The MVP

BOOK TWO





The Preseason

January 1 to

January 28, 2685





9





Preseason Week One: January 1 to January 7


IT WAS A LITTLE STRANGE to get a hero’s welcome for being kidnapped, but it seemed Ionath City never passed up an opportunity to throw a party.

The shuttle slid through the dome that separated the planet’s radioactive atmosphere from the protected air of the city proper. Night had fallen on Ionath. The hexagonal skyscrapers were tallest at the city center, reaching up some fifty stories to top out just below the dome. In the dead center of the city, however, was an open space of blue turf 120 yards long by 60 yards wide, surrounded by steeply sloping stadium stands.

Ionath City Stadium. The Big Eye. Home of the Ionath Krakens, and the very heart of the city.

At night, the hexagonal buildings were normally lit up in bright, garish ads that cascaded up and down their sides. More often than not, those ads featured a Krakens player, sometimes playing in a game, sometimes in just a jersey and no pads, and sometimes in street clothes. Humans, Quyth Warriors, HeavyG and even Ki hawked everything from shaving cream to beer to the strange products used by the Sklorno.

But this night, there were no ads at all. Every building had the same pair of still images. On the left, Stockbridge — resplendent in her black home jersey, orange armor and the Krakens’ signature six-tentacled helmet — reaching high to intercept a pass. On the right, a wide-eyed Quyth Warrior, also in home black with orange leg armor, squatting down and waiting for the snap that would start the game: Killik the Unworthy in one of the rare moments where he actually got playing time.

The city of Ionath honored its fallen warriors, one who had perished in the pirate attack, the other who died on the field against the Prawatt.

The shuttle angled closer to the stadium. Tonight, Quentin would sleep in his small apartment in the Krakens Building, but first he needed to speak to the team owner. Since that fateful dinner at Torba the Hungry’s, Quentin hadn’t seen Gredok the Splithead. Before the preseason began in two days, Quentin had some things to say, and Gredok was going to listen.

? ? ?



QUENTIN AND CHOTO THE BRIGHT walked down the halls of the Krakens Building. Quentin had to work to control his anger — his happiness at returning home had already vanished.

“I can’t believe Gredok won’t see me,” he said.

“Messal could not arrange a meeting?”

Quentin shook his head. “Messal asked, Gredok said no. Messal gave me the impression I shouldn’t bother asking again — Gredok will see me when he’s ready to see me, and not before.”

“I am not surprised by this,” Choto said. “Gredok got what he wanted out of you. Now, he will avoid you in case you want to do something stupid, something that might make him damage his investment.”

Quentin hissed out between clenched teeth. Gredok had all the power. For now, anyway.

“I’ll get back at him someday. I guess I need to relax. Man, I can’t believe we’re really back home.”

“Our return may seem unreal to you, but I assure you we are here,” Choto said. “To the best of my knowledge, this is really happening.”

Quentin laughed at Choto’s efforts of reassurance. Sarcasm escaped the Tweedy brothers, while exaggeration escaped the Quyth.

They walked into his apartment. Quentin looked around. Nothing had changed. That was bizarre in a way — after the pirate attack, the Prawatt, the Game, narrowly averting a war and then returning home from an unknown distance away, his apartment looked like he’d never left.

[HELLO, QUENTIN] the room computer said. [WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO PLAY A RANDOM, HISTORICAL FOOTBALL GAME, AS IS YOUR USUAL PREFERENCE?]

Quentin walked to his couch and sat. Choto had already started checking the place for any potential threats, and it was easiest to stay out of the Warrior’s way.

“Not tonight, Computer,” Quentin said. “Can you compile any game film that shows Stockbridge and Killik the Unworthy?”

[OF COURSE. FROM THEIR GAMES WITH THE KRAKENS, ALL GAMES THEY HAVE EVER PLAYED OR A PARTICULAR SELECTION?]

“All games,” Quentin said. He hadn’t known either player very well. Maybe watching their progression through the tiers up to the Krakens’ roster would help him identify with them.

[COMPILING. ONE MOMENT, PLEASE.]

Choto came out of the kitchen. “All clear, Shamakath.”

“Choto, dammit, what did I say about that?”

The single, softball-sized eye looked to the ground. “You have told me not to use that word in public.”

Quentin had reacted too harshly and shamed his friend. They were alone here, but in any property owned by Gredok the Splithead, you were never truly alone. If Gredok learned Choto had fully shifted his allegiance, Quentin wouldn’t be surprised to see the Warrior traded to another team.

“Quentin, I should examine the bedroom to make sure it is safe.”

“Go for it,” Quentin said. The big Quyth Warrior walked into the tiny room. The odds of a terrorist or another team owner sneaking past Gredok’s defenses and planting something in his apartment were pretty slim, but Choto wouldn’t leave until he’d checked everything.

[BROADCAST FOOTAGE IS READY, QUENTIN. WHICH PLAYER WOULD YOU LIKE TO BEGIN WITH?]

In a way, Stockbridge and Killik were immortal. Even if every recording of every game suddenly went blank, no one could stop the original broadcast signals from bouncing through the universe forever and ever and ever.


“Computer, add in plays from Mitchell Fayed and Aka-Na-Tak. All games. Equal rotation for all four.”

[COMPILING.]

Aka-Na-Tak, Stockbridge, Killik the Unworthy and Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed. Four players who had died in service of the Ionath Krakens.

Choto walked out of the bedroom. “Your apartment is safe, Quentin. Do you need me to stay as you grow nostalgic watching footage of our deceased teammates?”

Quentin waved toward the door. “All good, Choto. Thanks for ensuring my safety.”

Choto’s clear eye swirled with light green, the color of modesty. “It is my honor, Quentin. Good night.”

The Warrior walked out. The door closed behind him.

[FOOTAGE IS READY, QUENTIN. I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR YOU. THE MESSAGE SENDER ASKED THAT YOU BE ALONE WHEN YOU RECEIVE IT.]

“A message from who?”

[FROM YOUR LIMO DRIVER ON ISIS. HE SAID YOU TOLD HIM IF HE WERE EVER IN IONATH CITY, YOU WOULD TAKE HIM TO YOUR FAVORITE BAR. HE IS HERE VISITING HIS SISTER, AND HE WOULD LIKE TO TAKE YOU UP ON YOUR OFFER TOMORROW NIGHT.]

The limo driver from Isis — Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga, the private detective Quentin had hired to find information on his family. Did Fred have info on Quentin’s sister, Jeanine Carbonaro? Would Fred bring her to the meeting?

He hadn’t seen Jeanine since that horrible night when she’d shown herself for the first time, when she’d told Quentin that Rick “Sarge” Vinje was not his father, but an impostor, an actor hired by Gredok to sway Quentin’s decisions.

Favorite bar had to mean the Blessed Lamb. Gredok wanted Fred dead, and the Human-only Blessed Lamb was one of the few places in Ionath City where the crime lord didn’t have eyes and ears.

Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow, Quentin would finally get to talk to his sister for the first time in his life.

“Computer, play the highlights. Begin with Mitchell Fayed. And make it dark in here.”

Quentin eased back into his couch. The room lights blinked off. He had a moment of darkness, then the holotank flared to life. Ionath Krakens, an away game against the green- and white-clad Sheb Stalkers. Quentin watched as his old friend, The Machine, took a handoff from Don Pine and plowed into the line.

Quentin would honor the Krakens’ fallen players. He would honor them with a championship.

? ? ?



QUENTIN TRIED TO CONTROL his excitement as he entered the Blessed Lamb bar. People looked up at him. There were a few nods, a few smiles, but also a few scowls.

The last time he’d walked into this place, some nine months back, he’d been greeted by fifty people calling out his name, welcoming him in. They’d treated him like an intergalactic hero or something. Now — when he supposedly was an intergalactic hero — they didn’t seem all that impressed.

He looked around but didn’t see Frederico. That didn’t mean he wasn’t here. Except for the bar’s owners, Brother Guido and Monica Basset, and a few regulars Quentin knew by sight — like Father Harry — the oft-disguised Frederico could be any of the forty-odd patrons in the place.

Was he already here? Was Jeanine? Would Quentin finally get a chance to speak with the only family member he had left?

Quentin recognized a man sitting at the bar. No mistaking that black hair and the too-small T-shirt that showed off big, well-defined muscles — Rick Warburg, the Krakens’ number-two tight end.

Quentin walked up to the bar and took an open seat next to Warburg. The man glanced Quentin’s way, raised his beer a half-inch in greeting, then again faced forward.

“Rick,” Quentin said. “I see you’re settling back in.”

