The MVP

THE SOUNDS OF A WINNING locker room: Humans screaming and laughing, Sklorno chittering and squealing, Ki arms clacking, champagne corks popping, etching machines whirring and scraping GFL Champions 2685 into Quyth Warrior chitin.


Quentin stood on a bench, trying to sing an ancient Earth victory song as the big ball of Ki linemen clapped out a rhythm and Sklorno tried to sing along. He cradled the Galaxy Bowl trophy in his left arm. Ju was in the training room with Doc Patah, John was with Ju, so somehow the duties of singing had fallen to the third Tweedy brother.

“Weeeee are the champions … my freh-end … ”

He could barely get the words out. He didn’t know the first thing about music. His words sounded off-key, off-tempo, but no one seemed to care. The team wanted him to sing, so sing he did.

Yassoud jumped onto the bench next to him, one arm around Quentin, the other raising a bottle of champagne. Cliff Frost, George Starcher, Becca and Yotaro Kobayasho stood in front of them, their arms around each other, swaying in time to the song. The other Human players were doing the same. The HeavyG did their best to join in, although they focused mostly on an impromptu feast arranged by Alexsandar Michnik and Ibrahim Khomeni. The two defensive ends had — somehow — arranged for an entire roasted pig to be rolled in. They were eating away, full mouths singing in deep voice.

The Ki players had wiggled into a nightmarish ball that dominated the center of the communal locker room. Their bodies slid in and out, black eyes and vocal tubes there one second, gone the next, whichever arms happened to be on the surface of the ball clapping away in time. In contrast to Quentin’s awful singing, their rhythm sounded crisp and sharp.

The squealing Sklorno were damn near damaging themselves from accidentally jumping into the ceiling. Every few seconds, one of them would succumb to excitement and sprint in a random direction until she hit a wall or a locker. Quentin wondered if they might accidentally kill themselves; if they did, at least they’d die at the pinnacle of joy.

Even the Prawatt celebrated by doing a version of the pinwheel dance Quentin had seen back in the arena on the Grieve. That experience seemed like it had happened a decade ago, but in reality only a few scant months had passed.

“And weeeeee’ll keep on fie-ting … ’til the end!”

Happiness, satisfaction and validation transformed the locker room into a madhouse. They were the champions — the best in the galaxy.

“But it’s been no bed of roses … ”

Quentin felt a little hand tapping his thigh. He looked down into the face of Messal the Efficient. Messal still cradled Quentin’s Galaxy Bowl MVP trophy. Quentin had given it to him for safekeeping. Messal should have been celebrating with everyone else, at least as much as his restrained personality would allow, and his eye should have been flooded with the orange of happiness, but it wasn’t — it swirled with purple, the color of sadness.

“Elder Barnes, there is news about your sister.”

Not just news: bad news. Quentin’s happiness vanished. Was she okay? Was she hurt? Was she … dead? He handed the Galaxy Bowl trophy to Yassoud, distantly heard his teammates still singing, still celebrating, still laughing.

He stepped down off the bench to stand next to Messal. “News about Jeanine? What is it?”

“A punch-drive beacon came in with GFL diplomatic immunity codes,” Messal said. “I am the point of initial contact for the Krakens franchise, so the message came to me. I am supposed to first take such information directly to Gredok, but it is most unfortunate that at this time my personal communications system seems to be malfunctioning. Therefore, I am passing this time-sensitive information on to the intended party, which is you.”

Quentin read between the lines — Messal feared that if Gredok got the information first, the Leader wouldn’t share it, might even order Messal into silence. Messal was taking a big risk to give Quentin the message.

“Thank you,” Quentin said. “Let me see it.”

“Perhaps you would watch this in Doc Patah’s training room? In private?”

A coldness sank into Quentin’s chest, his stomach, his legs. “Sure,” he said. “That’s fine.”

