The Champion
Author: Scott Sigler
Date: 2014-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; sports; Fiction; Young Adult; Fantasy; Aliens; Science Fiction Fantasy; Speculative Fiction; Space Opera
Description: Galactic Football League (GFL) Series: Book I: THE ROOKIE -- Book II: THE STARTER -- Book III: THE ALL-PRO -- Book IV: THE MVP -- Book V: THE CHAMPION Seven centuries in the future, the sport of American football has never been bigger, never been faster, never been more lethal. Trillions of fans from all over the galaxy watch six unique races battle in contests so violent that deaths are part of the stat sheet. Star quarterback Quentin Barnes has led his beloved Ionath Krakens to glory on the gridiron and become the most-recognized individual in history, but it is off the field where his world
Publisher: Empty Set Entertainment
Rights: Copyright 2014

Also by Scott Sigler

Infected

Contagious

Ancestor

Nocturnal

Pandemic

The Galactic Football League Series (YA)

The Rookie

The Starter

The All-Pro

The MVP

The Galactic Football League novellas (YA)

The Reporter

The Detective

Title Fight

The Gangster

(COMING IN 2014)

The Rider

(COMING IN 2014)

The Reef

(COMING IN 2014)

The Color Series short story collections

Blood is Red

Bones are White

Fire is Orange

(COMING IN 2014)

Galactic Football League:
Book Five

Scott Sigler

THE CHAMPION

(The Galactic Football League Series, Book V)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Empty Set Entertainment, LLC

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Published in the United States by Empty Set Entertainment

For more information, email info@emptyset.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sigler, Scott (print)

The Champion/ Scott Sigler.

p. cm

1. Science Fiction — Fiction 2. Sports — Fiction Library of Congress Control Number: 2014932144

ISBN: 978-1-9393665-0-4

Book design by Donna Mugavero at Sheer Brick Studio

Cover design by Scott E. Pond at Scott E. Pond Designs

Limited Edition SEPTEMBER 2014

Empty Set Entertainment

San Diego, California I www.EmptySet.com

To my nieces and nephews,

Riley, Sydney, Caden and Tyler.

I am so proud of all you do in athletics and in life.

Your uncle loves you.

Acknowledgments

“I am a member of a team, and I rely on the team, I defer to it and sacrifice
for it, because the team, not the individual, is the ultimate champion.”

— Mia Hamm

My teammates:

A “Future Hall-of-Famer” Kovacs
every team needs a great coach, and she is ours

Donna “Chalkboard” Mugavero
interior book design

Scott “Big Fish” Pond
cover design, color insert design

John “The Franchise” Vizcarra
continuity coaching

Melanie “Mad Dog” Mallon
copyediting

Kelly “Lethal Weapon” Lutterschmidt
copyediting

Dr. Joe “Annihilator” Albietz
medical consulting

Dr. Jeremy “The Eraser” Ellis
alien physiology consulting

Carmen “Gmork” Wellman

Siglerpedia Czar

Contents

BOOK ONE: The Off-Season

1 Press Conference

2 The Plan

3 The Request

4 Quarterbacks

5 Rendezvous

6 The Ship

7 The Biggest Ship

8 Surgery

9 Punch-Out

BOOK TWO: The Portath Cloud

10 First Contact

11 Company

12 Hope

13 Bumps

14 Welcome Committee

15 Visitors

16 The Portath

17 Believer

18 Duel

19 History Lesson

20 Jeanine

21 The Pit

22 Prelims

23 Broken

24 Uncle Johnny

25 Free to Go

26 Courage

27 Gredok the Splithead

28 The Tier Three Tournament

29 The Blessing

BOOK THREE: The Preseason

30 Preseason Week One

31 Preseason Week Two

32 Preseason Week Three

33 Preseason Week Four

BOOK FOUR: The Regular Season

34 Week One: Isis Ice Storm at Ionath Krakens

35 Week Two: Sheb Stalkers at Ionath Krakens

36 Week Three: Ionath Krakens at Coranadillana Cloud Killers

37 Week Four: Ionath Krakens at Yall Criminals

38 Week Five: Ionath Krakens at Neptune Scarlet Fliers

39 Week Six: Alimum Armada at Ionath Krakens

40 Week Seven: Ionath Krakens at D’Oni Coelacanths

41 Week Eight: Bye

42 Week Nine: To Pirates at Ionath Krakens

43 Week Ten: Ionath Krakens at OS1 Orbiting Death

44 Week Eleven: Buddha City Elite at Ionath Krakens

45 Week Twelve: Ionath Krakens at Wabash Wolfpack

BOOK FIVE: The Postseason

46 Week Thirteen: Themala Dreadnaughts at Ionath Krakens

47 Playoffs Round One: Buddha City Elite at Ionath Krakens

48 Playoffs Round Two: OS1 Orbiting Death at Ionath Krakens

49 Galaxy Bowl XXVII Ionath Krakens vs. Jupiter Jacks

Epilogue

BOOK ONE

The Off-Season

1

Press Conference

THE GREATEST MOMENT OF HIS LIFE passed by in a blur of pain, the experience washed thin by anguish.

Quentin had faked his way through the locker-room celebration. He’d forced a smile when people congratulated him, pushed down his despair long enough to tell every player how he or she had contributed to the championship. John and Ju ran interference for him, gently guiding away the over-stimulated Sklorno — who wanted to jump and scream with their godling — or any players that had drunk too much champagne and were looking to sing songs and celebrate with their Galaxy Bowl XXVII MVP quarterback.

Other than the handful of players and staff who already knew, Quentin wasn’t telling anyone that his sister, Jeanine, and his friend Fred, were lost in the Portath Cloud: a place from which ships did not return.

The Krakens had seized the greatest prize in all of sports: the GFL championship. That put them in the history books, granted a form of immortality: Quentin and his teammates would be remembered.

And he couldn’t enjoy any of it.

He’d received the bad news right after the on-field awards ceremony. Messal the Efficient had pulled Quentin aside, taken him to Doc Patah’s training room. There, Messal had played a holo of Fred saying the Hypatia was under attack and that the only chance for survival was plunging into the Portath Cloud. Quentin could do nothing other than watch helplessly — the holo was already several days old before it arrived from halfway across the galaxy.

He had made his decision to go after them. Many of his teammates had decided to come along. One teammate in particular — Cormorant Bumberpuff — had promised to acquire a ship that could take Quentin and his friends to the Cloud. Getting that ship would take time; for now, all Quentin could do was wait.

And, while waiting, he had obligations to fulfill.

Quentin! Quentin!

He blinked, returning to the moment. The post–Galaxy Bowl press conference. Seated at a table lined with a blue drape decorated with GFL logos. Messal the Efficient, on his right, standing on a step stool that let him look out over a podium engraved with the Galaxy Bowl XXVII logo, choosing whose questions would be answered. And to Messal’s right, mostly blocked by the Worker and the podium, the owner of the Ionath Krakens — Gredok the Splithead.

Quentin! Quentin!

From beyond the bulletproof crysteel wall that separated Quentin from the press, the multi-headed monster called out to him, screaming his name over and over, each head vying for attention, demanding he answer yet another useless, utterly obvious question. He stared out at the reporters, his eyes narrowed against the glare of camera spotlights. A dozen species represented, perhaps a hundred faces in that crowd, all packed into a space built for maybe fifty sentients, all hanging on Quentin’s every word.

Messal pointed to a fluttering Creterakian dressed in a white bodysuit lined with repeating pictures of bananas that peeled, then zipped themselves back up, then peeled again.

“Kinizzle,” Messal said. “Go ahead.”

The multi-headed monster quieted, a cluster of carnivorous worms sitting still for a moment before they would once again stretch their heads up looking for prey.

“Kinizzle, Creterakian Information Service,” the winged reporter said. “Quentin, do you think the Krakens will be able to repeat next year?”

Quentin stared. He shook his head in disbelief. He started to answer, to let his rage do the talking, but he controlled that natural reaction.

“We’ve been champions all of four hours. Could you at least wait until we shower before asking us about next season?”

The multi-headed monster laughed. They thought he was joking, that he was being charming. Let them think that.

Quentin! Quentin!

Messal pointed to a black-skinned Human. The man nodded his thanks at Messal, then addressed Quentin.

“Jonathan Sandoval, Net Colony News Syndicate,” the reporter said. “During the game you banged up your hand just a little bit, did you?”

The multi-headed monster laughed again, this time uncomfortably.

Sandoval always flashed a charming grin, but Quentin saw through it. The reporter grinned like that when he thought he’d asked a particularly clever question. Sandoval stood out because he was so tall — at seven feet, he was the only reporter who could look Quentin in the eye. The only reporter that didn’t fly, anyway. Tall, but skinny: Quentin wondered if that bony frame carried even two hundred pounds. With Yolanda Davenport on his back, Sandoval still wouldn’t weigh as much as Quentin.

Quentin held up his hand, showing the bandaged stump that was all that remained of his pinkie. In the fourth quarter, the finger had snagged in a facemask, been broken so badly that Quentin could barely see through the pain, let alone play football. To stay in the game, Quentin had ordered Doc Patah to amputate the mangled digit.

“What, this?” he said, waving the hand slightly and forcing a smile. “Just a scratch. Rub some dirt on it and get back in there. That’s what we always said in the Purist Nation.”

The multi-headed monster laughed louder, more at ease when Quentin played along with Sandoval’s horribly inappropriate joke.

Sandoval’s grin widened. He clearly enjoyed being in the spotlight, if only for a moment.

“I’m sure you’ll get more questions on that,” he said. “It’s one for the storybooks. But my readers—” he said the words as if only the most discerning sentients in all the galaxy were smart enough to listen to him and not to some other, lesser reporter “—will want to know about your decision to play Rebecca Montagne as your backup when you injured your hand. Yitzhak Goldman was listed as second on the depth chart, but you sent him off the field. Was Montagne getting reps in practice, or was it a spur-of-the-moment decision?”

If one question could pull Quentin’s thoughts away from his missing sister, even for a second, that was the one. Playing Rebecca had been the right call, had been just as critical to the win as Quentin sacrificing his pinkie, but the decision gutted Yitzhak. Zak had worked his whole life for a moment like that, for a chance to play in the Galaxy Bowl; Quentin had ripped that moment away. He had actually overruled Coach Hokor, forcing Yitzhak to leave the field as the largest broadcast audience in history had watched. Yitzhak hadn’t just been overlooked, he’d been humiliated.