Rick shrugged. “Somewhat. That was crazy stuff.”

Behind the bar, Brother Guido came over. He was polishing a glass with a slightly dirty towel. “What can I get you, Quentin?” Guido’s smile looked forced.

“Beer,” Quentin said.

Guido poured one quickly, making too much foam. He set the mug down on the bar top, hard enough that some of the beer sloshed out. Without wiping it up, Guido walked away to talk to other patrons.

Quentin grabbed a napkin and cleaned up the spill. “Man, what’s his deal? And everyone else, too — last time I came in here, you would have thought I was a rock star. What changed?”

Rick smiled and shook his head. “They’re not all that happy with you being the peacemaker.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“You stopped a war.”

Quentin stared, dumbfounded. “Wait, what? Hundreds of thousands of people could have died.”

Rick shook his head. “No, not people. Hundreds of thousands of crickets and Devil’s Ropes would have died. And probably a bunch of bats as well.”

Now Quentin understood. The Blessed Lamb catered to Purist Nation ex-pats. Even though everyone here had fled the Nation for one reason or another and could not return, most of them still clung to the faith — a faith that said all non-Humans were the satanic races.

“That’s insane,” Quentin said. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Rick drained his beer and signaled for another. “And I don’t know what to tell you. High One gave you a chance to do holy work, and you blew it.”

Warburg hadn’t changed a bit. Quentin wanted to kick himself for ever thinking that he could.

Rick turned on his stool to face Quentin. “I’ll give you this, though — I thought we were all gonna die. You got the team out of there, got us back in time for the season. Maybe you could have let that war happen, maybe not, but I’ll give credit where credit is due. Your beer is on me.”

Warburg was nothing if not brutally honest.

“Thanks,” Quentin said. “I think. You ready for practice tomorrow?”

Warburg nodded. “I’ll play hard. To tell you the truth, I’m hoping I won’t be here much longer. I’m a free agent. Danny Lundy is shopping me around as we speak.”

Quentin felt a stab of jealousy, a stab he quickly pushed away. Danny was Quentin’s agent, but the Dolphin could represent anyone he wanted — Quentin couldn’t ask Danny to pass on a client just because Quentin and that client didn’t get along.

Rick seemed to be waiting for a response. Maybe Quentin was supposed to say I hope we keep you or something like that. Rick played as hard as anyone else in the league, even as hard as Quentin, but his work ethic and talent carried a steep price — the price of dealing with an unabashed racist.

Brother Guido came up with a fresh beer, which he set in front of Quentin. Guido tilted his head toward the back room. “Compliments of an admirer.”

Frederico. It had to be. Quentin stood, grabbed a beer in each hand. He looked at Rick. “Good luck with your hunt. I hope you do what makes you happy.”

Warburg smiled and rested his elbows on the bar. “Have a good one, Barnes.”

Quentin walked to the empty back room. In there, sitting at a table — alone — was an undisguised Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga.

“Hello, Quentin,” he said.

Quentin sat down and pushed the fresh beer across the table to Fred. “No pink outfits this time? I kind of expected to see you in a white uniform, saying howdy, sailor.”

Fred nodded. “You’re funny. You should be on Late Night with Chorro the Hilarious. This bar is the one place in the city Gredok doesn’t have any traction, so I don’t need a disguise.”

Quentin knew the back room was empty, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking around again, hoping he’d missed something.


“She’s not here,” Fred said.

“So when can I see her?”

Fred thought for a moment. “She’s not ready yet,” he said.

Quentin’s only family member, and she didn’t want to see him? “Why not?”

Fred looked down at the table. “She saw the way you fought in the bar. Maybe it’s hard to hear, Q, but you’re a big, violent man — you scared the hell out of her.”

Quentin closed his eyes, remembering the rage that had washed over him that night. He’d tried to kill Gredok. He’d maimed one of Gredok’s bodyguards. He’d beaten the fake Cillian Carbonaro, come within a finger twitch of shooting the man in the eye. Sure, he’d reacted violently, but in that situation, who wouldn’t?

“Come on, Fred — she’s never seen a fight before?”

“She has,” Fred said. “That’s the problem. She’s seen them because she’s been in them, with a guy about your size. Her ex-husband.”

Quentin’s hands tightened around his mug. Jeanine’s ex-husband had hit her? If there were a High One, someday, somehow, Quentin would get five minutes alone in a room with that man.

“But I’m her brother.”

Fred nodded. “She knows that. She wants to see you, trust me, but like I said, she’s just not ready yet. Give her some time. Don’t forget, she thought her whole family was gone, just like you did. Finding out your brother is not only alive, but he’s an intergalactic football star, well, that’s a big adjustment. You have to be patient.”

Quentin ground his teeth. “But I want to see her.”

“I know,” Fred said. “You have to be patient. Not just for her, but because I have to be smart about this. She is the last piece of leverage Gredok has on you — if he finds out where she is, who knows what he’d do.”

She hadn’t come, and she wasn’t coming. Quentin didn’t know when — or if — he would see her. That hurt, a level of pain that surprised him considering he’d only met her for all of a minute. Still, Fred was right: Jeanine’s safety was the most important thing.

“Okay,” Quentin said. “I have to trust you know what you’re doing. She need anything? A place to live, anything?”

Fred shook his head. “She’s fine. I’ve got her squirreled away. Even have a disguise for her so I can take her out into the city, let her see the sights. I’m billing your account for anything she needs. The money comes directly to me, which we know Gredok sees, but I run it through a bunch of accounts before it gets to her. He can’t trace it, doesn’t know where she spends it. Your sister is safe, I promise you that. You just play football.”

Quentin stared at the table, used his mug to make circles of moisture. “Just play football. That’s why Gredok did this to me, so I’d just play football. I want Gredok to pay, Fred.” He looked up. “You do that kind of thing, don’t you, Fred?”

Fred leaned back and held up both hands. “Hold on there, kid. I’ve got a past with Gredok. I’m already a target of his because I spoiled his fake dad routine, but he got what he wanted out of that deal — you. As long as I keep my mouth shut and don’t make trouble for him, he won’t hunt me that hard. But if I went after him? Let’s just say that you don’t have enough money for me to make a move on Gredok. You and your entire team — combined — couldn’t pay me to do that.”

Quentin stood. Fred was afraid of Gredok? Fine. “I understand. But with or without you, I’ll get my payback.”

Fred sighed. “Gredok tricked you with a fake dad, and I know that burns, but it’s not like he murdered your real father or anything like that. You wound up with a big contract, a city that loves you, and your sister is alive and safe. Just play football, Q — just enjoy a life that most sentients would kill to have.”

Fred made it sound so easy, but Quentin couldn’t let it go, he wouldn’t let it go.

“Get Jeanine to meet me, Fred. I pay you, and that’s what I want.”

Fred shook his head. “This isn’t just about money anymore. Your sister is under my protection. You’ll meet her when she’s ready to meet you and no sooner.”

Quentin stared at the smaller man. Fred stared back: calm, relaxed and ready to act if Quentin did anything stupid. For being just a hair over two hundred pounds, Frederico was a damn scary individual.

“Fred, I want a way to reach you. I don’t want to wait until it’s convenient for you to contact me.”

Fred shrugged. “You have to wait. I’m exceedingly good at my job, Quentin, but that doesn’t mean Gredok’s sentients are bad at theirs. They’re watching you. If you contact me, that makes it easier for them to find me. You’ve never been tortured, but I have — if they find me, they will find your sister.”

Quentin’s hands clenched into fists. He stared at the wall. Fred was right, but it didn’t remove the frustration. “So what if I need you to contact me? There’s got to be a way I can at least get a message to you.”

Fred scratched at his temple, then nodded and sighed. “Fine.” He reached into a jacket pocket and came out with a holocube. “Use this in an emergency. An emergency, you got it?”

Quentin nodded.

Fred held up the cube. “When should you use this?”

“I heard you.”

Fred raised his eyebrows. “When should you use it?”

Quentin hated being spoken to like a child. “Only in an emergency, Fred.”

Fred nodded and tossed it over. “On that cube there’s a movie called Muybridge. Just play the movie, and it will send me a signal. I’ll contact you and arrange to meet.”

A holocube that would send a secret message? That was pretty cool. “Is it a good movie?”

Frederico laughed. “Not really, unless you like history. It’s the first movie ever made.” He paused, thinking. “You get along with Yolanda?”

Yolanda Davenport, the reporter who had trashed Quentin’s reputation in a cover story for Galaxy Sports Magazine, then later repaired that damage in a follow-up article that also happened to clear Ju Tweedy of a murder charge.

