worked all over the galaxy. Some wars were documented, some weren’t. He also did some work for the Church. I asked him about it a lot. All he would ever way was, my family has to eat.”

The rush of information coursed through Quentin, swirled around in his head, grabbed his heart and squeezed. His father had been a mercenary? The concept hammered home just how privileged Quentin’s life had become and brought guilt that he still found ways to complain about it.

“Is that how Dad died? Fighting in a war?”

She stared at him for a second, then shook her head. “I never said he died. Dad is still alive.”

Quentin opened his mouth to speak, but he had no words.

The bedroom door opened. Frederico rushed out, pulling on his helmet, Yolanda and Whykor close behind.

Fred grabbed Jeanine’s helmet and tossed it to her.

“McGuillicudy, get your gear,” he said. “We have to move. We’ve been made.”

She stood and put the helmet on.

Quentin wasn’t about to let her go so soon. “Come on, Fred — already? What is it, Gredok?”

“Worse,” Fred said. “Anna Villani.”

Anna Villani, owner of the OS1 Orbiting Death. A stab of fear and anger shot through Quentin. “What the hell does that psycho want?”

Fred nodded at Jeanine. “Villani wants her. Anna isn’t done with you, Q. She knows about your sister, she knows your sister is here. I don’t know how Villani found out, but she did. I have to get Jeanine out of here, fast.”

Jeanine buckled her helmet strap and flipped down her visor. “I’m ready.”

Villani wasn’t even there and she was taking Quentin’s sister away from him. He wanted to wrap his hands around Anna’s neck and squeeze. “Why does she want Jeanine?”

“Leverage,” Fred said as he quickly rearranged Jeanine’s gear. “Villani can’t touch you without risking Gredok’s wrath and starting a major gang war, but she can snag your sister. Anna wants payback on you for getting Ju off the hook for Grace McDermot’s murder. And if Anna gets your sister, how well do you think you’ll play against the Orbiting Death next year?”

His sister hadn’t done anything to anybody, yet here she was the target of not one but two crimelords — all because of Quentin.

“Jeanine, I’m sorry,” Quentin said. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Jeanine sneered, a dismissive gesture that Quentin had seen and felt on his own face many times.

“Screw Villani,” she said. “And screw Gredok. This is their fault, not yours, baby brother.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back, his emotions bubbling out of control.

Fred gently pulled her away. “Come on, McGuillicudy, time to move.”

Quentin grabbed the detective’s shoulder. “Fred, thank you. Keep her safe, I’ll pay you whatever it takes.”

Fred smiled a smile that was half reassurance, half cockiness. “I’m not doing this just for the money anymore, or for you — I’m doing it for Jeanine. They’ll have to kill me before they get her. We’ll fly to Stewart, grab the Hypatia and we’ll be back in Ionath City in a couple of days. Anna’s goons don’t have the chops to catch me.”

He flipped down his visor, once again anonymous behind the black material, then left the suite. Jeanine followed him out.

The door hissed shut, leaving Quentin alone with Yolanda and Whykor. Quentin sat heavily on the couch. Had his efforts to rescue Ju Tweedy put his own sister in danger? Obviously, but what else could he have done?

Yolanda pulled a chair in front of him and sat. “Quentin, I’m very sorry you have to go through all of this.”

He looked at her perfect, purple face, her white hair and frosted lips. He looked her in the eye. “Thanks. And thank you for helping set this up, Yolanda. I owe you.”

She smiled. “Yes, you do, so let’s cash in. I know you’re upset about your family, but I still have a job to do. Ready for the interview?”

Whykor pulled another device out of his pocket: a camera.

Quentin sighed, then nodded. “Sure. Ask me anything you want.”



GFL WEEK SIX ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network



Almost halfway through the season, and the Criminals are the only remaining undefeated team. Yall (5-0) maintained its first-place standing in the Planet Division with a 31-24 win over OS1 Orbiting Death (3-3). Criminals receiver Concord led the way with 211 receiving yards and two touchdowns, both of which came on simple out-passes that the Sklorno turned into long touchdown plays of 65 and 57 yards. Running back Jack Townsend added 114 yards on the ground and two rushing touchdowns of his own.

Yall has a one-game lead on division rival Wabash (4-1). The Wolfpack took sole possession of second with a 24-21 win over the To Pirates (3-2). To is tied for third with Isis (3-2) and Alimum (3-2).


The Buddha City Elite (3-3) remain in striking distance of first in the Planet, thanks to a 35-31 win over Ionath (1-4). Elite quarterback Gary Lindros threw for 286 yards and five touchdowns on the day, including three touchdown strikes to tight end Rick Warburg. Lindros was outperformed by Ionath QB Quentin Barnes, who went 34-of-40 for 412 yards and four TDs. Ionath is only a half-game above last place and could very well be headed for relegation.

In the Solar, Neptune (4-1) hung a 24-20 score on previously undefeated Bartel (4-1). The result moves both teams into a three-way tie with Jupiter for first place in the division. The Jacks (4-1) had a bye this week.

Texas (3-2) fell a game back in the division race, thanks to a 14-10 loss to Sheb (3-3). The Earthlings are in a three-way tie for fourth with Jang (3-2), which beat New Rodina (1-5) 35-13, and Vik (3-2), which had a bye.

Deaths

No deaths reported this week.

Offensive Player of the Week

Yall receiver Concord, who caught 13 passes for 211 yards and two touchdowns in the Criminals’ 31-24 win over the Orbiting Death.

Defensive Player of the Week

Coranadillana defensive end Jesper Schultz, who had three sacks and four solo tackles in a loss against the Isis Ice Storm.