“Becca has ample QB experience from her days in Green Bay, on Earth,” Quentin said, searching for the words to make it less embarrassing for Yitzhak. “We always kept her in mind as a secret weapon, for trick plays, that sort of thing. Tonight she’d been on the field for every offensive play. She knew the flow of the game, she had a feel for Jupiter’s defense. Those are things you can’t know from watching on the sidelines. Zak would have done great if he’d had a series to get acclimated, but there wasn’t time for that.”

The subject of Yitzhak had finally come up, and Quentin’s uncomfortable response was like blood in the water. The reporters smelled drama, and drama was what they lived for — the multi-headed monster switched targets.

Gredok! Gredok! Gredok!

Messal pointed to a black-striped blue Leekee, the species that resembled a streamlined cross between a fish and a pig.

“Kelp Bringer, Leekee Galaxy Times,” the reporter said. “Gredok, now that Montagne is clearly the go-to choice for a backup quarterback, will you release Goldman? And if so, what are you going to do about your fullback position?”

Quentin leaned back, looked behind Messal at the owner of the Ionath Krakens. Gredok’s single softball-sized eye was clear, as always, because the Quyth Leader remained calm no matter what lies he was spinning, no matter whose life he was destroying. Gredok’s sleek black fur and expensive jewelry gleamed in the spotlights.

Was it you, Gredok? Did you try to kidnap my sister so you could control me? Giving me a fake father wasn’t enough?

Gredok stared at the reporters until the multi-headed monster’s babble faded to a mumble, then to only a few whispers.

“The Ionath Krakens just won the Galaxy Bowl,” Gredok said finally. “One would think that even vile subcreatures known as reporters would let the players enjoy a few moments of satisfaction before you start hunting for your next source of controversy.”

“That’s not a denial,” the Leekee said. “So, you are cutting Yitzhak?”

This time, Gredok waited until the entire room felt his stare, until there wasn’t even a whisper to be heard.

“Kelp Bringer, I would like you to think,” the Leader said. “Think about the potential impact of continuing to ask a question that I already brushed aside ... which I did rather politely, I might add, considering the reputation that has been erroneously assigned to me by those who are envious of my success as a businessman. And by impact, of course, I mean how people will view your credibility as a reporter — I wouldn’t want anything to happen to your stellar career.”

Even in a press conference, Gredok couldn’t avoid a threat or two. That was his nature: he succeeded by bullying, by making threats, and — when need be — following up on those threats.

The reporters said nothing.

Messal broke the awkward moment.

“Mister Moloronik,” he said, pointing a pedipalp at a bleach-white Human wearing a cheap blue suit. “You had a question for Gredok, I believe?”

Moloronik stared out, blankly. He looked to his left, then to his right — for once, no one was screaming to ask the next question. The reporter slowly stood, trembling slightly.

“Uh, thank you, Messal. Harold Moloronik from ... hoo, is it hot in here?” He pulled at the collar of his shirt, wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. “Yes, Mister Gredok ... I mean ... Mister Splithead ... uh, it’s no secret that you have intense rivalries with several GFL franchise owners, such as Gloria Ogawa of the Wabash Wolfpack and Kirani Kollok of the To Pirates, but your most recent rivalry with the league’s newest owner has been front and center as of late. Can you comment on how it feels to beat the OS1 Orbiting Death in the semi-finals, then winning the title game and leaving owner Anna Villani to wonder what might have been?”

All heads turned back to Gredok.

“An excellent question, Harold,” the owner said.

The room seemed to sigh in unified relief. Moloronik eased himself back down onto his chair.

“It feels good to be the champion,” Gredok said. “It felt good the first time I won a tide, and it was just as satisfying tonight. Yes, I have won two championships — Villani has won nothing. While I admire her efforts to build a quality organization, it will be years before she experiences this sensation. Many years. Perhaps not even in my lifetime.”

The reporters laughed. Quyth Leaders often lived for three centuries or more, while Human life expectancy was, at most, a hundred and fifty years. Quentin understood the well-worded insult: Villani would die of old age before the Orbiting Death won a championship.

Unless she cheats ... unless she does whatever it takes to win her own title, because all the owners are gangsters who do whatever they want regardless of who gets hurt...

Could it have been Villani who had tried to kidnap Jeanine, who had forced Fred’s dive into the Portath Cloud? If Villani had Quentin’s sister, she could make him throw games next season, especially if the Krakens and Death again met in the playoffs. That was a solid motive.

And then there was Kollok and Ogawa. Kollok, who had wanted to make Quentin the To Pirates’ franchise quarterback, an offer Quentin had spurned in order to stay with Ionath. Kollok was a gangster, just like Gredok ... did Kollok want payback for that slight? Or Ogawa, with her bitter rivalry against Gredok — rumor was she’d assassinated Bobby Adrojnik, the last Kraken QB to win a GFL title. Kidnapping Quentin’s sister was nothing compared to that.

But what if it wasn’t another owner at all ... what if it was the Creterakian Empire? Could the ruling government think that the “Church of Quentin Barnes” was becoming too popular? How many followers did the CoQB now have — something like forty million Sklorno? Did the bats want leverage over Quentin?

So many enemies. All he wanted to do was play football, build a team, practice hard; to earn victories with blood, sweat and tears. He wanted to win ballgames, win titles and be the best there ever was. Off the field, he didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t give a damn what anyone else did. But these people, with their hatreds and fears and agendas, with their plots and scheming and power plays, their petty rivalries and manipulations, they wanted to drag Jeanine into it.

His sister.

So which one of them was it? Who tried to take Jeanine, and why? And even if Quentin did get her back, would she ever be safe when criminals ran the league?

“Elder Barnes?”

The multi-headed monster seemed to materialize out of thin air; Quentin had become lost in his thoughts.

“Elder Barnes?”

Quentin looked up and to his right. Messal the Efficient staring down at him, big eye swirling with threads of green and saturated blue, a combination that revealed concern for another.

“Elder Barnes, Yolanda Davenport of Galaxy Sports Magazine has a question.”

Quentin again looked out through the crysteel glass. He saw her, the purple skin and white hair of the beautiful, ruthless reporter Yolanda Davenport. She had arranged a discreet meeting with Fred and Jeanine, for which Quentin still owed Yolanda an exclusive interview. If Jeanine was dead, or if she was never found again, Quentin had Yolanda to thank for that final meeting with his sister.

But... that also meant Yolanda had known where Jeanine was.

That made Yolanda a suspect.

He had to face the truth: other than his teammates, the sentients he’d just fought and bled with, won a championship with, everyone was a suspect. Quentin couldn’t afford to trust anyone else.

“Sorry, I drifted off,” Quentin said.

“That’s understandable,” Yolanda said, gracious as always. “Quentin, how does it feel be the first Purist Nation quarterback to lead a team to a title? Many experts said that could never happen, because people from the Nation were too racist to lead mixed-species teams. Some sentients even claimed Nationalites were genetically inferior from an intelligence standpoint. Yet here you are, the champion of the galaxy. How does it feel to break that barrier and represent your people?”

Leave it to Yolanda to ask a question that drove out all other thoughts. He hailed from the Purist Nation, yes, but were Nationalites his people anymore? He’d spent the last four years in Ionath City. That was home; he wanted nothing to do with the Purist Nation.

And yet ... that wasn’t entirely true. He wanted nothing to do with the religion, with the theocracy that had kept his system mired in the Stone Age, with the businessmen and ruling families that treated the poor like slaves. The poor ... those were his people. He’d gotten out and never looked back. Now that he had more money than he knew what to do with, maybe someday he could do something to help those people.

He’d found a way out. Sure, that was because of football, and not everyone in the Nation was so big they were sometimes mistaken for HeavyG. If it hadn’t been for sports, he would still be in the mines. He knew that. And yet, he had made it out. The media had claimed he could never lead a team to a title, that he wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t cultured enough, relied on his legs too much instead of his arm, that he could win with athleticism alone in Tier Three but in Tier One, he would quickly wash out.

He’d proven them wrong. He’d proven them all wrong. Maybe he couldn’t do anything to help people in the Nation, at least not right now, but he knew those people looked up to him. He’d once been a kid watching pirated GFL broadcasts, idolizing the stars — in particular, one Donald Pine. There were kids doing the same thing right now, Nationalite kids, idolizing one of their own. For those kids, Quentin could show that their fate wasn’t sealed, that someone like them could make it.

“It feels ... it feels like anything is possible,” he said. “The Purist Nation people — not the rich rulers, not the priests and the mullahs, but the people — work harder and endure more oppression than any sentients in the galaxy. I’m proof that if Nationalites are given a chance, they can excel, they can dominate. Those who think my people can’t? They’re dead wrong.”

A slow smile broke over Yolanda’s face, one that made Quentin nervous and he didn’t know why.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

With Yolanda’s question answered, thoughts of Jeanine returned. Quentin wanted out of the press conference, and he wanted out now. He’d done his part, answering questions asked by sentients who didn’t know what it was like to take a helmet in the throat, to play through a broken bone, to want to win so badly you’d cut off a finger just to stay in the game. Those reporters knew nothing about football, about the brutal reality of competing at the highest level — Quentin didn’t have the patience to put up with their ignorance for one moment longer.

He slid his chair back and stood.

Messal turned away from the podium mic so only Quentin could hear him.

“Elder Barnes! If you leave now, Commissioner Froese will fine you!”

“Let him,” Quentin said. “Money I’ve got.”

He walked off the stage and into the hallways of the Shipyard, the home stadium of the Hittoni Hullwalkers.

Quentin wanted to track down Bumberpuff. Had the Prawatt captain already found a ship that could reach the Portath Cloud? Would it be Bumberpuff’s old ship, the Grieve? Quentin didn’t know. He couldn’t just book a passenger flight to the Cloud: for starters, no passenger ships went there, and even if they did, Gredok would find out where Quentin was headed and shut the trip down. Fred and Jeanine had taken Quentin’s yacht, the Hypatia, leaving Quentin no easy way to go rushing after them. So, he’d wait for Bumberpuff.

Since there was nothing to do at that moment, and since Quentin had just won the shucking Galaxy Bowl, he decided he’d do his best to calm down, to relax as much as the situation would allow.

He headed for the Ki baths.