“Sure, well enough,” Quentin said. “You keep her informed of Jeanine, right?”

Fred shook his head. “No, Yolanda keeps herself informed. She’s really good at what she does. Don’t worry about her ratting out Jeanine’s location, though — Yolanda isn’t going to run with the story.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because if she was going to, she would have already.”

Quentin couldn’t trust Yolanda Davenport as far as he could throw her. Although, come to think about it, she weighed all of a hundred pounds — he could probably throw her pretty far.

“She’s fine,” Fred said. “There may come a time when Jeanine and I go really underground, when I can’t contact you directly. If that happens and I need to get you info, I might use Yolanda. Same word — Muybridge. If she mentions that to you, it’s about your sister, okay?”

Quentin nodded. “Sure. Okay.”

“Good,” Fred said. “Look, I can’t stay here any longer, Quentin. I gotta go.”

“Fine. Just tell Jeanine … ”

He was going to say tell her I love her, but in truth he didn’t even know the woman. She was already afraid of him; when he finally did meet her, what if she didn’t even like him?


Fred smiled. “She loves you, too. I’ll tell her.”

He stood and left the room. Quentin remained at the table, alone, and slowly finished his beer.

? ? ?



QUENTIN BARNES AND JOHN TWEEDY stood in the orange end zone, looking out at the empty stands of Ionath Stadium. A stiff breeze swept from right to left, rippling the long, vertical team banners hanging from the twenty-two columns that rose up from the top deck.

Some of those banners never seemed to change: the silver, copper and gold of the Jupiter Jacks; the red and white of the Wabash Wolfpack; the blood red of the To Pirates; the purple and white of the Yall Criminals. Other banners still seemed new: the flat black of the OS1 Orbiting Death; the red, white and blue of the Texas Earthlings.

Two of the banners that had flown here last year were now gone, their teams relegated to Tier Two. No longer would the steel blue and gold of the Lu Juggernauts or the green and gold of the Sala Intrigue decorate Tier One stadiums. In their place hung the latest additions to football’s highest level: the Buddha City Elite’s blue infinity-symbol logo on a field of emerald green, and the Sheb Stalkers’ dark green topped by their logo, a stylized, red-eyed white predator’s head flanked by white lightning bolts.

When the upcoming 2685 season finished, which banners would fall? Two teams would be sent down in disgrace to Tier Two, replaced by two promoted teams that would then fight for the greatest prize in the universe: the Galaxy Bowl trophy.

John pointed to a black banner that showed a gray and white boot with the word Hullwalkers beneath it.

“I bet Hittoni gets relegated this year,” he said.

“You’re crazy, Uncle Johnny.” To think that the Hullwalkers — three-time GFL champions — could wind up in Tier Two? It wasn’t possible.

John shrugged. “Change they is a-coming home, Q.” He sniffed the air. “I can smell it. I’m calling it now — Hittoni and … lemme think … yeah, the Astros, they’re both going downtown to Tier Two town.”

The New Rodina Astronauts had suffered through a tough ’84 season, going 5-7, but in ’83 they’d had posted a league-best 11-1 record and had lost the Galaxy Bowl to the Wabash Wolfpack by a mere six points.

“The Astronauts, maybe,” Quentin said. “But the Hullwalkers? They’ve been in Tier One since the league started twenty-seven years ago. They’ve never been relegated.”

“Teams get better, teams get worse, Q. All I know is two teams get dropped, and we won’t be one of them.”

He held out a fist. Quentin made a fist of his own and bumped it against John’s. The two men stood in silence. Some of their teammates were already on the field, preparing for the ’85 season’s first day of practice. Sounds of player laughter, boasts, barks and cracking pads echoed through the stadium. The offensive players wore orange practice jerseys, although Quentin’s jersey was the do not touch color red. John wore practice blacks, just like the rest of the defensive players.

“Q, Ma wants to throw you a birthday party,” John said. “She said there would be cake.”

John said the word cake like Quentin’s countrymen said the words High One. Quentin loved Ma Tweedy, but right now there was too much going on for birthdays and fun. More than that, it didn’t seem right to celebrate his birth when the deaths of Stockbridge and Killik seemed so new, so fresh.

“That’s nice of her, John, but I’m not really up for it.”

John shrugged. “Does that matter?”

“Well, since it’s my birthday, then yeah, it matters. I don’t want a party.”

“Ma wants you to have one, so you’re having one. It’s in three days at my place, after practice. Don’t be late.”

Quentin sighed. John would keep asking, Quentin would keep saying no, and that was just the way of things. “Uncle Johnny, can we just focus on football right now?”

CAKE IS MY FOCUS AND MY FOCUS IS GOOD scrolled across John’s face.

“John, I wouldn’t dream of insulting your favorite food, but it’s the first day of practice — can we get our heads on straight?”

John nodded. He turned to Quentin. I WANT IT ALL scrolled across his face.

“This is our year, Q. I want it all.”

“That’s what your face said.”

“That’s how bad I want it,” John said. “So bad I said it twice.”

Quentin nodded. The Ionath franchise had been through so much. In three seasons, they had assembled some of the best talent the galaxy had to offer. There were no more excuses; the title was theirs for the taking.

He pounded a fist on John’s shoulder pad. “Let’s get to it, captain of the defense.”

John pounded Quentin’s shoulder pad — a little too hard, as Quentin felt the blow even through the armor.

“After you, captain of the offense.”

John trotted off to practice with his black-clad defensive players, while Quentin strolled to mid-field. A big, orange-jerseyed Human saw him coming and jogged to meet him at the 25.

“Hi, George,” Quentin said. “Nice face paint.”

“Thank you, Quentin,” George said.

Quentin had hoped that George’s medication would make him stop painting his face. So much for that. Last season, the big tight end usually painted his face a single color, or sometimes with stripes of a second color. Today’s design was far more intricate — a sunset over water, blue and white waves on his jaw and cheeks, a sun rising out of the waterline that started at his upper lip, the top of the sun cresting between his eyes and yellow-orange across his forehead.

“That’s fancy,” Quentin said. “Looks like a lot of work.”

George nodded. “I had to get up early.”

“Shouldn’t you save something that complex for a game?”

“Oh, this is just a sketch,” George said. “The medication has helped clear my head, has opened my true artistic potential. The Old Gods of the Void have told me that game days are special and require a deeper level of meditation and preparation. The aesthetics of the universe of the mind can only manifest if the true believer embraces all the stars as one star, all the dark matter as one matter and all of the air on all of the worlds as part of a macrocosmic biosphere of light and breath.”

Quentin had to stop himself from shaking his head. Maybe some of George’s eccentricities had nothing to do with his mental conditions. Maybe he was just plain weird.

“Those kooky Old Ones, always good for a laugh,” Quentin said. “So, George, you ready to show everyone you’re back? Ready to show everyone you’ve got your mind in the game?”

George smiled. It wasn’t the distant, semi-insane smile of last season. Despite the face paint, “Crazy” George Starcher didn’t look crazy at all.

“Just throw me the ball, Q, just throw me the ball.”

Quentin slapped George on the shoulder pad, then jogged to mid-field. His Sklorno receivers, Tara the Freak, Rick Warburg and the bleach-white-skinned Yotaro Kobayasho were waiting.

“All right, people, first practice of the preseason. Let’s run some routes and catch some holy blessings!”

The Sklorno squealed and ran to form a line. Tara the Freak stayed behind, the muscles his extra-long pedipalp arms twitching and flexing.

“I am not religious,” the Quyth Warrior said. “And even if blessings actually existed, I doubt you could throw them.”


Quentin laughed and pointed at the line. “Just catch some passes, then, tough guy.”

Tara jogged off to join the other receivers. Quentin hoped this season would be better for him, that he’d find more acceptance from the other Quyth Warriors. When your own kind doesn’t accept you, it hurts — something Quentin knew firsthand.

He walked to the center of the field, where a rack of footballs awaited. Don Pine and Yitzhak Goldman joined him. Both quarterbacks also wore the red do not touch jerseys.

Quentin smiled at them. “Zak, think this is our year?”

Yitzhak nodded. “Shuck yes. Going to be a great season.”

Quentin looked at Pine. “How about you, old man, you ready?”

Pine rolled his eyes. “Kid, I was ready when you were still in diapers. Let’s rock this.”

Quentin took a ball off the rack, spinning it his hands, feeling the leather’s pebbly texture. It made him feel at home.

He bent at the knees and held his hands in front of him, simulating the snap.

“Streak routes,” he called out to the receivers. “On two, on two.”