He followed Messal out of the communal locker room’s screaming celebration. They walked to the training room. Quentin’s feet felt heavy. His legs didn’t want to obey. Suddenly, all the pain and exhaustion of the game flooded back, multiplied twice over.

In the training room, a calmer celebration was under way. Ju sat in a rejuve tank, up to his chest in pink fluid. John sat on a stool next to him. Ju had a bottle of champagne, while John had the biggest bottle of beer Quentin had ever seen. Michael Kimberlin was there as well, his hand extended for Doc Patah. Doc was clamping a cut on Kimberlin’s hand.

Three heads turned, as did Doc Patah. The laughter faded when they saw Quentin’s face.

“Q,” Ju said. “You okay?”

Messal scooted forward. “Mister Tweedy, I am afraid we need some privacy. Would you all mind exiting the room for just a few moments?”

“Just play it,” Quentin said. “I don’t care who’s here. Play it now.”

Messal looked at Quentin, the purple in his eye joined by swirling green. He held his pedipalp palm-up and tapped the floating icons above it. A small holo started to play. Messal paused it, then grabbed the image and made a throwing motion at the training room’s main holotank. In that tank, a paused image of Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga appeared. Fred was standing in the salon of the Hypatia, Quentin’s yacht. His mouth was open in mid-word.

Messal bowed. “The message is ready to play for you, Elder Barnes. I will take my leave.” The Worker quickly left the training room.

Quentin walked to the holotank. He stared at the image, then reached out and waved his hand from left to right, starting the playback.

“— on the run from an attacker. They said they’d let me go if I gave them Jeanine, but shuck that. I —”

Quentin held his right hand out palm-forward. The playback stopped. He checked the date-stamp — the message had been created four days earlier. He pointed at the message path icon: the beacon had reached Wilson 6 from Loppu Waypoint a day ago, from planet Home in the League of Planets a day before that, from New Whitok a half-day before that, and before New Whitok, a one-and-a-half-day jump from Gateway.

Gateway? Quentin didn’t know that planet. What system was that in?

He swiped left to right: an unpaused Fred continued.

“I’ve got the Hypatia on full burn,” he said. “We don’t ha —”

The holo froze and flickered. A few red and blue lines streaked across the image, then it went clear again and continued.

“— ve any choice, we have to —”

The image jittered — from a physical shake this time, not an electronic one — and Fred fell to the left, out of the frame. Quentin heard a scream.

Jeanine.

Then he saw her, his sister, his flesh and blood. She was in the background, spraying a fire extinguisher at a small flame. The image filled with white: part smoke, part fire-retardant.

Fred popped back into view, now bleeding from a cut above his right eye.

“We’ve been hit! The Hypatia isn’t built for combat. I’m making a run for the Portath Cloud.”

“You’re what?” Quentin said, as if Fred could somehow hear him through the days-old message.

“It’s our only chance,” Fred said.

Another blast of static filled the image. Fred’s face blurred and wavered. It split into two, then three, then melded together as one again. This time, the red and blue lines didn’t go away. They flickered and danced even as Fred continued.


“Quentin, if you get this, I’m sorry,” he said. “I told you I’d die before I let anything happen to your sister, and I meant it. Our only chance is they won’t fol —”

His face froze in mid-syllable, but Quentin hadn’t paused the playback. The playback seemed to be stuck.

Quentin’s hands curled into trembling fists. His right hand started bleeding again. A stream of red spattered down to the training room floor.

Kimberlin leaned in, his voice calm. “Quentin, there is interference from the Portath Cloud. It causes problems with all electrical systems.”

“— low us in,” continued the shimmering, jittering holo of Fred. “I have to launch this beacon now or it won’t escape the Cloud.”

Jeanine pushed her way into view. She put her arm around Fred. She looked more angry than scared.

“Baby brother, I love you. Sorry we didn’t get to spend more time together. If there is a High One, maybe he’ll get us out of this in —”

The image shuddered wildly. Quentin heard Jeanine scream, heard something roaring, saw the image fracture and flicker. The red and blue lines grew larger.