2

The Plan

IF THERE WAS ANY VARIATION between the Ki baths from one facility to the next, Quentin couldn’t tell. Up on the Touchback, in the home locker room on Ionath, or even here at Hullwalkers Stadium in Hittoni on the planet Wilson 6, they all looked the same: faint purple lights filtering through hanging clouds of slowly moving steam, tile walls spotted with mold and moss, high-up spigots spraying down soft, steady streams of water, and an always-wet tile deck surrounding the most important part of all, the deep, round pool.

His Ki teammates swirled slowly in their tightly packed, mostly submerged ball of thick serpentine bodies. After a game, even the Galaxy Bowl, the media rarely wanted to talk to linemen, so the Ki had come here to relax, to clean the blood and dirt from their battered bodies.

Quentin stepped to the pool’s edge.

“You guys mind if I listen to some music?”

The twisting ball of Ki didn’t respond. With the Ki, that was the same thing as a yes.

“Computer, play Trench Warfare, random track, shuffle through catalog.”

The first song, “Entreaty to Reason,” came on. Quentin hadn’t spoken with Somalia Midori, the band’s lead singer, in months. He’d dated her, but distance and their careers — his football, her music and acting — kept them apart, and they’d simply stopped communicating. He still loved her songs and always would, as they were one of the few things that had brought him happiness back on Micovi.

Quentin hopped off the pool’s edge and sank in feet first. The scalding temperature sent needle stabs up and down his skin. He let himself sink to the bottom, soles of his feet resting on the algae-covered ceramic tile. Water surrounded him, so hot his body tried to rebel, but he didn’t come up.

Down there, it was the opposite of the football field’s controlled madness, the locker room’s unpredictability or the unending pressure of real life. In the water, he weighed nothing at all. Floating above him were a dozen Ki linemen who considered him a warrior-brother, a combined seven thousand pounds of elite athlete who would do anything to protect him.

His lungs began to burn. He had to go up, but he didn’t want to. If only he could stay under forever, stay under and just be.

The sound of a body plunging into the water startled him, almost made him take a surprised breath. Becca, probably; she was the only one who joined him here. Maybe she would have some ideas on how to move forward. Maybe he could finally reveal his feelings for her, tell her what was in his heart. But was this the time for that? Did he need anything that might complicate the trip to save Jeanine and Fred?

The burning in his lungs intensified. Almost time to surface. He focused — just a few seconds more.

Another heavy splash. Then another, bigger than the two before it.

Quentin opened his eyes and looked up. What little light filtered down showed three sets of Human legs slowly kicking in the water next to the dark mass of Ki.

What was going on?

He pushed off the bottom, heard more heavy splashes before his head broke the surface.

There was Becca, all right, but treading water near her was John Tweedy and his brother, Ju. Hanging on the pool’s edge, off to the left, bodies only half in the water: Crazy George Starcher and Tara the Freak, the Quyth Warrior receiver. To the right, the hulking HeavyG form of Michael Kimberlin. And in the middle of the pool, the slithering mass of long Ki bodies winding in and out and around each other, purple lights gleaming off water-slick, pebbly enamel skin.

Ju let out a puff of air.

“Jeez, Q,” he said. “This pool is mega-hot.”

The words SOOOOPER MEGA-HOT scrolled across John’s forehead.

“Sure is,” he said. “You’d have to be a dumbass to come here on purpose.”

There was no humor in John’s voice. He’d just won a GFL title and had pledged to help Quentin find Jeanine, but he still blamed Quentin for Becca breaking off their engagement.

Quentin looked at his teammates. Other than Becca, none of them had entered the Ki baths before.

“What are you all doing here?”

Becca eased closer, her black hair trailing behind her like a snake sliding across the water.

“Messal told us to come, don’t ya know,” she said. “He should be here any second.” She glanced up to the ceiling. “Computer, music off.”

The music stopped.

Ju groaned. “Come on, Becca, I love that song. You don’t like Trench Warfare?”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “I’m not a fan of ... of that band.”

The door to the pool room opened, letting in a brief bit of stronger light from the hallway outside. Messal entered, the Quyth Worker neatly uniformed as always, along with Choto the Bright, already dressed in the Warrior equivalent of street clothes: loose-fitting gray pants and nothing else. The room’s steam instantly glazed his carapace, making the hard shell reflect the purple lights.

Messal stopped at the pool’s edge, water already beading up on his clothes and fur.

“Oh, my,” he said. “Is it always so warm in here?”

John laughed. “See? Even Messal knows sense from shinola.”

George Starcher raised a hand dramatically. “The Old Ones live and breathe in the heat, the hardest steel is forged in the hottest fires, the firmament of supernova dreams is—”

“Shut up,” Quentin snapped. “Everyone stop your damn babbling!”

They all stared at him. He felt instantly ashamed at his outburst. They were here to help — he couldn’t treat them like that, no matter how stressed he felt. Quentin cupped a double-handful of hot water and rubbed it against his face.

“I apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t have yelled. Messal, where’s Bumberpuff? Did he contact the ship that will take us to the Cloud?”

“He is on his way to it now, Elder Barnes.”

Quentin’s jaw clenched. “He left? We were supposed to go with him. Is he bringing the ship here?”

A laugh echoed through the room: Michael Kimberlin. The big HeavyG lineman saw Quentin’s glare, and wiped the smile from his face.

“Sorry,” Kimberlin said. “A handful of Prawatt playing in the GFL doesn’t mean the galaxy isn’t still terrified of that species. If a Prawatt ship suddenly shows up in orbit around Wilson 6, the League of Planets considers that an act of war. Bumberpuff’s ship can’t come to us — we will have to go to it.”

“Mister Kimberlin is correct,” Messal said. “We have very little time, and I must expedite this discussion. If Gredok finds out that several of his best players are going to the most dangerous place in the galaxy, he will find a way to stop that. Your sister is not important to him, Elder Barnes. If you are going to go after her, you must leave before the Touchback departs on the return trip to Ionath City, and you must have an explanation as to why you can’t be reached.”

Those were critical points. Gredok probably had the power to stop a ship from leaving Hittoni. Even if Quentin and the others did get off the planet, punch-space relay beacons delivered messages faster than passenger ships traveled: Gredok could get word ahead of whatever ship Quentin was on, possibly contact corrupt system police or make a deal with local crime lords to shut down the journey.

“I hadn’t thought about Gredok’s reach,” Quentin said. “So what’s our cover story, Messal? Any ideas?”

“Yes, Elder Barnes. I suggest a ruse where you and the others voyage to Prawatt space in support of Cormorant Bumberpuff, who will be hailed as a hero by his countrymen.”

John raised a hand. “Wait, are the Prawatt men?”

“Maybe they’re countrywomen,” Ju said. “Or maybe countrythingees? And what about a parade because we’re champs? Don’t we get a parade?”

Messal’s eye swirled with strands of red-violet, a color of frustration; he was in a hurry to move things along.

“Guys, let him talk,” Quentin said.

“Thank you, Elder Barnes,” Messal said. “After what happened to the last parade, it is doubtful Gredok will ever again allow another such public celebration.”

Quentin couldn’t agree more. So many innocent sentients had died, including Doc Patah’s predecessor. The others in the bath seemed to accept the wisdom of that decision; all save for Ju, who looked horribly disappointed.

Messal continued.

“Due to the addition of Prawatt players, Gredok’s public image has improved. If some of his employees further develop diplomatic sports-based relations with the Jihad, that would reflect well on him.”

Quentin knew Gredok well enough to see the truth in that. The crime lord might be annoyed if his players left without permission, but such a trip would add to his new reputation as a diplomat, a sentient who made peace where entire governments had failed to do so.

“Now we need two ships,” Quentin said. “One that takes us to Bumberpuff’s vessel, and a decoy that heads for Prawatt space. How do we get those?”

Messal’s eye cleared. “There is a Human who owes you a favor, who owns a company that manufactures punch-enabled ships — that Human is in Hittoni this very moment.”

Manny Sayed. Of course. As the co-owner of the Buddha City Elite, a Tier One team, Manny had come to Hittoni for the GFL season’s grand finale.

“Messal, that’s brilliant,” Quentin said. “Get me a face-to-face meeting with Manny. And make sure Gredok — or Stedmar Osborne — doesn’t find out.”

Messal’s eye flooded with blue-violet: the color of disgust.

“Elder Barnes, it is rare for me to speak with annoyance, but I am perfectly aware that Gredok must not find out. If he does —” Messal looked around the pool, meeting the gaze of each player in turn “—it will not go well for me. If we are found out, all of you might be lectured and temporarily detained. I, on the other hand, would be lucky if I am only kicked out of Gredok’s organization and cast into the streets.”

Quentin stared at the Worker. He’d been so lost in his own problems that he’d forgotten what a risk Messal was taking. Gredok wouldn’t harm his valuable players, but Messal wasn’t a player — Gredok would probably execute the Worker.

“Sorry,” Quentin said. “You’re right, you don’t need to be told that. About that meeting with Manny, can you —”

“The meeting is already arranged,” Messal said. “I hope you can forgive my initiative.”

Messal was acting without instructions; Quentin hadn’t seen this side of the Worker before.

“How did you get Manny to agree to meet in private?”

“I mentioned that at times you are homesick,” Messal said. “Now that you have won a title for Ionath, it is possible you long to win one for the system of your birth.”

Quentin started to laugh. He couldn’t help it.

“You told Manny Sayed I wanted to play quarterback for the Buddha City Elite?”

“If Elder Sayed chose to interpret my words in a way that fits his own desires, that is his choice, not mine,” Messal said. “The meeting is in this stadium in twenty minutes, Elder Barnes, just enough time for you to get dressed. I think it is best if you bring only Choto and John Tweedy. Any more might create the wrong impression.”

Messal the Efficient, manipulating by letting Manny believe what Manny wanted to believe. A clever move, one worthy of a Quyth Leader.

Or something I might do. Is Messal emulating Gredok, or emulating me?

Quentin swam for the pool’s edge. “Choto, John, get dressed. We do it the way Messal says. Whatever it takes, I need Manny Sayed to sell me a ship.”

3

The Request

THE PROMENADE SURROUNDING Hullwalkers Stadium was a living temple dedicated to Humanity’s history of spaceflight. Life-size replicas of famous early ships like Ikaros, Sputnik, Voyager, Helios, so many more. Part football stadium, part museum.

Quentin and Choto found themselves in the bowels of that museum. Up above, hundreds of thousands of fans walked and explored, gawked at irreplaceable spaceflight relics. There, the precious items were kept behind crysteel or levitated out of reach of hands, pedipalps, tentacles and other appendages. Down in the basement, however, things weren’t quite so organized.