He looked right, to the first Sklorno in line: number 80, Hawick, his top receiver. This was her seventh pro season. She had just celebrated her fifteenth birthday, which put her at the absolute prime of life for a Sklorno athlete. Quentin had doubts anyone in the league could cover her one-on-one. And if they double-covered Hawick, that would leave Milford, his number-two receiver, and/or Halawa, his number-three, in single coverage. Add in Tara and Cheboygan — whose tentacle had healed from the injury during the Prawatt game — and the now-sane George Starcher, and Quentin was spoiled for choice when it came to passing.

This was it. This was the year.

“Blue, sixteen,” he said. “Blue, sixteeeen. Hut-hut!”

He slapped the ball in his hands and dropped back five steps. By the time he planted and stepped forward, Hawick was already 25 yards downfield. Quentin threw a high, arcing ball. As he watched the pass, watched Hawick jump high to snag it out of the air, he felt at ease. He felt at peace.

Maybe he didn’t know a lot about life, maybe he didn’t know anything about the galaxy and politics and war, but here, on this field, with a ball in his hands? He was the master of his world.

He picked up the second ball and looked at Milford.

“On two, on two. Red, twenty-one! Hut-hut!”

? ? ?



Transcript from the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan, Akbar and Tarat the Smasher”

DAN: Sports fans, welcome one and all to the biggest thing in broadcasting, the super-giant star of the sports world. That’s right, it’s me, Dan Gianni. And with me as always are Akbar and our own resident Hall-of-Famer, Tarat the Smasher.

TARAT: Thanks, Dan.

AKBAR: Happy to be back, Dan.

DAN: Akbar, how’s that Trench Warfare coverband coming along?

AKBAR: We call ourselves Trench Mouth, Dan, and we’re going to make a butt-load of money.

TARAT: I am unfamiliar with this unit of measurement. How much is a butt-load in standard credits?

DAN: Smasher, in your constant quest for knowledge, let’s just say there are some things you don’t want to know. On to football, and the most amazing story we’ve heard in years. The Ionath Krakens vanish for five months, only to pop up again just in time for quarterback Quentin Barnes to stop a war. Yes, I’ll repeat it — he stopped a war. That kid has a knack for drama, I tell you.

AKBAR: They avoided the war but suffered casualties. I think that’s going to mess with them all year long.

DAN: Tarat, give us the perspective of a player. The death of two teammates has to emotionally impact the Krakens’ season, don’t you think?

TARAT: Dan, in the GFL, players die almost every week. It is the way of things. The question isn’t emotions, the question is how does it affect the Krakens’ on-field talent? Killik the Unworthy rarely saw playing time, so his loss is not a factor. Stockbridge, however, was the Krakens’ nickelback. She was not a starter but came in for passing situations. Fortunately, the Krakens still have Berea and Wahiawa, their starting cornerbacks, but the loss of Stockbridge exposes Ionath’s lack of depth in the defensive secondary.

AKBAR: Speaking of depth, Perth is the Krakens’ free safety, and her contract is up.

TARAT: She is a free agent, Akbar. Several teams want her.

DAN: What’s Gredok trying to do about the Krakens’ defensive secondary?

TARAT: The Splithead was not on the Touchback when it went missing. He has spent the off-season scouting Tier Three and Tier Two players. I expect him to sign several talented rookies.

DAN: Sure, but will Gloria Ogawa play more of her mind games, signing away Gredok’s main rookie targets just so the Krakens can’t have them? That’s what she did last year with Gladwin and Cooperstown.

TARAT: I think the new salary cap will stop her from doing that this year, Dan. Ogawa can’t just spend money to keep players out of Ionath.

AKBAR: Can we talk about the fact that on-field holographic replay is in effect for the ’85 season? Froese pushed that rule through. He’s running this league like a tyrant. What rule is he going to change next? Maybe he’ll say that Sklorno can jump to block field goals and extra points.

TARAT: That is unlikely, Akbar. If Sklorno were allowed to jump and block kicks, no one would ever complete a kick.

AKBAR: I know, Smasher, I was making a point. Look, we don’t need on-field replay — bad calls are part of the game.

DAN: What do you mean bad calls are part of the game?

TARAT: He means that the complexities of each official’s real-time observations, and instantaneous judgments based upon those observations, add variables that make the game unpredictable and provide endless possible outcomes, Dan.

AKBAR: What he said.

DAN: Come on, Akbar — you don’t really want games decided on bad calls, do you? The current replay system has that complicated in-the-booth review process. With on-field holo, everyone can see the play exactly as it happened, in the place it happened.

AKBAR: It’s a slippery slope, Dan. What’s next? Computer simulations of each player, all in one of those severed-head League of Planets systems so that we don’t even actually play the games on the field at all?

TARAT: Akbar, I think that you are extending the argument to absurd lengths.

DAN: Hah, like that’s something new.

AKBAR: Give me a break.

DAN: We will probably see on-field holo and see how this ordeal affected the Krakens in the season’s opening game, when Ionath takes on the Isis Ice Storm.

TARAT: You are missing the biggest problem facing the Krakens. They have excellent leadership in Barnes and Pine, and Coach Hokor the Hookchest will have the whole team focused and ready to play. All, possibly, except for George Starcher. The biggest issue for Ionath is at tight end. Rick Warburg is a free agent. They should sign him, but I have heard he does not mesh well with the rest of the team. If they lose Warburg, then they have to rely on George Starcher, who missed part of last season due to mental instability.

AKBAR: That guy is nuttier than a fruitcake.

TARAT: What is a fruitcake?

DAN: Something so awful even a Quyth Warrior wouldn’t eat it, Tarat. Best if you avoid it.

TARAT: Thank you, Dan, I appreciate you looking out for me. Regarding Warburg, my sources tell me that the newly promoted teams want to sign him. He would be a good fit for the Buddha City Elite or the Sheb Stalkers. I think Buddha City will surprise many people this year and win several contests.


AKBAR: Tarat, you’re crazy. I like you, but you’re crazy. The Elite will be lucky to win one game this year. The Sheb Stalkers, on the other hand, aren’t going to be a pushover. They have an excellent defense.

DAN: That’s a good segue into our annual predictions. What two teams will be back down in Tier Two at year’s end?

AKBAR: My relegation picks are the Coranadillana Cloud Killers and a shocker — the Jupiter Jacks are heading down to Tier Two.

TARAT: It appears that religion has rotted your brain. The Jacks played in the Galaxy Bowl last year.

AKBAR: I know, but starting quarterback Shriaz Zia died in that loss, and Denver, their supposed number-one receiver, had a total of five catches in her last three regular-season games. She’s lost it. Without a dominant receiver, I don’t think the Jacks can recover from losing Zia.

TARAT: Preposterous. Jupiter has a good defense. Zia’s backup, Steve Compton, will start at quarterback and is good enough to keep them from relegation.

DAN: Okay, Smasher, then what are your picks?

TARAT: I agree with Akbar on Coranadillana being relegated from the Planet Division, but in the Solar — I say New Rodina gets sent down.

AKBAR: New Rodina? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. They’ve played Tier One in every season the GFL has existed.

TARAT: There is an end to all things.

DAN: Not true, Tarat, because there is no end to my awesomeness. I’m going with the obvious pick — both newly promoted teams are going straight back down to Tier Two. The Elite and the Sheb Stalkers will be gone. Let’s go to the callers. Line three from the space freighter Shimbuki, you’re on the space, go.

CALLER: Dan, you’ve got it all wrong. Fruitcake is awesome. Tarat, you should have some.

TARAT: Get this caller’s exact location. I believe he’s trying to kill me, but I will kill him first!

CALLER: What?

DAN: Oh, dang, I hung up before we could trace it, Smasher. Sorry about that!

TARAT: Perhaps we can get him next time.

DAN: Tarat, forget fruitcake, you know you want to stick with our sponsor, Kolok the Daring’s Spindly Spider Snacks. Line five from Jang, you’re on the space, go …

? ? ?



[JOHN AND JU TWEEDY AT YOUR DOOR.]

Quentin sighed and rubbed his eyes. How long had he been watching game film? His apartment holotank was playing a game from last year, the Krakens in black jerseys battling against the blue-, chrome- and white-clad opponents from the Isis Ice Storm.

“Pause holotank,” he said.

The image of Ryan Nossek froze in mid-frame. The HeavyG defensive end — who was big even by the standards of that oversized race — was in the middle of using a swim technique to get by Krakens right offensive tackle Vu-Ko-Will. Quentin had been watching the play over and over because it finished with the All-Pro Nossek coming clean and sacking Quentin … hard. Quentin needed to know Nossek’s approach, his steps, see exactly how Nossek finished his moves — if Quentin could commit those things to subconscious memory, it might allow him to react fast enough on the field to avoid a brutal death. Nossek had killed five players in his career and made no bones that he was always looking to add to his tally.

