The MVP

3





Picking a Team


QUENTIN HEADED FOR THE DINING DECK. George Starcher, Michael Kimberlin and Mum-O-Killowe walked along behind him. He’d borrowed Kimberlin’s messageboard and was reading up on what little was known about the Game as he walked.

The Prawatt ship had pressurized all of the Touchback, which meant Quentin and the others could walk through damaged corridors. In some places, he had to step over wreckage. In others, part of the hull was gone, the holes filled by the gnarled-yet-orderly black surface that made up the Prawatt ship’s pseudopod. The texture resembled thousands of dark steel cables twisted upon one another, like some kind of black metal fabric.

The rules of the Game seemed fairly simple. He needed six players in addition to himself. The Prawatt had demanded the team include at least two Sklorno. Put the ball through one of the three rings, your team scores 10 points. One player, a “goalie,” defended the goals, while the other six players were out on the field. Passing in any direction: legal. Blocking and tackling: legal. Punching, kicking, scratching and biting? Those were probably legal as well.

Quentin entered the dining deck. Messal the Efficient was waiting.

“All members of the organization that can move are here,” Messal said. “I’m afraid Coach Hokor the Hookchest is still unconscious in medbay.”

Quentin looked around the large room, taking it all in. Everyone was there, waiting for news. Not just his teammates, the Ki, the Quyth Warriors, the Humans and the Sklorno, but Captain Kate and her four orange-uniformed bridge crew as well.

Also present were two dozen or so sentients that made up the Krakens’ business staff — Humans Quyth Workers, even a few of the furry, basketball-sized Sklorno males that everyone referred to as bedbugs. These sentients stayed out of sight most of the time, but now their lives were just as at stake as everyone else’s.

Doc Patah floated near the ceiling, waiting, his wide flaps undulating in slow waves to keep him in position. Shizzle, the team’s Creterakian interpreter, flew in slow circles punctuated by the rhythmic sound of his membranous wings. He’d clothed his tadpole-shaped form in a hideous bodysuit of reflective silver lined with yellow lightning bolts.

Save for the team owner, the entire Ionath Krakens franchise was there. Quentin was making decisions that could determine life and death for all. What if playing the Game was the wrong choice? He closed his eyes and took a slow breath — no time for thinking like that, not now, not when he had to focus on winning.

They waited for him to speak. Gredok the Splithead wasn’t here. He was probably back on Ionath, wondering what had happened to his multi-million-credit franchise. No owner, no coach … now everyone looked to the team captain for direction.

Quentin met their stares. Lives would be at risk, but at least he’d given everyone in this room a fighting chance at survival.

“Krakens, listen up,” he said. “The Prawatt are in control of the Touchback. They understand we were attacked. As such, they will probably let us go free — all but the Sklorno.”

The Sklorno players chittered in their native language, a nonsensical stream of chirps and clicks. They hated the Prawatt just as much as the Prawatt hated them. Most of Sklorno were covered head to toe, as was their way whenever males of their species were near. Defensive back Wahiawa, however, wore only her practice jersey, leaving much of her see-through body exposed. Most Sklorno had four flexible eyestalks sticking out of the coarse, black hair that covered their baseball-sized heads. She and her sister Halawa each had three, due to the fact that they’d once been conjoined twins with that fourth eyestalk connecting them.

Wahiawa vibrated with obvious anger, her back-folded legs twitching constantly. Her exposed skin would have normally made the bedbugs mad with desire, but she radiated hostility and they gave her plenty of room — if one of the males did make a move on her, she’d probably grab him with her two long tentacles, then tear the guy apart with the toothed raspers that dangled from her open chin-plate.

Quentin raised his hands for silence. “If we leave without our Sklorno teammates, I think they will never see home again. They will die in Prawatt space. I won’t let that happen. The Prawatt have a sport they call the Game. There’s a holo of Leiba the Gorgeous playing it, has anyone seen that?”