Racks held bins full of history not quite suitable for public display. Old space suits with holes in them, some with long-dried bloodstains; a bucket full of thick gloves; a half-disassembled engine; a cracked piece of composite hull streaked with soot; several bins filled to overflowing with small boxes made of plastic and metal — ancient memory drives, Choto guessed; and thousands of other centuries-old items. Some of the relics, if not all, would likely command an insanely high price on the black market.

The fact that such items were stored haphazardly in the basement was a testament to the financial power of both the League of Planets and the city of Hittoni. On Micovi, just one of those old data drives might be the centerpiece of a collection held by the colony’s richest person. Here, they were heaped in piles, covered in dust and cobwebs.

Quentin waited by a bulky, whitish space suit hanging from a hook in a back corner. Blue and red dials — or nozzles, he wasn’t sure which — dotted the chest and stomach. On the sternum, a stitched name patch read SCHMITT.

“I wonder what this guy did?”

Choto reached out a pedipalp, tapped a holotag on the suit’s shoulder. The information display flared to life.

“It was worn on Luna, Earth’s moon,” Choto said. “Some seven centuries ago.”

No wonder the suit was down here, forgotten — millions of sentients traveled to and from Luna every year.

Quentin reached out, felt the suit’s fabric. “Was he the first to go there or something?”

Choto leaned closer to the display. “It says he was the twelfth.”

Quentin shrugged — not much significance in being twelfth. Still, the suit’s age alone probably made it valuable.

He heard footsteps approaching, the heavy, predictable sound of John Tweedy. The big linebacker entered the storage room.

“Manny is here,” John said. “Wait... are we talking to him or killing him?”

“Talking, John,” Quentin said. “Just talking.”

John nodded. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

He walked out of the room.

“Quentin,” Choto said, “has it ever occurred to you that John might not be the most stable individual?”

“Why, no, Choto. That never occurred to me at all.”

John returned with Manny Sayed and Messal at his sides. John stood back as the two stepped forward.

Manny was as fat as ever. He wore the blue robes of a confirmed member of the Purist Church, but decorated with embroidered jewels down the sleeves and at the hem. Across his chest, an infinity sign done in emeralds: the logo of his church and also his team, the Buddha City Elite.

“Praise to the High One for blessing our journeys here,” Manny said, smiling. “And congratulations on your win.”

He offered his hand. Quentin shook it.

“Praise be to High One for bringing us together,” Quentin said.

“You have brought our system honor.” Manny’s smile was both wide and genuine. He was a businessman, sure, but in that moment he was also a Nationalite, proud that one of his own had attained such heights. “You were phenomenal, Quentin. What a game. And to sacrifice your own finger? Just amazing.”

“Thank you, Manny, but it was a team effort.”

“Of course, of course. That won’t stop people from going crazy when they watch the game and see a Nationalite quarterback win the GFL tide for the first time ever.”

The game had ended four hours earlier. The punch-beacon carrying the first quarter’s action would just now be hitting Loppu Waypoint, where the data would transfer to another beacon that would reach Earth a half day later, transfer again, and arrive at Allah in the Purist Nation a half day after that.

“The holy men won’t like it,” Quentin said. “I’m excommunicated, remember?”

Manny shrugged. “You’re famous now, perhaps the most famous sentient in the entire galaxy. If you return to the Nation, you’ll find the holy men have changed their tune about you. They’ll be so busy trying to be seen in your company that they won’t have time to remember any blasphemous acts you might have committed. Although, that press conference will ruffle some feathers. That anything is possible bit? That’s the last thing they want the common people to think.”

Manny looked around, eyes greedily taking in the discarded treasures.

“Quite a place,” he said. “To think of such historical finery sitting unused, collecting dust. Oh, how I could use this material to decorate my yachts.”

Manny glanced at Choto, then at Messal, then behind Messal at John.

“Quentin, it is late,” Manny said. “Most of the crowd has left the stadium, and I wish to get to several post-game parties. I came here to talk privately.”

“They’re staying,” Quentin said.

Manny’s smile faded. “I doubt you’d want to talk about playing for the Elite in front of your teammates. So, why don’t you tell me the real reason I have been brought to this basement?”

“I need your help.”

“I see,” Manny said. “Lying to me — and wasting my time in the process — isn’t a good way to ask for a favor.”

Messal shuffled from foot to foot.

“Elder Sayed, any miscommunication is entirely my fault. Elder Barnes would never waste your time.”

Manny looked like he wanted to say something angry, but he visibly checked himself. He was a powerful man with powerful friends, but he wasn’t about to forget that Messal belonged to Gredok the Splithead — who was far more dangerous than anyone Manny knew.

“Apology accepted, Messal. However, I’m afraid I don’t have time for this. Good day to you all.”

Manny turned to leave, but John Tweedy stood in his way.

IN A HURRY, CHUM? flashed on John’s face.

Manny cleared his throat. He turned, started to walk past Quentin and head in the other direction, but found Choto blocking his path.

Manny stopped in his tracks.

“My, Quentin, how you’ve changed,” he said. “I remember the wide-eyed young man on a ship to the Combine, who wanted nothing more than to play football. Look at you now — your underling lying to get me here, your gang muscle making sure I don’t leave, and you’re about to ask a favor, for which I’m quite sure I won’t have the option of saying no. You really take after your shamakath, don’t you?”

Quentin’s face flushed red. “I’m not like Gredok, and he’s not my shamakath.”

Manny smiled and bowed his head, a common Purist gesture of subservience to someone higher up in the church.

“As you say, Quentin.”

“I’m not like him. And of course you have a choice.”

Manny raised a doubting eyebrow. “I do?”

“Absolutely,” Quentin said, although he had no idea what he would do if Manny said no. He would just have to make sure the man said yes.

“Manny, you always told me that if I needed anything, you would get it for me. Didn’t you say that?”

Manny licked his fat lips. He looked nervous. “I did. But it was implied that the request would be within reason.”

“I need a luxury ship that can comfortably carry eleven large sentients and a Harrah,” Quentin said. “I need it loaded with food and supplies for a long voyage.”

“A voyage to where, exactly?”

“Prawatt Jihad space. Don’t worry, it will be safe.”

Manny’s eyes narrowed. “You need me to send one of my multi-million-credit yachts to Prawatt space. I see. Couldn’t be safer, right? Why ever would I worry? Is that all you need?”

“No,” Quentin said. “We need a second ship that will carry eleven large sentients, but my name can’t be on the flight plan, nor can the people coming with me.”

“And where is this one going?”

“We don’t know yet,” Quentin said. “When we do, Messal will give you the coordinates.”

Manny made a show of looking through the pockets of his robe. “I’m sure I have a pair of extra yachts on me somewhere that I can just misplace from my inventory. I mean, who doesn’t just lose starships from time to time?”

“I’ll pay,” Quentin said. “Whatever you want.”

Messal suddenly stepped between them.

“What Elder Barnes means is that he will pay for an open-ended lease for the ships,” Messal said. “And since this will be a cash transaction, Elder Sayed, and considering Elder Barnes’s stature and current position as the primary endorser of your company, I imagine you’ll generously offer him a rate far below market value.”

Quentin stared. Messal always acted subservient, kind of ... twitchy. Not now. He seemed so confident and in control that it took Quentin off-guard.

“Messal,” Quentin said. “A word?”

Quentin walked a few feet away and knelt. Messal followed. Quentin looked into the Worker’s one big eye, spoke quietly enough that Manny couldn’t hear.

“Messal, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Procuring you the best deal possible, Elder Barnes.”

“I didn’t tell you to do that. I’ll handle this. Just do as you’re told.”

For the first time Quentin had ever seen, Messal’s eye swirled with black — the color of anger.

“With the utmost respect, Elder Barnes, I remind you that you are not my shamakath — Gredok is, and I will protect his investment. You are his employee. I will not stand by while you waste your money and end up a pauper.”

“I don’t care about my money.”

“You don’t have to, because I do that for you,” Messal said. “If you spend all your money to make this trip and you do not find your sibling, I know that you will make another trip — and how would you pay for that one? If you are broke and desperate, you might listen to offers from other team owners.”

Quentin’s temper flared up hot and fast. “I would never throw a game.”

“Even if doing so meant acquiring the finances to continue your search for Jeanine?”

Quentin opened his mouth to speak, to yell, but the words wouldn’t come — Messal was right. Quentin would do anything to get his sister back, even betray the sport that was his entire life.

The black swirls faded from Messal’s cornea.

“I just saved you an estimated thirty million credits,” he said. “Do you have an extra thirty million credits, Elder Barnes?”

That much? Quentin didn’t care about the money, true, but that was everything he had and then some. Quentin had assumed he had more money than he could ever spend — but, apparently, that wasn’t the case.

“No, I don’t have an extra thirty million.”

“Then may I continue negotiating on your behalf?”

Quentin nodded, but they both knew his approval was no longer needed. He and Messal walked back to Manny.

“Elder Sayed,” Messal said, “I have tendered a valid business transaction that is fair to both parties. The next and only logical step is for you to accept.”

Manny glared down at the Worker. “I can’t help but wonder what Gredok would think if he found out about this.”

“An excellent question,” Messal said. “If Gredok asks me about this encounter, I will have no choice but to tell him that you tried to blackmail Quentin into breaking his contract with the Krakens.”

Manny stared, the threat’s ramification hitting home. “But I haven’t tried to blackmail Quentin into anything. You told me he wanted to join my team!”

“I told you no such thing,” Messal said. “I hypothesized about Elder Barnes’s desires, but I cannot read his mind.” The uniformed Worker turned and spoke to John. “Mister Tweedy, as an impartial observer, do you agree with my observation that Manny tried to force Quentin to join the Buddha City Elite?”

John crossed his thick arms. “I do. Shameful, really, although I can’t blame Elder Sayed for trying. Fancy-pants pretty-boy Quentin Barnes playing for his home system? Any owner of the Elite would do whatever it took to make that happen.”

Messal turned back to Manny. “Corroboration, Elder Sayed, is an important part of any testimony.”

Quentin felt stunned. Messal had moved from subtle manipulation to outright lies and strong-arm tactics.

Manny’s chubby face turned a deep shade of red. The fat man glared at Quentin.

“I’ll have a choice, will I, Barnes?”

Quentin had hoped to make a fair offer, but he’d lost control of the situation. Jeanine’s life was on the line, and so, too, was Messal’s — no, Manny didn’t have a choice, and Quentin couldn’t afford to give him one.