“Computer, let them in.”

The door hissed open. John and Ju Tweedy walked into the small apartment. Both of the brothers wore suits.

“Hey, Q,” John said. “You’re not dressed for the party?”

Quentin leaned back on the couch. His eyes still felt fuzzy. “What party?”

The muscles in John’s jaw twitched. “The one Ma is throwing for you. For your birthday.”

Ah, the stupid party. Quentin pointed at the holotank. “Can’t go. I’m studying.”

John and Ju looked at each other, then back to Quentin.

“Quit joking around,” Ju said. “Ma doesn’t like it when we’re late.”

“Sorry, I have to prep,” Quentin said. “And Uncle Johnny, I told you that a party doesn’t seem right considering Stockbridge and Killik just died.”

Ju nodded. “That’s what Ma thought you’d say. She knows about feelings and stuff. She said it was real important that you come, so you wouldn’t sit here and … John, what did Ma say?”

John absently looked up to the ceiling and rubbed his chin. “Let’s see … oh, I remember — she said Q had to come so he wouldn’t wallow in misery like a depressed pig.”

Ju smiled and nodded. “Yeah, that was it. Like a pig. So, Quentin, Ma said it’s important, so come on.”

Quentin stood up. This was starting to get annoying. “Guys, I said no. That’s it, so stop asking.”

I WANT CAKE scrolled across John’s face.

“You’re going,” the linebacker said.

“No, I’m not.”

Ju nodded. “Yes, you are. Ma is doing something nice for you. If you don’t go, Ma will get angry.”

YOU WOULDN’T LIKE MA WHEN SHE GETS ANGRY scrolled across John’s face.

Quentin sighed. “Guys, it’s my birthday, so I get to decide if I want a party or not, right?”

The Tweedy brothers shook their heads in unison.

“Wrong,” Ju said. “Ma baked a cake.”

John pounded his left fist into his right palm. “A cake, Quentin! Do you want Ma to feel bad that no one ate her cake? Ju and I don’t like it when someone makes Ma feel bad.”

The brothers both leaned in, moved a few steps closer. Great, the Tweedys were trying to intimidate him. Quentin found himself wishing he’d invited Choto the Bright to watch game film.

“I’m not going,” Quentin said. “I won’t tell you again. I’ll call Ma and thank her for the cake, but —”

Ju rushed forward and reached for Quentin’s head. Quentin raised his forearm under Ju’s outstretched hands, easily blocking the clumsy move. Quentin had just a moment to think Ju’s a much better fighter than that before he realized he’d been set up. John plowed into his ribs, a perfect form-tackle that lifted Quentin off the ground. They flew through the air and crashed into Quentin’s holotank, smashing the device to pieces in a cloud of smoke and sparks. Quentin landed on his back, John on top of him.

John grabbed Quentin’s shirt with both hands. “Get dressed, Quentin, or I’ll fetch you a beating.”

“Get off me, dammit! I said I’m not going!”

“Q, don’t make me —”

From his back, Quentin threw a hard left cross that caught John in the mouth. John’s head turned a little, but he countered with a right jab that smashed into Quentin’s nose.

Quentin saw blackness and stars, but he’d been in enough fights that he didn’t need to see clearly when someone was on him. He turned hard to his right, angling his hips, grabbing and pulling John’s left arm as he did — John flew into the wall, cracking the composite material. Quentin started scrambling to his feet but was knocked flat on his belly as Ju’s arm snaked around his neck. Rock-like muscles squeezed, threatening to cut off Quentin’s air.

“Aww, gross, you’re bleeding on me,” Ju said. “Did you hurt your widdle nose?”

“Get off of me, Ju! I’ve got work to do!”

Quentin felt a hard punch slam into his thigh. “Charley horse!” John screamed. “My favorite game! Are you going to Ma’s party?”

Quentin tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t budge. It was two on one, and he didn’t have a chance. “I’m not, and you guys can’t beat me into going.”


Ju smiled. “Okay. Maybe we can flick you into going.” He kept his left arm wrapped around Quentin’s head and neck. His right middle finger hooked under his thumb, ready to snap. He held the thumb and forefinger close to Quentin’s nose.

Ju smiled wider. “You going?”

“No.”

Thwap! Quentin winced from the sudden pain. Was his nose broken? And Ju was flicking it? Quentin’s temper soared. He tried to push himself to his hands and knees, but Ju’s weight pinned his upper body while John held his legs.

“You stupid shuckers,” Quentin said. “Get off of me!”

“Charley horse!”

The numbing pain again exploded in Quentin’s thigh. He heard John laughing.

Ju again held the locked fingers in front of Quentin’s nose.

“Q, you going? It would make Ma happy.”

“When you guys let me up, I’m going to beat the —”

Thwap!

Quentin blinked, trying to see through the pain. They weren’t going to stop until he gave in.

“CHARLEY HORSE!”

John hit his thigh so hard the whole leg went numb.

“Fine, I’ll go, I’ll go!”

Big arms released him, big hands pulled him to his feet. Quentin blinked, trying to see through his watering eyes. He touched his nose; his fingers came away bloody.

He glared at the Tweedy brothers. “I hate you guys.”

Ju and John traded a high-five.

YOU’RE A PUSHOVER scrolled across John’s face.

“Let’s go, Q,” he said. “If we’re late, Ma will be real mad.”

? ? ?



JUST LIKE LAST YEAR, the party took place at John’s apartment across town. As John, Ju and Quentin walked in, the tiny Ma Tweedy was standing behind a gargantuan chocolate cake that had to outweigh her by ten or fifteen pounds. She lit twenty-one orange candles as a room full of sentients sang.

Happy birthday, to you …

It seemed like half the team had packed into John’s living room. Becca, Crazy George, Michael Kimberlin, Yitzhak Goldman, Yassoud Murphy, several Sklorno (who all sang out of tune and out of tempo but jumped in joy for the music regardless), Choto the Bright and even backup linebacker Shayat the Thick. The balled-up form of Mum-O-Killowe and the Ki offensive linemen — starters and backups — took up half the room. Word had spread that Ma Tweedy’s cake was half chocolate, half shushulik; the big Ki couldn’t wait to get at a tasty treat made just for them.

Ma Tweedy finished lighting the candles. She squinted up at Quentin. “What happened to your nose?”

“Uh, I fell.”

She nodded, a gesture that moved her head as well as the bony shoulders that seemed perpetually up at her ears. She looked at John and Ju. “Jonathan, Julius, just look what you did to your nice suits!”

Quentin took some satisfaction that both John and Ju’s expensive, custom suit jackets had rips and tears. John’s lower lip was also badly swollen.

The brothers hung their heads and stared at the floor. “Sorry, Ma,” they said in unison.

Ma Tweedy shook her head. “And as for you, Quentin, I’m so glad Jonathan and Julius could convince you to come to your own birthday party.”

She sounded … disappointed? In him? She stared at him as his soul filled with guilt. She had clearly gone through a lot of trouble to make this cake and throw this party — he should have been more appreciative and been ready on time. Quentin couldn’t look at her, so he stared at the floor.

“Sorry, Ma,” he said. He knew he sounded just like the Tweedy brothers, but he couldn’t help it — her glare just kind of pulled those two words out of him. “Uh … thanks for the cake.”

“Blow out your candles,” she said. “If the flames burn down too far, the shushuliks catch on fire.”

All of the Ki players started making a mournful noise — fire, apparently, would ruin the disgusting candied creatures.

Quentin blew out the candles. Everyone cheered. He cut the cake. Ma Tweedy put pieces on plates that he handed out to everyone. He tried not to look at the oozing pieces from the shushulik side. The Ki scarfed those down as soon as he handed them over.

While everyone ate, Quentin looked around the room. So many sentients, all happy, all talking to each other about things in the news or the upcoming season. They were all here to share this moment with him. Had they already forgotten about Stockbridge and Killik? He wanted to join them, he wanted to feel happy, but being happy didn’t seem right.

He felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down; Ma Tweedy was curling a finger at him, telling him to come closer. Quentin knelt. She gave him a firm hug, then held it as she whispered in his ear.

“Honey, I know you’re sad about losing your friends,” she said. “It’s hard to lose people, but you know what? Every real friendship and every true love ends in tragedy. Sentients die, Quentin. This has happened to you before. It will happen again. I won’t tell you to get used to it because we never do. What I will tell you is that dwelling on the dead only dishonors their memory. This room is full of people who love you, and someday some of them will be sad that you are gone. Don’t let sadness over the dead stop you from appreciating the living.”