More than a few heads nodded.

“I challenged the Prawatt to play us in their Game,” Quentin said. “If we win, all of us go free. But this sport is deadly. I watched just three or four minutes of it, and in that time two sentients lost their lives. I am playing. I need six players to join me.”

John Tweedy stood up and raised his hand. Quentin’s best friend and the Krakens’ starting middle linebacker bounced on his toes as he jumped up and down. “I’ll volunteer! I’m in!” His changeable, full-body tattoo spelled out the words EQUAL OPPORTUNITY MOUTH-BUSTER across his face.

“Q! Pick me, pick me!”

Quentin shook his head. “I didn’t ask for volunteers.”

“But Q, I —”

Quentin held up a hand to stop him. “John, please — sit down.”

John sat.

Quentin hadn’t been exaggerating — sentients could and did die in this sport. He would have liked nothing more than to have John guarding him out in that arena, but if the Krakens were going to win he had to base his choices on something other than his own safety.

“I need the players best suited for the Prawatt game,” Quentin said. “If I call your name, it’s because the team needs you if we’re going to get everyone out of here alive. I’ll say it again — playing could get you hurt. It could end your football career. It could get you killed. If I call on you and you say no, I can’t make you play.”

He looked around the room, searching for signs of fear, of sentients casting their gaze to the floor or looking away — but every last Kraken stared right back at him. He nodded, his heart swelling with pride. They were ready to go to war with him.

He turned to the Sklorno clustered on the right side of the room. “The Prawatt captain insisted that Sklorno play. The Prawatt will come after you. I think they will actually try to kill you.”

Milford jumped five feet into the air. “Pick me,” she squealed. “I will kill the Prawatt!” She and Quentin had been rookies together. He knew her better than any Sklorno on the team. She was fast as fast could be, but she didn’t have the size to stand up to the kind of hitting Quentin had seen in that holo.


Wahiawa also started jumping. The 320-pound cornerback shook with fury. “No, I will kill them. I beg you, Quentinbarnes, I beg you!”

Milford shoved Wahiawa to the ground. Before Wahiawa could get up, Hawick, the team’s top receiver, hopped over her to take center stage.

“I Hawick am the killer of Prawatt! Choose me chooseme!”

Cheboygan, the big rookie receiver, rushed forward and tackled Hawick. As they flew through the air and into a table, Quentin heard Cheboygan’s high-pitched voice screaming “mememememe!”

Suddenly, the Sklorno were tearing into each other, an instant brawl that sent bodies flying and filled the air with pleas to play against the Prawatt. Twenty Krakens moved in, pulling Sklorno off the pile, holding them back or just lying on top of them, pinning them to the ground.

Quentin stepped into the melee. “Enough! I command you to be still!”

The Sklorno froze. Only their trembling eyestalks moved, watching Quentin — they had angered their Godling.

He felt silly, but only for a moment. He could worry about a god complex later. Right now, he had to pick a team.

“Halawa,” Quentin said, pointing to the big second-year receiver. “And Cheboygan. You both start as runners. I’ll explain that position later.”

He looked over the rest of his Sklorno teammates. He’d picked Halawa and Cheboygan because they had both size and speed. If he’d taken Halawa for those reasons, he might as well take her twin sister.

He pointed at Wahiawa. “You start at goalie.”

“Use backups,” said a voice from the back of the room, “not starters.”

All heads turned to look at the blue-skinned, white-haired Don Pine, the man Quentin had beat out for the starting quarterback position. Don Pine, the man who had thrown his career away to repay his gambling debts. Quentin had found a way to secretly cover that debt and save Don’s reputation, his legacy. Then Yolanda Davenport’s exposé on corruption in the GFL had mistakenly pinned Don’s illegal actions on Quentin. When that happened, Quentin had expected Don to own up to the bad deeds — but Don had stayed quiet, letting Quentin take the heat, letting a galaxy believe that Quentin was a cheating, gambling, lying scumbag of a criminal.