A horribly distorted image of Fred’s face said one last thing: “Launch beacon! Launch now-now-now!”

The holotank went black.

Quentin stared at it, hoping the blackness would suddenly change, hoping that Fred’s face would appear, that his sister’s face would talk to him … but the blackness remained.

Kimberlin’s big hand rested on his shoulder.

“Quentin, if Fred and your sister went into the Portath Cloud, then they are gone. I am sorry.”

Quentin’s soul filled with a blackness not unlike that in the holotank. He shrugged off the hand.

“They’re not gone,” he said. “I’m going to find them.”

Kimberlin shook his head. “You can’t, Quentin. No one comes out of the Cloud. Creterakian ships don’t go in there, even pirate ships don’t go in there.”

Quentin closed his eyes, tried to control the rage building inside. He would not believe his only family was gone. He would not.

When he turned away from the tank, he saw that more sentients had entered the training room. Messal the Efficient, Denver, Becca, Milford, Bumberpuff, Choto the Bright, Mum-O-Killowe, Tara the Freak and Crazy George Starcher all stood there, their expressions showing that they’d seen at least some of the playback. Messal must have sent them when he left the room.

Doc Patah floated over to the Worker.

“The destruct signal from the Hypatia,” the Harrah said. “Has it been detected?”

Messal lifted his palm and tapped icons. “Let me look through the Creterakian ship registry. I have a friend in that department so I have some access codes.” He stared at the Quyth-language images ripping through the air, then looked up. “There is no destruct signal from the Hypatia. I can’t speak for the passengers, but the ship is probably still space-worthy.”

“Probably,” Kimberlin said. “Rarely does a destruct signal come out of Portath space. No one knows if the ships that go in are still in one piece or if they were destroyed and the signal doesn’t escape because of interference. What we do know is this — what goes into the Cloud never comes out. Quentin, it doesn’t matter if there’s no destruct signal. Fred and Jeanine are gone.”

“She’s my sister,” Quentin said. “I have to go after them.”

John Tweedy stood. “I’m going with you, Q.”

Quentin turned to look at his friend. “John … what? You’ve barely spoken to me for weeks.”

John shrugged. “And I won’t be chatting your ear off on this trip, either. But you know what? When I needed someone to come get Ju, you were there. That means I’m coming with you to get your sister.”

Ju nodded, his chin dipping into the pink fluid. “I’m also in. My head would be a paperweight on Anna Villani’s desk if not for you, Q-Dog. I’m going.”

Mum-O-Killowe growled. Just a single syllable, but Quentin understood it all too well: Mum-O would join the excursion, and if anyone objected — Quentin included — things would turn ugly very fast.

Choto the Bright didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. It was understood that where Quentin went, Choto went.

Denver and Milford started hopping up and down. “Danger-danger, Quentinbarnes,” Denver said. “The Godling must not go without us!”

“Us!” Milford said. “Us-us-us-in-in-in!”

Quentin looked at Becca. She always shot down his plans, always had something negative to say. She stared back at him. She said nothing. Instead, she nodded once — she was in. That one gesture filled Quentin with hope, and also fear. Hope that with her at his side, he could succeed, and fear that if she came with him, she could get hurt.

Get hurt, or worse … she might die.

Kimberlin sighed. He shook his head. “Quentin, am I correct in assuming that there is nothing I can do to talk you out of this suicide?”

Quentin nodded.

Kimberlin closed his eyes. He paused for a moment, then looked at Quentin and spoke. “I will likely regret this, but the Portath Cloud is the only part of known space that I have not seen. If I do not take this chance to see it, I would regret it for all my remaining days. I will come with you and help you find your sister.”

George Starcher raised his hand. “Tara and I will sally forth into the void as cohorts in your worthy quest to rescue the fair maiden Jeanine, we will brave the dragons of the deep and vanquish all who would oppose you, Quentin.”