She pushed him back a little so she could look at him. He stared into her old eyes. He could keep the pain at bay when he wasn’t talking about it, but now the feelings of loss, of failure, of mortality threatened to overwhelm him.

“But Ma, it’s so hard,” he said quietly. “All these people look to me to lead them, and I don’t know what I’m doing. And whatever decision I make, someone seems to get hurt. Get hurt, or die.”

Ma Tweedy nodded. “Sometimes, Quentin, you are a real dumb-ass.”

He leaned back. “What?”

“You were attacked by pirates and kidnapped by aliens. You also apparently stopped a war. Who knows how many sentients are alive because of your choices? But here you are, like a dumbass, only focusing on the ones that died. I’m very glad you’re so good at football, dear, because math clearly isn’t your strong suit.”

She patted his cheek, then walked away to talk to other players. Mum-O-Killowe saw her coming and slid to the far side of the Ki ball.

Quentin stood. Ju slapped him on the shoulder and handed him an envelope. “Your present, Q!”

“What’s this?”

Ju just nodded at the envelope. Quentin opened it. Inside was a gold-edged piece of paper that read One Free Bare-Knuckles Rematch — Quentin Barnes vs. Ju Tweedy.

“Uh, thanks.”

Ju smiled and nodded emphatically. “Sure thing, buddy. Just let me know when. I want to win my belt back, so to speak.”

The younger Tweedy brother walked away. Quentin wondered what to do with the invitation. He’d had to cheat to win their fight — Quentin never again wanted to feel those big fists smashing into his body.

John and Yassoud walked up, both with mile-wide smiles. Yassoud held up a present. It was clearly a six-pack of mag cans in orange and black wrapping paper.

“You guys got me beer?”

John’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. “Q, how did you know that? I mean, it’s wrapped. Are you —”

“Don’t say it,” Quentin said. He closed his eyes and held his fingertips to his temples. “Uncle Johnny, you’re thinking … is he psychic?”

John leaned away and shook his head in denial. “No way, Q. First Fred and now you? Stay out of my brain!”


John quickly walked away. Yassoud laughed and shook his head, the motion swinging his long, braided beard.

“Oh, yep, that John Tweedy is a smart one.” Yassoud handed Quentin the present. “It’s Miller Lager, your favorite.”

It surprised Quentin how much he appreciated the gift. It was cheap beer — at least here on Ionath — but it was his favorite, and his friends knew that.

When Yassoud walked off, Rebecca Montagne approached. She looked shy, as usual, her eyes cast more toward his feet than his face.

“Happy birthday, Quentin.”

“Thanks,” he said. He hadn’t talked to her much since the Prawatt incident, when they’d sailed together on the back of a sentient blimp and met a living god.

She looked up at him and smiled. “I got you something. I had Pilkie put it in your apartment. I hope you don’t mind.”

In his apartment? That seemed odd. “Why didn’t you just give it to me here?”

She looked down again. Her face turned a little red. “I … well, I thought you might want to open it in private is all.”

Girls were so weird. “Well, thanks, I guess. I mean — I’m sure I’ll love it.”

She shrugged and looked very uncomfortable.

Suddenly, John jumped up on top of his living room holotank. He waved his arms to get everyone’s attention.

“Hey, everybody! Quentin’s rock-star girlfriend is calling!”

Beneath John’s feet, the tank flared to life, showing the flawless face of Somalia Midori. Blue skin, deep-blue eyes, gorgeous white hair falling down the left side of her face while the shaved right side gleamed softly. Both sides were shaven, actually — when she performed with her band, Trench Warfare, she wore the hair in a tall, rigid Mohawk. Quentin stared at the long eyelashes, the dark eye makeup, the red lipstick and the silver choker around her neck. Somalia Midori was every man’s dream.

The eyes in the tank looked around until they locked on Quentin.

“Hey, sugar. Happy birthday.” Her eyes closed, her red lips blew him an exaggerated kiss. All of the Human men in the room let out sounds of jealous approval; they wished that that kiss was for them.

Quentin sensed movement on his right — Becca was walking out of the living room. He felt an urge to reach out to her, to stop her, but everyone was waiting for him to talk to Somalia so he turned back to the holotank.

“Hi, Somalia,” Quentin said. “You called in for my birthday?”

“Of course, lover. I’m doing two shows in the Leekee Collective, but you think I’d forget? I got you a little token of my affection. It’s down on the street, waiting for you. Why don’t you go down and take a look? You can call me later, for some private time.”

The Human men smiled and nodded, some elbowing each other. Quentin wanted to crawl under the couch and hide. “Uh, okay, I’ll go down and look right after the party.”

She winked at him. “Just go now, baby. I want to know you got it. Talk to you soon.”

The holotank blinked out.

Quentin felt a strong arm wrap around his shoulders. “Come on, Q!” John screamed. “Let’s go see this shucking present.”

Ma Tweedy shot in like a tiny Human missile. She reached up and grabbed John’s ear. “Jonathan! Language!”

“Sorry, Ma! Ouch!”

“And you use your indoor voice, you hear me?”

“Ma, ouch! I said I was sorry!”

She let him go. “That’s better. Now take your friend outside so he can see what he got.”

John nodded as excitedly as if it was his birthday and the surprise present was for him. “Come on, everybody! To the street!”

? ? ?



THE TEAM FILED OUT of John’s apartment building. It wasn’t hard to spot the present — if the giant, red ribbon hadn’t given it away, the circle of news cameramen would have.

Somalia had bought him a hoverbike.

A powerful fist slammed into his right shoulder. Maybe John couldn’t contain his excitement, but at least he’d stopped hitting Quentin’s throwing arm.

“Holy crap, Q!” John said. “That’s a Wyall Model XG! Do you know how awesome that is?”

Quentin looked at the sleek, red, single-person craft. It rested on two spike-stands sticking out the back and one sticking out the nose. “Looks pretty cool, I guess.”

“You guess? Q, this thing can do three hundred miles an hour out on the radioactive flats. And it has Quyth shield technology, the same stuff that makes up the Ionath dome. That means you can just hop on and take it right out of the city without worrying that your face will melt. You don’t even need a rad-suit!” The bike didn’t just look fast, it looked … intimidating.

“I, uh, I don’t ride,” he said. “Bikes are too small for me. And besides, what if I got in an accident and got hurt?”

John threw back his head and laughed. YOU KILL ME flashed across his face. “Q, that’s a good one. You, afraid of getting hurt?”

Quentin suddenly felt stupid and didn’t want to say anything else. If he rode this bike and something happened, he could miss games — that wasn’t good for the team.

John grabbed his arm. “Q, come check it out!”

The linebacker practically dragged Quentin to the bike. Quentin followed, noticing that the cameramen were filming away. This would be on the entertainment news sites as soon as they finished: Sexy rocker gives star-quarterback boyfriend a special birthday treat, or something like that.

“Q, look how high this seat is! Holy crapcakes, this is custom! She had it made to fit your size! I don’t know how much this cost, but it was some mongo credits.”

Quentin saw something moving on the bike’s main reactor tank: it was a close-up of Somalia’s eyes, narrowing exotically, then winking. A custom bike with a custom paint job.

The cameramen moved in closer. “Mister Barnes, would you mind hopping on so we could get some footage?”

Quentin looked around. Everyone was waiting for him to get on the bike. At the back of the crowd, he saw Rebecca. She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head and walked away, her long, black ponytail bouncing with each step.

“Mister Barnes,” the cameraman said, “the bike?”

For some odd reason, Quentin felt bad. Why was Becca upset about this? Well, he couldn’t do anything about that now. Somalia loved her news coverage, that was for sure. For a present as nice as this, the least he could do was show it off for her.

He swung a leg over the bike, then tried to smile while the cameramen caught it all.

? ? ?



CHOTO THE BRIGHT AND QUENTIN rode the elevator up to his apartment in the Krakens Building.

“Your Human customs are so strange,” Choto said. “Why is the day of your birth so special? It is no different than any other day. And an annual celebration based on a planetary orbit makes no sense when you do not even live on that world.”

Quentin shrugged. “You got me. I think the whole thing is ridiculous.”

“And that impractical vehicle. Shama … excuse me, Quentin, I do not wish to speak out of turn, but I do not think it is safe for you to ride that hoverbike.”

Quentin laughed quietly. “Preaching to the choir, pal. You won’t get me on that thing in a million years.”