“Sorry about this, Manny,” Quentin said. “It’s important.”

“Everything is important when you gangsters want something.”

Quentin’s face flushed again, hotter this time. After such coercion, he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t just like Gredok after all.

Manny sighed, then rolled his eyes. “Fine, you win. I’ll provide the ships. Give me a couple of days.”

“Tonight,” Quentin said. “Make it happen tonight, Manny.”

The man shook his head in disgust. “Tonight or else, right? Sure. May I go now, or will this bit of theater require you to rough me up to make it official?”

Messal handed Manny a small chip. “Use the information on this chip to complete the transaction. Do not contact me any other way. Do you understand?”

Manny took the chip, then left the basement. When he did, Messal’s air of confidence seemed to evaporate. Once again, he was the twitchy underling Quentin had known for the past four years.

“There is more to be done, Elder Barnes,” he said. “Gredok will expect you on the Touchback tonight, so we must leave Hittoni before you and the others are missed. I arranged for only a limited time in this basement. May we leave, now, before the staff returns?”

After that unexpected show of dominance, Messal was asking for permission?

“Sure,” Quentin said. “Lead the way.”

The Worker scurried out of the room. Quentin followed, John and Choto falling in at his sides.

“Quite surprising,” Choto said. “Messal has abilities beyond his caste.”

John nodded. “If you mean that Messal just whooped some ass, you’re right. Too bad he’s not bigger — with that mean streak of his, he’d make one helluva linebacker.”

Quentin agreed with them both. He just hoped Messal knew what he was doing — and he’d find that out soon enough.

4

Quarterbacks

QUENTIN WAS THE LAST ONE to leave the locker room. Even seven hours after the game, with night fading into morning, there were still sentients who had waited for a chance to see him, to take a picture with him or record his thumbprint, to get some tiny piece of the Galaxy Bowl MVP that they would remember all their lives. As he had done back on Micovi in his Tier Three days, Quentin answered each request. He signed, he smiled and posed, he thumbed messageboards, he said thank you over and over to the star-struck well-wishers. And as he did this, his teammates quietly slipped away one by one, heading for the stadium’s loading dock, where Messal had told them to gather.

Finally, when there was but a handful of sentients left, Messal came for him and pulled him aside.

He quietly handed Quentin an access card and gave him instructions: exit the locker room into the main player-entry corridor, turn right at the hall between the home and visitor’s locker rooms, look for a blue service elevator, use the access card to take the elevator straight down to the loading dock, find a ground truck where everyone else was waiting to depart.

“Time is of the essence, Elder Barnes,” Messal said quietly. “The ship leaving Hittoni will not wait — if the ground truck is late, the ship leaves without you.”

“I’m going,” Quentin said. “Just a few more minutes.” He returned to the waiting fans and rushed through the final autographs and thumbprints. These sentients had waited for hours, and a few had probably spent some — if not all — of their savings on outrageously priced Galaxy Bowl tickets and hotel rooms for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He wanted to make sure they all got that extra bit of satisfaction.

Messal shifted from foot to foot as he always did when timelines were in danger of slipping, a motion that Quentin always thought of as the pee-pee dance.

“Elder Barnes, we are only thirty-four seconds ahead of schedule. Time to go.”

After the final autograph — a T-shirt labeled “Ionath Krakens: Galaxy Bowl XXVII Champions” — Quentin pulled his suit coat from his locker, slipped it on, then walked across the empty locker room as Messal guided the last stragglers out another door.

Quentin exited into the main corridor. He walked toward the visitor’s locker room. Before and after the game, this place had been an insane hive of buzzing activity. Now it was quiet as a tomb. He saw one Human worker hurry past, going in the other direction — a small man, wearing a stadium staff jacket, little different in size and demeanor than the random Quyth Worker who would have probably been doing a similar random job back in Ionath Stadium. The same work had to be done everywhere you went: the only difference was the species that did it.

Up on the right, Quentin saw the hallway that separated the home and visitor’s locker rooms. He was just about to turn down it and head for the elevator when a door to the visitor’s locker room opened up.

Out stepped Don Pine.

He wore a tailored suit, the dark purple complementing his blue skin. He looked every bit like the elite Tier One quarterback that he was. He saw Quentin and smiled.

“Imagine meeting you here,” Don said. “The Galaxy Bowl MVP stayed late to sign some final autographs?”

Quentin nodded, already conscious of the delay this was causing. “You got it. And you?”

The locker room door opened again. Three Human kids ran out, all wearing gold, silver and copper Jupiter Jacks jackets. A man came out behind them.

“Thanks again, Mister Pine,” the man said. “You have no idea what this means to them.”

Don gave an easy wave. “My pleasure.”

The man nodded one last thank you, then chased after the screaming kids. Quentin watched the four of them run down the hall. He noticed that two of the kids ran awkwardly, like they barely had enough strength in their legs to support the out-of-control joy that came with meeting a hero.

Quentin nodded after them. “Those kids okay?”

Don sighed. “Not really. Meeting me was kind of their last wish.”

“Last... they’re dying?”

Don nodded.

Quentin felt a hammer of loss for the kids. So happy, so young, but whatever ailed them was beyond even the staggering abilities of modern science.

“That’s really good of you, Don.”

The blue-skinned quarterback smiled ruefully, then shrugged. “I got a bit of karma to make up for. Doing what I can while I’m still in the game.” He offered his left hand to Quentin. “Kid, what you did out there tonight, people are going to remember that forever.”

Quentin looked at Pine’s hand. The left, because Pine remembered that Quentin had sacrificed his right pinkie to stay in the game. Quentin shook.

“Thanks,” he said. “It means a lot coming from you, old man. But don’t think this squares it between us.”

Don laughed. “Ah, the rage of youth. Tell you what, kid — spend the next week looking at your MVP trophy. Then the week after that staring at the ring that will be on your finger. Then tell me how important all that other stuff is.”

All that other stuff. The galaxy had blamed Quentin for throwing games that Pine had thrown, and the man called it all that other stuff? Sentients had thought Quentin a cheater, that he threw games. They’d thrown garbage at him. Yes, that other stuff was still important.

And yet ... without Pine’s help, would Quentin have even made it through the first season? Without the need to save Pine from his gambling debts, would Quentin have overcome his own racism to unify the team, or become the leader that he now was? Sentients washed out of the GFL all the time. Without Pine — both the good and the bad — Quentin might very well have wound up just another forgotten player.

He would never know.

What Quentin did know was that Pine had had a chance to come clean, and Pine had passed on that. He’d hung Quentin out to dry. Pine could say all the nice things he liked, make all the kind gestures he liked — Quentin didn’t have to punch the man on sight, but being pleasant in public wasn’t the same as forgiveness.

For what Pine had done, Quentin would never forgive the man. “Don, I gotta go,” he said. “You had a great game, too. And thanks for presenting the MVP trophy. That was really classy.”

Don nodded. “Needed to be done. Take care of yourself, Quentin. He looked over Quentin’s shoulder. “Great game, Virak.”

“Thank you,” said the growling voice a few feet behind Quentin.

Quentin’s stomach sank.

Oh, crap.

Don walked off down the hall. Quentin turned to face Virak the Mean, the Krakens Quyth Warrior outside linebacker and Gredok’s main bodyguard. The single baseball-sized eye stared out, the cornea clear.

“Barnes, Gredok sent me to make sure you made it safely to the Touchback.”

Time was ticking away.

“Thanks, Virak, but I’ll make my own way back.”

“Incorrect,” the linebacker said. “You are coming with me. Now”

Quentin’s anger bubbled up, percolated, hovered just below an all-out boil. The Warrior had picked the wrong time to be a badass.

“What are you going to do, Virak? Beat me up and take me back by force?”

Virak’s eye swirled with yellow-orange, betraying his excitement.

“I would enjoy that very much,” he said.

The linebacker stepped closer. Quentin caught himself before he took an automatic step back — he couldn’t show any weakness. He stared down at the shorter sentient, trying to be as intimidating as he could. Quentin was over a half-foot taller, although the two sentients weighed about the same.

The color on Virak’s cornea swirled faster. He didn’t seem all that intimidated.

“I have not forgotten about your disrespect at Torba the Hungry’s,” he said. “Choto isn’t here to help you this time. Neither is John Tweedy.”

Virak must have been lurking around this whole time. Quentin hadn’t seen him. The Warrior probably didn’t know about Quentin’s sister and the plan to get off Hittoni, but right now that didn’t matter — Quentin had to get to that truck.

“You really want to fight me, Virak? Won’t Gredok be mad if you bust up his star quarterback?”

Virak’s eye-swirls shifted from orange to black.

“You have the entire off-season to recover,” he said. “I might be punished, but it will be worth it.”

Quentin had spent all of his childhood and most of his teenage years in the mines of Micovi. There, if you didn’t know how to fight, you went hungry because other miners took your food. If you wanted to live, you learned how to fight. More importantly, Quentin had learned when to fight, learned the difference between a man who knew how to look dangerous and one who could actually hurt you.

Virak was the latter.

Quentin knew he wasn’t going to talk his way out of this one. His violent childhood had taught him something else: the guy who punches first usually wins.

He stepped forward and brought his knee up fast for a quick strike to Virak’s sternum. Virak twisted sharply to the right: Quentin’s knee slid harmlessly across Virak’s chest, momentum carrying Quentin into Virak’s already swinging left pedipalp. The chitin-covered fist slammed into Quentin’s cheek, knocking him sideways so hard his head smashed into the corridor wall.

Quentin had taken harder punches, but not many. He pushed off the wall and lunged at Virak. The Warrior hadn’t expected Quentin to react that quickly, to move that quickly, and went down hard under Quentin’s weight. The two sentients hit the floor and skidded across the polished surface.

Quentin straddled Virak, reared back to rain down blows, but felt Virak’s powerful middle arms tangle in his suit coat and yank hard to the right. Cloth ripped but didn’t come free: Quentin’s mouth and nose slammed into the wall. His vision blurred. He hesitated for a second, only a second, and suddenly he was flat on his face, 360 pounds on his back, strong pedipalp arms locking under his throat.

“I used to be a professional fighter,” Virak growled as he slowly squeezed tighter, cutting off Quentin’s air, cutting off the blood to his brain. “Did you know that? I fought Korak the Cutter.”

Quentin tried to lurch to the side, but he was already weakening, and Virak blocked the move — the Warrior had him.