Quentin Barnes genuinely hated three sentients: he hated Rick “Sarge” Vinje for pretending to be his father, Cillian Carbonaro; he hated Gredok the Splithead for hiring Rick to do just that; he hated Don Pine for being a coward, for betraying both the sport of football and Quentin’s friendship.

Quentin wanted to shout at Pine, tell him to shut his mouth and go crawl into a hole somewhere, but he did not. The two glittering GFL championship rings on Don’s right hand were proof that the man knew how to strategize, how to manage his teammates. If Don had something to say, Quentin would consider it.

“Don, we need size and speed,” Quentin said. “The Prawatt probably haven’t played any Sklorno as big, strong and fast as Halawa, Wahiawa and Cheboygan.”

Don nodded. “Cheboygan, okay, but Halawa? She’s a starting receiver. Don’t put her at risk. And you saw what happened this year when our defensive backs were hurt. Wahiawa is your number-one cornerback — if she gets hurt and we don’t have her at one hundred percent for the 2685 season, other offenses will pick us apart unless Gredok spends big bucks for a top-level player.”

Pine was thinking long term. That was smart, but it didn’t treat their current situation with enough severity.

“If we don’t win this game, there won’t be an ’85 season,” Quentin said. “Halawa and Cheboygan have the size, and this game involves throwing a ball. We need their catching ability.”

Don shook his head. “Hokor wouldn’t choose them. Neither would Gredok.”

“Gredok isn’t here. Hokor is still unconscious.”

Don looked around the room, expecting support — he didn’t find any. He stared at Quentin. “So you get to make this decision? You decide who risks their lives?”

Quentin knew it was a fair question, but the entire team was watching and he couldn’t back down now.

“If I pick a player and they agree, then the decision is made,” he said. He looked at his Sklorno teammates. “Halawa, Cheboygan, Wahiawa, do you agree to play?”

The three of them started jumping in place.

All through the dining deck, heads nodded in agreement. Not that long ago, many players would have sided with Don; it was Quentin’s team now, and everyone knew it.

He started to pick his next players, then paused as a realization hit home: Don was right. The long term did matter almost as much as the here and now. Halawa was the team’s number-three receiver; losing her would hurt, but Quentin had additional receiving depth in Tara the Freak and Crazy George Starcher. At cornerback, however, the Krakens had no depth — if Wahiawa went down, their defensive secondary would be worthless.

It didn’t matter who was right, as long as the right thing happened.

“Wahiawa,” Quentin said, “you’re out.”

The second-year defensive back screeched as if in utter agony. She fell to the floor and started twitching.

Quentin turned to face the backup cornerback, the player who had lost some of her speed due to age but could still jump high enough to defend the top ring, could still hit like nobody’s business. “Stockbridge, will you play goalie?”

Inside the see-through body, Quentin saw the Sklorno’s clear blood actually stop pumping. “Me? Quentinbarnes wants me?”

He nodded.

She said “yes,” then collapsed.

The rest of the Sklorno stood there, quivering, hoping he would pick them, but Cheboygan, Halawa and Stockbridge gave him enough speed. He needed to complement that with brute strength, with savagery. To get those things, there was only one option.

“Mum-O?”

The young defensive lineman’s tubular body suddenly rose up on his back legs. His other four legs waved in the air, as did his four arms. He gnashed the black, triangular teeth inside his hexagonal mouth. Vocal tubes let out a short, intense roar, then he dropped back down and fell silent. Mum-O had a flair for the dramatic — he was in.

“Okay,” Quentin said, thinking through his options. George Starcher’s size, speed and hands would have made him ideal, but Quentin couldn’t bank on the man’s reliability. This wasn’t a time for crazy.

John stood up, raised his right hand and waved it madly. “Come on, Q! Pick me! I will mess them all up!”