“You do not like it?”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s really nice, I guess, but I don’t ride. I’m not doing anything that would risk my health and hurt the team.”


Choto’s eye swirled with blue-green — he was relieved. “I am glad to hear this, Quentin. However, is not Somalia your mate?”

Mate? Somalia? “Uh, she’s my girlfriend. That’s not like a mate. Well, it is, kind of, but like … like mate-light.”

Choto’s pedipalps twitched in a way that Quentin had come to learn meant a combination of annoyance and frustration. Choto made the same gesture whenever a conversation came around to religion.

“She is your mate-light, but she buys you a very expensive present that she does not realize you will not use? Humans are strange. Even the blue ones.”

The elevator stopped at his floor. They walked into his apartment. Choto didn’t even bother asking for permission this time, he just started in the kitchen, scanning for any recording devices, transmitters, bombs, a shoe left out of place — anything that could hurt Quentin.

[HELLO, QUENTIN] the room computer said. [YOU HAVE A SYSTEM ALERT FROM THE HYPATIA. THERE ARE PROBLEMS WITH THE PLUMBING. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO ARRANGE FOR REPAIRS?]

Choto shot out of the kitchen. “No! Quentin, you must not let strangers onto your ship unsupervised. They could plant bombs or sabotage your systems.”

Quentin held up his hands. “Easy, big fella. No problem. Tomorrow after practice, I’ll go up and take a look at the damage. Then I’ll have Messal set up repairs, okay?”

“Why not just let Messal handle this from the beginning?”

“The Hypatia is my home. If there’s a problem, I want to see it for myself.”

“Then I will go with you.”

For being a follower, sometimes Choto didn’t leave room for disagreements.

“Fine,” Quentin said. “Computer, do you know what the problem is?”

[YOUR PERSONAL WASTE RECEPTACLE IF FILLING BEYOND CAPACITY.]

A backed-up toilet. Great. “Computer, coordinate the Hypatia’s shuttle to pick me up after tomorrow’s practice.”

[YES, QUENTIN.]

Choto walked into the bedroom to search for whatever threat he thought might be hidden in such a place.

Quentin sat on his couch. His belly was full of cake. He wanted to sleep. He’d watch some more game-film first, then turn in.

Choto came out of the bedroom carrying a large, flat, rectangular object wrapped in black paper with a white and orange bow.

“This was on your bed,” he said. “I believe Pilkie put it there. It is probably safe, but I would like to be present when you open it, just to be sure.”

Quentin nodded absently. That had to be Becca’s present for him. There was a card tucked into the ribbon. He opened it and read:

I thought this might be something you’d treasure. If you don’t love it, just let me know and I’ll put it in the lobby of the Krakens Building so that everyone can see it.



Quentin set the present on the couch. He ripped the black paper to reveal an old-fashioned flat-frame made of glass and wood. Behind the glass, an orange jersey: torn and frayed, stained with dirt, streaked with brown blood and green plant stains. The white-trimmed, black numbers read 47. Above the numbers, in white-trimmed, black letters, was the name FAYED.

Quentin couldn’t breathe. The frame seemed heavy, started to tremble in his hands. Choto reached out and gently took it from him, holding it up so they both could look at it.

“Quentin, this is the jersey Mitchell was wearing when he died. Such a fine present. This is a true treasure commemorating a fine warrior. Whoever gave this to you knows you well.”

Quentin felt tears welling up. He blinked them away. He took the frame and rested it on the couch. “Uh, thanks for keeping me safe, Choto, but I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“I will be here in the morning to escort you to practice,” Choto said, then let himself out.

Quentin just stood there. He held Becca’s card in his left hand and stared at the framed jersey of his dead friend.

Whoever gave this to you knows you well.

Very well, indeed.



From the Ionath City Gazette



* * *





2685 GFL Schedule Offers No Easy Road to Hittoni’s Shipyard

by TOYAT THE INQUISITIVE

NEW YORK CITY, EARTH, PLANETARY union   — GFL officials today announced the schedule for the upcoming Tier One season. This year the Galaxy Bowl will be played at The Shipyard in Hittoni on Wilson 6 in the League of Planets, home of the Hittoni Hullwalkers.

In 2684, the Ionath Krakens made the playoffs for the first time in nine seasons. While they lost that first-round game to the Wabash Wolfpack by a score of 35-14, the ’85 campaign welcomes back all of Ionath’s star players including quarterback Quentin Barnes, running back Ju Tweedy, middle linebacker John Tweedy and even dominant defensive end Ibrahim Khomeni, who missed the last two games of the regular season and the playoffs due to a knee injury.

“This is a huge opportunity,” said Krakens Coach Hokor the Hookchest. “We have some depth issues on defense, but return at least 10 starters. All 11 offensive starters are back, and we need to take advantage of that to open the season with wins.”

The Krakens face their usual Planet Division rivals, including Wabash, the To Pirates and defending GFL champion Themala Dreadnaughts. Ionath also travels to the Purist Nation in Week Six for a game against the newly promoted Buddha City Elite.

Championship dreams?

Last year the Krakens went 8-4, their best record since 2675. With so many starters back and the growth of fourth-year quarterback Quentin Barnes, the stage is set for a run at the title.

“One game at a time,” Barnes said. “We open up against the Ice Storm, and we really haven’t thought about anything beyond that game.”

Cross-divisional help?

This year the Krakens drew a favorable cross-division schedule. Ionath travels to Earth in Week Two to face the Texas Earthlings, and the Shorah Warlords in Week Seven. Last year the Earthlings finished 4-8, while the Warlords barely avoided relegation with a record of 3-9.



Finishing with a bang

The last two games of Ionath’s ’85 season might prove to be the hardest. In Week Twelve, the Krakens will be looking for revenge against the Wolfpack. Barnes & Co. finish the season in Week Thirteen with a road game against perennial power To Pirates. The blood-red field of Pirates Stadium is regarded as the hardest place to win in all of the GFL.



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OF ALL THE THINGS TO GO WRONG on a multimillion-credit yacht, Quentin had to deal with a backed-up toilet? Well, maybe that was the price he had to pay for a ship that had real plumbing, not that nanotech cleaning garbage. A hot shower made any amount of trouble worthwhile. Not having microscopic machines buzzing about your private bits after going to the bathroom? That was icing on the cake.

The first week of preseason had ended. Tomorrow the rookies arrived. Gredok had done all of the scouting and player acquisition while the Touchback had been in Prawatt space. The rookies were mostly defensive players — which wasn’t surprising considering the Krakens hadn’t lost a single offensive starter — but Quentin would still be involved, doing everything he could to contribute to the success of his new teammates.

If, that was, the new rookies made the final roster.

The shuttle autopiloted itself into the Hypatia’s small landing bay. After the outer doors sealed and the area pressurized, Quentin and Choto stepped out onto the bay’s metal deck.

Home, sweet home. Choto at his side, he headed through the corridors toward the parlor. As he walked, Quentin admired his ship’s wood walls, the ornate trim, all of the little details that gave him a warm feeling of ownership.


“Quentin, I do not understand why you insist on primitive technology,” Choto said. “Nannite cleansing systems work far better than water.”

Quentin shrugged. “And I can’t understand why Warriors wear gray sweatpants all the time. How about a little color?”

“Color is immodest,” Choto said. “The only color on a Warrior should be enamels of victory or the emotions in our eyes.”

“But there is technology to give you clothes like Shizzle,” Quentin said. “You could have many colors to reflect your moods.”

“You would not understand,” Choto said. “It is something particular to my culture.”

“Like a water shower is to mine, buddy. How about we just respect our differences, okay?”

They walked through the parlor door and stopped cold — five Human men were waiting inside, two sitting on the couch, three standing behind them.

Choto stepped forward, putting his body between Quentin and the men. The Warrior leaned forward as if to rush them, but Quentin grabbed his shoulder.

“Choto, wait!”

The three standing men each had a hand inside of their expensive suit jackets. If Choto attacked, they might draw weapons and cut him down.

Quentin recognized the Humans. The three standing men were named Sammy, Frankie and Dean. None of them was as big as he was, but each of them would be considered huge by normal Human standards.

On the couch in front of them sat Manny Sayed and Stedmar Osborne.

Both men had the Purist Church’s infinity symbol tattooed on their forehead. The owner of both Sayed Luxury Craft and the Buddha City Elite, Manny wore the blue robes of a confirmed church member. The robes somewhat concealed his layers of fat. An excess of rings, bracelets and other glittering jewelry reflected the parlor’s lights, as did his jewel-studded platinum prosthetic lower left leg. No one loved to flaunt his wealth more than Manny Sayed.