“I made it through the first round,” Virak said. “Not many sentients can say they made it a round with Korak the Cutter.”

Quentin’s eyes opened and shut, opened and shut. He couldn’t breathe. Virak was going to kill him.

“You need a lesson,” the Warrior said. “You need to learn that Gredok the Splithead is your shamakath, and I am the fist that punishes anyone stupid enough to—”

Quentin heard a sharp, short sizzling sound, a crack, felt a sting of electricity, and then the pressure on his neck eased away. Another crack. The weight fell off his back a second before he heard Virak flop limply against the hallway’s hard floor.

The big Warrior didn’t move.

Quentin pushed himself to his butt, leaned his back against the wall. He took in big, ragged breaths, trying to get his wind back.

There stood Messal the Efficient, uniform as neat and tidy as ever. He held a black device in his right pedipalp hand.

“I told you we were on a schedule,” he said, bouncing from foot to foot. “Get up, Quentin. Hurry to the loading dock before the truck leaves.”

Quentin nodded, which made his throat hurt. He tasted blood in his mouth. He had to lean against the wall to stand up. He pointed down at the prone, unmoving Virak.

“What about him?”

“I will say I found him here, unconscious,” Messal said. “Before that, I must find someone I can bribe to alter security footage of this incident so that I am not seen attacking Gredok’s favorite bodyguard, and I must do both of those things in the five minutes before Virak wakes up. Every second you stand here makes it less probable I will succeed. Go.”

Quentin nodded, turned and ran down the hall, looking for the blue service elevator. He felt warmth trickling down his face; a quick touch came back bloody. Great.

He reached the elevator. The access card let him in. The trip down finally gave him a few seconds to gather himself. He looked at his expensive tailored coat: torn, spotted with blood — ruined. His upper lip had split. His cheek streamed blood. And that stinging in his mouth, it felt like ...

Oh no, not again.

He felt a small bit of hardness under his tongue, deep on the right side. He slid a finger in there, felt it, pulled it out.

A front tooth. The stinging in his mouth and the tip of his tongue told him it was the right one.

“Why is it always that tooth?”

The elevator stopped. As the doors opened, he slid the tooth into his pocket.

Not ten feet from the elevator sat a ground truck, back door rolled up, his teammates waiting inside. John, Ju, Becca, Kimberlin, Choto, Crazy George, Tara the Freak, Denver, Milford, Doc Patah and the long, frightening form of Mum-O-Killowe. They looked at him, instantly worried. Ju held a box full of hot dogs. John had half of a hot dog in each hand, the other halves obviously in his overstuffed mouth. Mum-O let out a rumbling growl. Choto’s eye flooded black, but Becca was the first out of the truck and by Quentin’s side.

“Q, what happened?”

“Just a little post-game hug from Virak,” Quentin said. “We need to get going, fast.”

Choto guided Quentin to the truck.

“It is my fault,” the Warrior said. “I should never leave you unguarded.”

John’s face wrinkled with rage. He chewed fast, trying to process his giant bites of hot dog.

“Ahm unna ooop heh aaa,” John said.

“John’s mad,” Ju said. “He said he’s going to whip Virak’s ass.”

“Thanks for the translation,” Quentin said. He climbed in. “Let’s worry about that later — if we fall any further behind schedule, I think we have more to fear from Messal than Virak.”

Becca climbed in after him, a white tissue in her hand as if it had appeared out of nowhere.

“Messal,” she said. “Why would we worry about him?”

Quentin winced as she dabbed at the cut on his cheek. “You don’t want to know. Seal up the truck and let’s get out of here.”

Choto got in. Ju pulled the truck door down. Quentin heard the latch lock. Seconds later, the truck started rolling.

QUENTIN AND HIS TEAMMATES ENDURED the uncomfortable ride to the Hittoni Intergalactic Spaceport. Early morning traffic made for frequent stops and starts, jostling the big bodies around in the smelly, dirty truck, sliding them against each other on the narrow bench seats. Mum-O didn’t bother with a seat: instead, the twelve-foot-long sentient lay on the floor, curled into a dense, muscly spiral. Eight hours since the game had ended, yet Quentin heard occasional yells and hollers from die-hard revelers who were still celebrating the Galaxy Bowl.

He could only imagine how crazy the city of Hittoni must have been right after the game. The teammates in the truck had missed all of that, because they’d been there for him, watching the holo from Fred and Jeanine, then consoling him, then plotting with him, then sneaking out of the city before Gredok found out what was going on. His friends were joining him on a long journey that could put all their lives at risk.

Quentin had to say something.

“I, uh ... I really appreciate this. What you’re doing for me, for my sister ... I can’t thank you enough.”

Simple nods or grunts of acknowledgement were all the answer he got. Except for the two Sklorno onboard, of course.

“Adventure!” Milford said.

Denver hopped up and down, her amazing balance making her impervious to the truck’s random turns.

“Love-love-love,” she said. “Godling-sibling and Quentin and love and love-love!”

Maybe the two receivers didn’t really understand the danger involved, but everyone else did. Quentin saw Becca looking at him. He met her gaze. She smiled.

“Don’t worry, Quentin,” she said. “We’ll find Jeanine.”

The others looked down at the floor. They didn’t share Becca’s high hopes. They all thought Fred and Jeanine were dead, and yet they were coming along anyway.

He would have done the same for any of them, done it without a thought, but they were doing it for him. He couldn’t process it. It made him blush, made him feel embarrassed.

Quentin caught himself as the truck suddenly angled up sharply, then leveled out, then stopped. He heard new noises from outside the truck’s thin walls — the heavy hydraulic whine of blast doors shutting. The truck’s rear door rolled up. There stood Manny Sayed and a thick Human wearing grunge-spotted coveralls. Beyond them was the dinged and dented loading bay of what looked to be a cargo ship. Just behind Manny lay a pile of stuffed black canvas duffle bags.

“Welcome aboard the Burly Brown” Manny said. He tilted his head toward the crewmember. “This is ... wait, what happened to your tooth?”

Quentin had tuned out the stinging sensation.

“Lost it in the game.”

“I saw you after the game,” Manny said. “You still had it then.”

Quentin shrugged. “I slipped in the locker room. You were saying?”

Manny patted the crewmember on the back. “This is Captain Nilson. He’s agreed to take you where you’re going.”

Nilson nodded. “Mister Barnes, happy to have you aboard. We’re not a passenger ship, so I need to know you’ll make sure you and yours understand who is in charge here.”

“And that would be you?”

Nilson nodded again. “The one and only. I’m responsible for our regular cargo and the safety of my crew. I call the shots, understood?”

“Sure,” Quentin said. “We’ll behave.”

Nilson leaned close to Manny and whispered something.

Manny nodded. “That’s fine.”

Without another word, Nilson walked off.

Quentin started to climb out of the truck, but Manny held up a hand.

“Not all of you can come,” he said. “This ship is under Purist Nation registry. Since it will be going through the Purist Nation to get to your rendezvous point, it could be stopped and boarded by system police at any time. I tried to arrange an interspecies ship but could not on such short notice.”

Quentin realized there were only six duffel bags in that pile. He felt saddened and partially relieved at the same time; at least some of his friends would live to see the next season.

“Bummer,” John said. He hopped out of the truck.

“Mega-bummer,” Ju said, and did the same.

Choto started to get out, but Quentin stopped him.

“It’s a Purist ship, Choto,” Quentin said. “That means only Human crew.”

Manny pointed to Kimberlin. “The HeavyG, he can come. I’ve already arranged transportation to the Touchback for the rest them.”

Choto’s clear cornea instantly swirled with black. “There is room on this ship for me.” He glared at Manny. “There is room for me to come along and protect Quentin.”

The Warrior wasn’t asking a question, he was issuing an order. Issuing a threat, more accurately. Choto was already so much bigger and taller than Manny; from the back of the truck, the linebacker looked like a god of war that might step down and kill Manny with one chitinous foot.

Quentin put a hand on the Warrior’s middle arm.

“Choto, take it easy. It’s not up to Manny.”

“It is,” Choto said. “I promise you, Quentin, this ship can smuggle sentients as well as cargo. If we are stopped and searched by Purist Nation system police, there is a place to put me so I won’t be found. Correct me if I am wrong, Elder Sayed.”

The fat man was starting to sweat.

“Well, we might have room for one sub ... I mean, one non-Human.” He looked at Quentin, his eyes pleading. “But only one, I give you my word.”

“I thought so,” Choto said.

Quentin looked down at Manny, looked hard, judged him, decided the businessman was telling the truth — there was room for one non-Human only.

“Choto, you have to stay,” Quentin said. He pointed to Doc Patah. “Doc, get out. You’re coming with us.”

The Harrah fluttered from the truck. Choto’s swirled with purple. That color could mean confusion or anguish — in this instance, it probably meant both.

“Quentin, I must come,” Choto said. “This mission is dangerous. You need me there with you.”

Not that long ago, it seemed, Gredok had ordered a reluctant Choto to act as Quentin’s bodyguard. The Warrior’s loyalties had gradually shifted until he declared Quentin as his shamakath, his leader — not Gredok. John, Ju and the others were coming on this trip because of love and loyalty, sure, but for Choto, protecting his shamakath was in his DNA, was the focal point of a Warrior’s reason for being.

The hard call. Deciding who to cut from the squad, sending Yitzhak off the field in favor of Becca ... sometimes the needs of the situation won out over loyalty, over raw emotion. Quentin would never get used to making calls like this — but it had to be done.

“Choto, we’re going after my sister and Fred,” he said. “If they’re injured, having Doc along could be the difference between life and death. Not just for them, but for the rest of us as well.”

The swirls on Choto’s cornea expanded, quickened, flooding his eye a deep purple. He was devastated.

Doc Patah fluttered back, a brave gesture considering Choto’s agitated state.

“There is also the issue of Quentin’s finger,” the Harrah said. “That ridiculous missing tooth I can fix easily, but I need to monitor his finger and prep it for replacement — although not while on this filthy ship, I assure you — or it could mean long-term complications for his nervous system. If Quentin is to play quarterback next season, Choto, I need to get at his hand as soon as possible. Waiting for him to return could be too late.”

The fight seemed to drain out of Choto. His body sagged.

“I understand,” he said.

The Warrior shuffled to the back of the truck, pushed past Milford and Denver, sat heavily next to Tara the Freak. The misshapen Tara hadn’t even stood up, but he seemed agitated. Mum-O still lay on the floor; as far as Quentin could tell, the Ki hadn’t moved a muscle.