“John, shut up! Another word out of you and you can just leave the dining deck.”

John stared, his mouth wide open. Quentin had never spoken to his friend like that before. John’s eyes narrowed, then he looked down. Quentin would have to make it up to him later. If there even was a later.

Quentin turned to face John’s brother, Ju. Ju had the size, the strength, the speed, and he was hands-down the best athlete on the team, but he was also the Krakens’ starting running back. Was playing him now worth the risk of losing him for the ’85 season? Quentin looked to the back of the room, to Don. Don shook his head, then nodded toward another running back.

Quentin saw the logic instantly. Don’s choice wasn’t as strong or as fast as Ju, but he had much better hands — better for catching passes and not as likely to fumble the ball when he took a hit.

“Yassoud,” Quentin said. “You want in?”

Yassoud tilted his head back in surprise, making his stiff, braided beard stick out away from him. “Me? Wouldn’t you want Ju?”


“Yeah,” Ju said, a hint of anger in his voice at being passed over for his backup. “Come on, Q, I’ll tear those nasty beasties apart.”

Quentin shook his head. “I’m not doing this for fun, I’m doing this to save our franchise. I have to play against the Prawatt, but if I get hurt, Don can step in at quarterback. If Halawa gets hurt, we still have Hawick and Milford. Ju, if you go down, there’s too big of a drop-off at running back. No offense, ’Soud.”

Yassoud shook his head. “None taken. I’m stubborn, not blind. If you want me to fight alongside you in this one, Q, I’m your Huckleberry.”

“What’s a Huckleberry?”

The dark-skinned man just smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I’m in.”

Quentin had one slot left. He needed a player that could run fast, that could catch, that could both take damage and also dish it out. A big tight end could do all of those things. Quentin had ruled George out, but the Krakens had another tight end who was just as good.

Quentin looked at Rick Warburg. “What do you say, Warburg? Are you in?”

Warburg threw back his black-haired head and laughed. He actually laughed.

“I can’t look that dumb,” he said. “Go out and get killed by those demons? No way.”

So selfish, always so selfish. “Rick, if we don’t win, our Sklorno teammates … ”

The words died in Quentin’s mouth. Had he actually thought that Rick Warburg, a hate-filled racist, would risk his life to save his Sklorno teammates? A stupid assumption, another reminder that not everyone thought the same way Quentin did.

He looked over his remaining teammates. He saw what he needed, a 6-foot-6, 330-pound player that could not only hit, catch, run and take hits, but a player that could throw.

“Becca, will you play?”

Rebecca Montagne took a step back. She looked around the room quickly, her dark eyes wide with surprise as if she thought he might be talking to some other player named Becca.

She pointed to her chest. “Me,” she said. “You want me on the team?”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah. But we need the angry version of you. I need you to be vicious — we need the Wrecka.”

Her expression was a combination of fear and raw pride. Pride that when crunch time hit, when everything was on the line, Quentin called on her ahead of so many others. Fear not for herself, but for what she knew she could do to other sentients, the same fear that she’d shown since killing North Branch on the first play of her Tier One career.

She looked down. “I’m not sure I can. I don’t … well, I don’t want to unleash on them, you know?”

He walked to her and put a hand on her solid shoulder. “The lives of your teammates depend on it. And, you have another skill we need.”

She raised her eyebrows, waiting.

“Your arm,” Quentin said. “I was told you wanted to be a quarterback?”

A slow smile broke across her face. Without another word, he saw that she understood his game plan.

“All right,” she said. “I’m in.”

Quentin grinned, first at her, then at the entire team. “This is just one more game, Krakens,” he said. “We will win this. They are waiting for us. We can’t wear armor, so get your shoes, your jerseys, and let’s get to the shuttle bay.”

Right or wrong, he had committed his teammates to this contest — whatever happened would be on his shoulders.

Quentin Barnes left the dining deck, his six fellow starters close behind.