Manny was smiling. Stedmar was not.

Stedmar was the most powerful gangster on Micovi. He was also the owner of the Micovi Raiders. Quentin hadn’t seen the man since leaving the Raiders to come play for the Krakens, some three years earlier.

Stedmar’s black hair framed his hard face and cold eyes. He wore a custom suit of iridium fabric, the kind they made on Wilson 6 and had recently come into fashion. A bowl of spider snacks sat in Stedmar’s lap — he’d obviously helped himself to Quentin’s galley.

Quentin walked forward to stand next to Choto. “What are you two doing in my home?”

Manny stood, something that took a little bit of effort on his part. His jewelry clinked and rattled. “Quentin, my child, is the Hypatia working out for you?”

“Drop the small-talk, Manny,” Quentin said. “How did you get in here?”

Manny’s smile widened. “My company built this ship, remember? We may have left an override or two in your core system software. Look on the bright side, Quentin — at least your toilet isn’t really backed up. Stedmar and I simply came to talk.”

Quentin crossed his arms over his chest. “Talk, huh?” He nodded toward Stedmar Osborne. “Is that why there’s a gangster sitting on my couch and eating my spider snacks?”

Manny looked at Stedmar as if he was surprised to see the man sitting there. “Gangster? Why, Quentin, you must be mistaken. This is no gangster, this is my co-owner of the Buddha City Elite.”

So, Stedmar Osborne was the silent partner that helped Manny Sayed acquire the Purist Nation’s only upper-tier team. That made sense. Manny had massive wealth, but he didn’t have the connections required to navigate the serpent’s nest of ownership in a league controlled by criminals.

“I should have known,” Quentin said. “Mister Osborne, is the former Elite owner still alive?”

Stedmar popped one more spider snack into his mouth, wiped the back of his hand across his lips, then stood. “Yah,” he said with a full mouth. “Let’s just say he found my offer quite reasonable. I’ve learned a lot from Gredok.”

“Not enough,” Choto said. “You clearly do not understand what will happen to you when Gredok finds out you broke into Quentin’s home.”

Stedmar rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. Gredok isn’t going to find out because Quentin isn’t going to tell him. The kid owes me, and he knows it.”

Choto looked at Quentin, but Quentin kept staring at Stedmar.

The gangster spread his arms, a gesture that took in not only the parlor, but all of the Hypatia.

“Look at this life you’ve got, kid,” he said. “This is all because of me. I gave you this, and have you called? You ever sent a message? I know I was your boss and all, but I was really proud of what we did together. For four years I’ve watched the galaxy kiss your ass, and I waited for a lousy thank you that never came. You leave Micovi and you big-time me?”

Quentin’s anger receded, replaced by the flush of embarrassment. Quentin hadn’t contacted the man, hadn’t reached out in any way. They weren’t friends, but Stedmar Osborne had taken him out of the mines. Stedmar Osborne had given him football. Quentin suddenly felt ashamed of the oversight.

Stedmar was a dangerous man. He’d ordered the death of many, even killed some with his bare hands. Disrespecting him could put you in a shallow grave. Quentin had every reason to fear the man, but Stedmar wasn’t angry — he looked hurt, and that made it even worse.

Quentin stepped forward. “Mister Osborne, I apologize. I can’t believe I haven’t said anything since I left. That’s … well, there’s just no excuse for it. I wasn’t big-timing you or ignoring you … I guess I just lost track. If what you need doesn’t impact my team, I’ll help you if I can.”

He offered his hand. Stedmar smiled and shook it. He reached up to grip Quentin’s shoulder.

“Apology accepted, kid,” Stedmar said. “I can tell you meant what you said. So, you’ll help us?”

“Depends on what you’re asking,” Quentin said. “I won’t do anything illegal or anything that compromises my team.”

“Or Gredok,” Choto said.

Quentin nodded. “Or Gredok.”

Stedmar gave Quentin’s shoulder another squeeze, then let it go. “Nothing like that, kid. This is just normal football stuff. We need your honest opinion on a player — we want Rick Warburg.”

With all the craziness of the Prawatt situation, Quentin had forgotten Warburg was a free agent. The tight end had worked hard to improve his strength and his route-running ability. He’d been pivotal in the Krakens’ late-season run to qualify for the playoffs. Warburg hadn’t caught many passes in the first half of the season, but that was only because Quentin had intentionally avoided throwing him the ball.

Warburg had begged to be traded to another team. Now a Tier One team in his home system wanted him — Warburg couldn’t have picked a better scenario.

“Why didn’t you just call me?” Quentin said. “Or make an official contact request through the league?”

Manny sighed. “Because Gredok would have blocked any attempt to talk to you. I made it clear I wanted you to come home and play for the Elite. You signed with Ionath, which is your choice, but Gredok won’t let me anywhere near you. So Stedmar suggested we cut to the chase, so to speak.”

Choto moved closer to stand at Quentin’s side. “Osborne, you would risk your position in Gredok’s syndicate for this?”


Stedmar shrugged. “I know what happens if Gredok finds out, kid. I’ll risk anything to keep my team from getting relegated. We want to win.”

Manny ran the fingers of his left hand across the bracelets on his right wrist. “Quentin, we’re asking for your honest opinion on Warburg. Rumors say he’s locker-room poison. We don’t run our business on rumors. All we’re asking for is the truth. Tell us about the real Rick Warburg — can he be a dominant player?”

Quentin thought of Warburg’s refusal to play against the Prawatt. Did someone like that deserve an endorsement? A big contract? Maybe, maybe not. On the football field, Warburg did everything he was asked, even when he rarely saw playing time. The tight end’s amazing catch against the Vik Vanguard had put Ionath into the playoffs. If the Krakens kept both Rick Warburg and George Starcher, they would have the best tight end combo in the league. All Quentin had to do was tell the truth and say that Warburg was locker-room poison, that he was a racist and a constant problem.

But …

Warburg was at the peak of his skills; another year or two, and he’d be on the downslope and wouldn’t command as much money in free agency. Warburg had asked for Quentin’s help, asked for catches and yardage that would make him desirable to other teams. No, Warburg hadn’t just asked — he’d busted his ass to earn that help. Quentin could look out for himself and his team, or he could be honest and let the chips fall where they may.

“Rick Warburg is an exceptional tight end,” he said. “I didn’t utilize him enough last year, and that was my problem, not his. He is a major talent.”

Stedmar ran a hand through his black hair. “If he’s that good, Gredok will fight to keep him.”

“Of course,” Quentin said. “Gredok wants great players. He’ll offer Rick a new contract to keep him from leaving.”

Manny shook his head. “You don’t have salary-cap room. With as much as Gredok is paying you and paying Don Pine, I don’t think he can match our offer. Other teams think Rick Warburg is a risk. You said he’s talented, but is he worth a major contract?”

They wanted Quentin to tell them how to spend their money? That wasn’t his business.

Just tell the truth — what happens then isn’t up to you.

“Rick Warburg is the most racist sentient I know,” Quentin said. “He hates all non-Humans, and most Humans as well. He cares about himself first, team second. You sign him, you have to deal with that. But on the field, he’ll give you everything he has. If he gets a chance to play in his home nation, you won’t find anyone who will work harder.”

Manny looked at Stedmar, who nodded.

“Okay,” Stedmar said. “We were never here, yah?”

Quentin shook his head. “You think I want Gredok to know I’m giving info to another team?”

Stedmar turned to Choto. “I got no beef with you. You can see we dealt fairly with Quentin, right? No harm, no threats. Do you agree?”

Choto’s eye swirled with a trace of black, but then it cleared. “Yes, I agree.”

“Good,” Stedmar said. “Then there’s no need to tell our shamakath about this, am I right?”

Stedmar didn’t know that Gredok wasn’t Choto’s real shamakath, not anymore.

“I will not mention this on one condition,” Choto said. “I want those access codes removed, now, before you leave. And if either of you ever come back uninvited, or I suspect that an uninvited guest got in with other codes that you did not delete, I will kill you both whether you did it or not.”

Sammy, Frankie and Dean bristled, but Stedmar held up a hand to still them.

“Deal,” the gangster said. “Manny, show Choto how to remove the codes. We’ll do that, then we’ll be off.”

Choto pointed to the door. “Walk with me to the landing bay. You will leave Quentin alone now.”

Quentin’s friend and bodyguard led the intruders out of the parlor. Quentin stared after them for a bit, then sat on the couch. He’d never been that materialistic, but maybe that was because he’d never really owned anything. He owned the Hypatia, and now the ship seemed … violated.

He wondered how long it would be before it felt like home again.