Quentin stepped down out of the truck and onto the ship’s deck. There were dozens of ground trucks already aboard, dinged and dirty, parked in neat rows. The cargo hold itself looked filthy, speckled with rust, chipped paint and even globs of grease that seemed to serve no purpose.

Manny grinned. “A far cry from the Touchback’s spotless shuttle bay, eh, Quentin? The Burly Brown is a cargo container ship — not quite as fancy as you’re used to.”

Quentin looked around the dingy hold. Dirty, but orderly and efficient.

“I don’t care how it looks,” he said. “All I care about is that it’s punch-capable and can get us where we need to go.”

“Actually, the Brown isn’t punch-capable,” Manny said. “It will reach orbit around Wilson 6, where it will dock in an open slot of the Fast Prince Somdet, a cargo supercarrier, which has slots for forty-five cargo container ships. Somdet runs a regular route between planets. When a container ship reaches its destination, it disembarks, delivers its payload, picks up a new shipment, then returns to dock in another supercarrier for the next leg. It’s cheaper for the individual ships to pay a part of a punch recharge than to have punch-drives of their own.”

Manny gestured to the lines of tightly packed trucks. “The Burly Brown is delivering a fleet of used ground trucks, among other cargo, to Mason in the Purist Nation. That’s where Messal told me to send you.”

Quentin had been to Mason many times in his PNFL career. One of his home system’s four major planets, it was the farthest one away from the galactic core. If Bumberpuff wanted a rendezvous point on the edge of civilization, Mason fit the bill nicely. There were no known routes from Mason into the Cloud, at least none that didn’t take days and pass through the territory of multiple governments, but Quentin knew Bumberpuff must have a plan to account for that. Another route, perhaps — maybe one only known to the Prawatt.

“You and your friends must stay in this vessel for the entire trip,” Manny said. “I know you need to remain anonymous, so don’t let your people — especially the Tweedy brothers — exit onto the Somdet. I’ve paid the Burly’s crew to stay quiet about who is on board, but the Somdet crew is another story. They’ll recognize GFL players, and word will get out.”

Quentin nodded. If word got out, that word would undoubtedly reach Gredok.

Becca and George hopped down, stood next to Quentin. Denver and Milford also exited, graceful and light-footed as ever. They leaned forward, just about to start a sprint around the loading bay, when Quentin scooted in front of them.

“Hold on, ladies — you have to go to the Touchback with Choto, Tara and Mum-O.”

“Adventure?” Denver said. “Fun-fun-fun?”

“Kill-kill, fight-fight?” Milford said. “Go team?”

Quentin shook his head. “Not this time. Go to your home planets, enjoy the time off. I’ll see you in training camp when the preseason hits.”

Denver’s eyestalks twitched, two of them looking at Quentin, two at Milford.

“Ohhhhhhhhh,” Denver said. “I understand. The godling wishes us to return to Dynasty space to spread the godling’s gospel.”

Milford started prancing in place. “Yes! Love-love-love to spread the gospel of Quentin Barnes Quentin Barnes Quentin Barnes QuentinBarnes!”

Quentin didn’t need this, not now. Explaining what he really meant might take hours, and he didn’t have hours.

“Whatever,” he said. “I’ll see you when this is over.”

When the Sklorno got back into the truck, Tara the Freak got out. The Warrior ignored Quentin, walked to Crazy George Starcher.

“George, you should come back with me,” Tara said.

Crazy George smiled. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“This isn’t football,” Tara said. “This isn’t one of your ... your visions. Your life will be in danger.”

George nodded. “I know what it means, my friend. I’d be dead already if it wasn’t for Quentin and for you. Debts like that can only be repaid in kind.”

Tara shot a glance at Quentin. A distrusting, suspicious, one-eyed glance. Did Tara think Quentin was using the others? Maybe the only reason the Freak had come along was to protect George, not help Quentin find his sister.

Tara turned back to his friend. “Do what you have to do, George. And remember to take your meds.”

“I will,” George said.

Tara returned to the truck. He stopped next to Quentin, spoke quietly so only Quentin could hear.

“Make sure he comes back in one piece,” the Warrior said quietly. “If you don’t, you’ll answer to me. And he never remembers to take his meds — you make sure that he does.”

Tara kept his cornea clear of all color, but Quentin sensed the anger pouring off him. The Warrior couldn’t hide all of his tells — Quentin had become too skilled at detecting emotions for that.

“I’ll make sure,” Quentin said. “Everyone is coming back safe. I promise.”

Tara’s long pedipalps twitched. He didn’t believe Quentin. The Warrior climbed into the truck.

Quentin turned to Manny. “I guess we’re all set. Thank you.”

“Then I’ll leave you to your folly,” Manny said. He pointed at the Tweedy brothers, who were busy scooping grease globs off the floor and flinging them at each other, laughing like little kids. Becca watched them, shaking her head in amazement.

Manny sighed. “Cargo container A-113 is full of beer. I hope it’s enough to keep those idiots occupied.”

“They’re my brothers,” Quentin said. “Don’t call them idiots.”

A voice over the cargo ship’s speakerfilm drew Quentin’s attention.

“This is Captain Nilson. If our fancy new guests could kindly make their way to the crew lounge, we’ll be underway. The loading deck is a working area, and we are working. Stay out of our way and we’ll have no problems.”

“The crew lounge is small, but it’s yours for the trip,” Manny said. He bowed. “I will take my leave. Whatever your quest, Quentin, I wish you luck.”

He closed the truck’s rear door, moving with a precision that showed he hadn’t always been a fat, rich man. Once upon a time, Manny Sayed had worked for a living. He walked to the truck’s passenger door, artificial foot clonking in time. He climbed in. The Burly’s loading ramp lowered only long enough for the truck to drive out, then rose again, sealing the ship tight.

Becca nudged Quentin.

“Come on, Q, let’s get to the lounge.”

He looked at her, at her heavy black hair, her broad shoulders and solid arms. She was all-in, ready to help him find Jeanine, ready to do whatever it took.

At six-foot-six, Becca Montagne towered over almost every Human man, even some HeavyG men, but she still had to tilt her head up slightly to look into Quentin’s eyes. His thoughts swam in those eyes, and for a moment, a sweet moment, he didn’t think about his sister.

But Becca had family, too, her mother and father, who had been at the Galaxy Bowl to watch their daughter’s crowning moment. Quentin felt a new wash of guilt as he realized she’d spent nearly every minute after the game with him, not with them.

“Did you get a chance to say hi to your mom and dad?”

She nodded. “A few minutes, sure.”

He winced. Her expression changed, from eagerness to sympathy.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Honest. It’s our way — if my parents knew why I had to leave so soon, they’d want me to go. They’d do the same for someone they ... for someone important to them. I’m here for you, Quentin.”

He had to tell her how he felt. He had to. She was putting her life on the line for him. But what should he say? How should he say it? He had to—

“This is the captain, making a second request for guests to move to the crew lounge. A second polite request. The third request involves stun guns and duct tape. Yes, you are all quite large, but there are more of us, and you will be unpleasantly surprised at the sheer volume of duct tape we have on board.”

Quentin looked around. Even the Tweedy brothers were gone.

Becca lightly pushed him toward the hatch that led out of the cargo bay.

“We can chat later,” she said. “Move, Q — I don’t know about you, but I’m not that fond of stun guns.”

Again, he’d lost his moment. He’d just have to bide his time. Surely, he’d have a little privacy with her on the trip to the Portath Cloud, and then — if he could gather up the courage — he would tell her that he loved her.

Excerpt from “Cloud of Mystery: The Portath”

by Zippy the Voracious

“To enter the Cloud is to die.”

That is the first communication ever received from the mysterious race known as the Portath. With very few exceptions, that promise has held true.

In this day and age of faster-than-light travel, cities so large they cover the entire surface of planets, and the regular interaction of over a dozen sentient species from all over the galaxy, it seems unbelievable that there are races we still know almost nothing about.

We know almost nothing about the Portath.

In fact, there is not a single credible sighting of a member of that race. To quote the lingo of ancient Earth, the Portath are the “Loch Ness Monster” of sentient species. Unverified tales abound, describing the Portath as gray Humanoids with large black eyes and oversized craniums, as creatures made from pure electricity, as an offshoot of the Ki race that has six arms instead of four, and so on and so on. Every sentient who claims to have seen the Portath describes them differently.

We don’t even know if the Portath are biological creatures, like Humans, Sklorno and Ki, or if they are artificial in origin, more akin to the Prawatt. And, we may never know — every scientific expedition into that region has been lost, never to be heard from again.

A ZONE OF SILENCE

The Portath Cloud is a nebula. Dense gas contained within generates significant interference across the electromagnetic spectrum. Due to this “interference zone,” ships that enter the Cloud are unable to communicate with ships outside it. No signal has ever been received from a ship that was lost in the Cloud. In addition, not a single beacon from a lost ship has ever been recovered, including punch-space beacons. It is unknown if beacons malfunctioned due to the Cloud’s interference, if they were destroyed in transit, or if whatever befalls ships that enter the Cloud happens so fast that ships don’t have time to send a distress call.

THE SURVIVORS

The one exception to the long list of lost ships came in 2539, when a fourteen-vessel fleet from the League of Planets entered the Cloud in hopes of avoiding a vastly superior Purist Nation force that numbered seventy-eight ships. The Purists pursued the League of Planets fleet into the Cloud. Of those fourteen League vessels, only seven escaped. All seventy-eight Purist vessels were never heard from again, bringing the total to eighty-five ships lost in that single encounter.

Of the seven League ships that escaped, not one encountered anything within other than dust and gas. That means, unfortunately, that the only sentients to enter the Cloud and survive to tell about it saw nothing at all.

SCANT HISTORY

Punch-drive signatures were detected near the Cloud’s outer edges in 2530, marking the first indication that a sentient race might exist within. However, no signatures of early punch-drive testing or pre-punch technologies were detected as coming from that area, leading scientists to speculate that the Portath may have evolved deep within the Cloud’s interference zone. Or, possibly, that the race did not evolve within the Cloud at all, but rather arrived there from some other location — a location possibly outside of our own galaxy.

If the Portath are an extra-galactic culture, it would mark only the third known species to have not originated in the Milky Way, following the Givers and the Collectors (see the standard historical timeline for more information on those species).