Tara just jerked a thumb at George. “What he said.”

Quentin looked around the room, looked at all the sentients who were willing to go into unknown space with him on the drop of a hat. This was different than the second trip to Prawatt Jihad territory. The Prawatt had already seen the Touchback, had already met Quentin. That trip had been a risk, sure, but a known risk. The Portath Cloud, on the other hand, was uncharted. Kimberlin had only said what everyone else already knew: ships that entered the Cloud were never heard from again.

Quentin knew the history. Over a century ago, eighty Purist Nation warships had chased a fleet of fourteen League of Planets vessels into the Cloud. The Nation ships were never heard from again. Eighty warships, gone. Seven of the League ships made it out — and that was the last recorded instance of anyone escaping the Cloud.

None of that mattered. He was going in. But how? Fred had taken the Hypatia. Gredok wouldn’t let Quentin take the Touchback, not ever again.

“We need a ship,” Quentin said. “We have to find one that will take us to the Portath Cloud.”

The sentients looked at him for a moment, then at each other. They were all willing to go with him, but finding a crew that would take a vessel into a realm of death was another story entirely.

“I can get a ship.”

All heads turned toward Cormorant Bumberpuff. A stiff brace covered his right leg. He favored his right arm as if it hurt to move it, to even bump it. Like most of the Krakens, his body had paid the price for the championship. The four-limbed, X-shaped sentient hobbled forward.

“Quentin, you have done more for my kind than anyone I have ever heard of,” the captain said. “You stopped a war. You saved thousands of my people from death, maybe even millions. If you need a ship to enter the Portath Cloud, then I will get you the biggest ship you have ever seen. I can promise you one thing — if the Portath want a fight, a fight is exactly what they will get.”


Heads nodded. They were all committed. Quentin suddenly realized he couldn’t take them — only Bumberpuff, and only because the Prawatt could get a ship. Just as he feared for Becca’s safety, he feared for the safety of all his friends — he couldn’t let anything happen to any of them.

As Quentin searched for the right words to tell them he didn’t need them to come, Doc Patah floated over. His sensory pits flared, and there was some color to his normally pallid skin.

“You also need a medical professional for this trip,” Doc said. “One last time in my fading years, I wanted to be part of a championship team. I wanted one last taste of the heavyweight title, and you gave that to me. I also wronged you when I told you that man was your genetic father. To make up for that, I will help you find your sister.”

Even Doc wanted to come. Quentin stood there, dumbfounded — what had he ever done to generate such loyalty?

He looked at them all: Quyth, Sklorno, Ki, HeavyG, Human, Harrah and even Prawatt. Seven races that had spent centuries slaughtering each other, and now all of these sentients were willing to ride with him into the unknown, willing to help him rescue a woman they’d never even met.

Sure, he could tell them no, but he knew they wouldn’t listen. Far more important, if he was going to save his sister, he knew he needed all the help he could get — he couldn’t do this alone.

And hadn’t he been in their shoes before? No one could have stopped him from helping to rescue Ju Tweedy. He’d put his life on the line to save George Starcher from killing himself. He had refused to stop supporting Tara the Freak. When trouble came, Quentin did what Quentin needed to do — were his friends any different?

He studied the expressions on their faces. He saw fear, certainly, but not a shred of doubt. Each and every one of them was a shining example of true loyalty.

“You could all get killed,” Quentin said. “You need to know that.”

Becca Montagne walked up to him, slowly, limping slightly from an injury suffered in the game. She stood in front of him, looked up at him with her big, dark eyes.

“If we die, we die as we live,” she said. “We die as a team.”

Quentin nodded. He would have done the same for any one of them, would have put his life on the line and wouldn’t have given it a second thought. That they would do so for him? It stirred up emotions that he really didn’t know how to handle.

Together, he and his friends would go after Fred and Jeanine.

The Krakens were coming, and High One help anyone who got in their way.