The three systems that border the Cloud — the Tower Republic, the Leekee Collective and the Planetary Union — have combined their signal-analysis efforts to gather information on this mysterious race. Those efforts have detected regular punch-drive activity and some stray communications that escaped the interference zone. Analysts agree that there are at least two planetary bodies in Portath space. Little is known of these planets other than their names: Thew and Faskah.

TRAVEL WARNINGS

The Portath Cloud is considered the most dangerous place in the galaxy, even more so than Prawatt Jihad territory. Over one thousand military vessels — including a Creterakian fleet some nine hundred ships strong — have entered the Cloud. Only seven have escaped. An estimated forty other vessels — including missions of scientific, religious, exploratory and capitalistic nature — have also entered the Cloud, never to be heard from again.

5

Rendezvous

THE
BURLY’S
DINGY ACCOMMODATIONS were far more suited to Quentin’s days as an orphan miner on Micovi than his current, glamorous status as the GFL’s top quarterback. No five-star hotel, no luxury yacht, no private room aboard the immaculate Touchback — here, all six Krakens and Doc Patah stayed crammed together in the small crew lounge.

Even before the cots had been brought in, the lounge would have comfortably held only about six Humans. Six normal-sized Humans. The room smelled — partially because the temperature seemed ten degrees too high, enough to make everyone constantly tacky with sweat, and partially because of Ju Tweedy’s digestive system. It was a mystery how Ju’s body processed the same food they all ate into some of the most noxious farts Quentin had ever experienced.

The bunks were the worst part of it, though. They were too small for pro football players, to say the least. Quentin couldn’t get comfortable in them. When he could sleep, he woke with pain in his hip from being pressed into the small space. Not that pain was all that unusual — the many hits he’d taken during the season had added up.

The only good part of the trip was that Messal had, somehow, managed to provide everyone with several changes of clothes. Quentin was grateful for the pants, shirts, socks, underwear and work boots he found in his duffel bag. Everyone’s clothes fit them perfectly — how Messal had pulled that off on such short notice, Quentin had no idea.

The Burly’s crew worked in three shifts, and the ship was always busy. The captain insisted the Krakens stay confined to the crew lounge, so they wouldn’t get in the way.

That meant Quentin couldn’t get Becca alone. She was always around someone: Ju, Kimberlin, Doc Patah, Crazy George ... anyone but John, who stayed as far away from her as the limited space would allow. Maybe that was for the best. Quentin kept flip-flopping between the need to talk to Becca and the need to stay focused on Jeanine and Fred; at the moment, that flip landed purely on the side of his missing sister.

It took a day to punch to Loppu Waypoint in the Planetary Union, another day to reach the planet Home, also in the Union, a half-day to reach Solomon in Purist Nation space, and finally a half-day to hit Mason. All that time, the Krakens players were kept cooped up, trying to find things to do to humor themselves. George risked the wrath of the crew to wander the ship. John watched old movies on a messageboard. Ju slept (and farted, oh High One how he farted).

Quentin, Kimberlin, Doc Patah and Becca, however, spent their time studying. They sat on benches made for smaller bodies, hunched over a dirty, scratched table that was little more than a rail, and studied everything they could about the Portath Cloud — not that there was much to study.

Quentin sighed, gave his messageboard a little toss. It clattered against the table.

“This can’t be the best book on the Portath Cloud,” he said. “The Cloud of Mystery? That’s all the big-brain types have on the place?”

Kimberlin shrugged. “Without observations, scientists can only speculate. There have been few observations where the Portath are involved.”

“Not few,” Becca said. “Try none. No one has even seen a Portath.”

Quentin picked up the messageboard. He scrolled through the text again, looking for something he’d missed.

“There’s got to be more,” he said. “Mike, you sure there aren’t other books?”

“There are always other books,” Kimberlin said. “That is the beauty of science versus religion. In this case, however, the problem is that all texts on the Portath contain basically the same limited information.”

Doc Patah’s wings gently undulated, slowly flipping him upside down so his lighter-skinned belly faced the ceiling. Quentin hadn’t known Harrah could do that. It struck him as something Doc did absently, to relax, maybe — similar to a Human putting his feet up on a table.

“Perhaps Bumberpuff will have more information,” Doc said. “He has probably seen more of this galaxy than all of us combined.”

Quentin still wasn’t sure if Bumberpuff was a he, or a she, or if the Prawatt even had gender, but he hoped Doc was right.

Captain Nilson’s voice sounded over the speakerfilm.

“Passengers, report immediately to the shuttle bay. Your ride is here.”

Bumberpuff had arrived. Not that long ago, Quentin had been terrified to see the massive Prawatt ship known as the Grieve. Now he found himself looking forward to it — perhaps a dreadnaught of such size could offer some protection against the Cloud’s unknown dangers.

Quentin turned off his messageboard.

“Pack up quick and let’s go,” he said. “Time to see if our captain-turned-cornerback-turned-captain came through for us.”

COMPARED TO THE TIGHT CONFINES of the cargo shuttle, the crew lounge they’d left behind seemed downright spacious.

“Ow,” John said. “Ju, your butt is on my leg.”

“Your leg is in my butt,” Ju said. “And don’t be such a mega-baby.”

Kimberlin groaned in pain. “Forget your butts and your legs ... Crazy George, can you take your elbow out of my ear?”

“Sorry,” George said.

“Ow,” John said. “George, now your elbow is in my eye.”

“I can only move so much,” George said. “And since Becca weighs over three hundred pounds and every ounce of that is pretty much stepping on my testicles, you can just deal with my elbow.”

“I can’t help it, don’t ya know,” Becca said. “There’s nowhere to move, okay?”

Quentin turned in the co-pilot’s chair. “Guys, can it! We’re not far from where Bumberpuff’s ship is supposed to be. It won’t be long now.”

He wasn’t mashed into the back with the others, but he wasn’t exactly comfortable, either, his full seven feet stuffed into a seat that would have been a tight fit for Commissioner Froese. Quentin’s elbows pressed against the controls on his left and right, which, fortunately, the shuttle pilot had deactivated.

“We’re closing in,” the pilot said. “You can see it, straight out ahead.”

Quentin saw a black shape moving against the blackness of space, visible only because of stars blinking out when it passed in front of them. He remembered the first time he’d seen the Grieve, how it had blocked out all the stars by the time it reached out and engulfed the Touchback.

“It looks so small,” Quentin said. “We must still be, what, five hundred kilometers away?”

“Try one kilometer,” the pilot said. “Not even that much. I don’t know what you were expecting, Mister Barnes, but that ship out there is only a hundred and twenty meters long. It isn’t much bigger than the Burly Brown.”

Quentin looked at the pilot, then out at the Prawatt ship. A hundred and twenty meters ... that was a little more than half the size of the Touchback. The pilot had to be wrong — the Grieve was a monstrous thing, so large it was hard to get your head around it.

Quentin heard a tone in the cockpit: a hailing frequency.

The shuttle pilot moved his hands in front of him, manipulating the holodisplay.

“Unknown spacecraft, this is Delta Two,” he said. “Requesting permission to approach.”

The answer came back scratchy, as calls from another ship always did.

“Delta Two, we have you.” Bumberpuff’s voice. “Approach slowly and dock.”

A part of the darkness that was the alien ship extruded, a black glob of wiggling pudding. Quentin saw it shift and flex, until the end of the extrusion transformed into something familiar: a standard docking port. No mistaking the size of that — the pilot was right about the Prawatt ship’s unexpected dimensions.

It was too small. All the prep, Messal’s plan to get everyone out here ... all wasted.

“Put me on,” Quentin said to the pilot. “I want to talk to him.”

“Channel is open, Mister Barnes.”

“Bumberpuff, this is Quentin. Please tell me that ship you’re on is taking us to another ship — one that’s much, much bigger.”

“I was not able to acquire the Grieve,” Bumberpuff said. “Have faith, Quentin. This vessel will more than suit your needs.”

Sure, if my “needs” are funeral services for four Humans, two HeavyGs, a Harrah and a Prawatt.

Things had been bad; now they were even worse. But, it was too late to turn back now. If that ship was the only chance to save Jeanine, Quentin would take it.

6

The Ship

PINPRICK SPOTS OF LIGHT GLEAMED along the gnarled black surface, making the curved walls resemble the star-speckled void outside. The narrow corridor — originally meant for the tall, slim bodies of the Prawatt Walking X form — widened to allow Quentin and his teammates through. The shifting, moving walls showed this was a living ship, just as alive as the Grieve had been.

Kimberlin was on Quentin’s right, walking on all fours so the ceiling didn’t have to expand as far upward to accommodate his full eight-foot height.

“Quentin, this is not good,” the hulking lineman said. “This ship, it’s so tiny.”

“Really, Mike? I hadn’t noticed.”

It took only two minutes to reach the ship’s center, a small circular room. The walls bulged with curving bits of gnarled black material. Some areas glowed briefly, like a faint light shining behind a tight metal mesh, then faded out, returning the spot to darkness.

From a hole in the ceiling, Bumberpuff’s form unfurled: four tentacle-like limbs connected to a central, solid, X-shaped mass. The three-fingered ends of two arms held tools of some kind. The captain dropped down to the floor.

“Welcome aboard, my teammates!”

Quentin wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

“Bumberpuff, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

The Prawatt captain spread out his two long arms to indicate the ship in which they stood.

“This is Rosalind Franklin, our vessel for the journey into the Cloud. I gather it’s not what you expected?”

Quentin bit back an angry reply. He forced himself to remain calm.

“We’re going into the most dangerous place in the galaxy,” he said. “You promised the Grieve, and you brought me a tin can.”

The Prawatt’s body rattled, a sign that Quentin had said something offensive or embarrassing.

“I would be careful using insulting phrases like tin can, Quentin,” Bumberpuff said. “And I did not promise you the Grieve — I told you I would get you the biggest ship you’ve ever seen.”

Quentin lifted his hands, gesturing to the living walls around him. “And this is it?”

“Of course not,” Bumberpuff said. “Quentin, I went through a lot of trouble to arrange this. You need to trust me.”

Quentin took a breath, fought down his temper. Bumberpuff had no connection with Jeanine or Fred, no reason to risk himself other than to help a friend. Somehow, on just a few days’ notice, Bumberpuff had acquired the Rosalind — Quentin needed to show appreciation, not anger.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you, Bumberpuff. I guess this ship will have to do.”

“Have to do?” snapped a female voice. “First you call me a tin can, and then without any knowledge of my capabilities you say I’ll have to do? Really, I never!”

Quentin looked around for a moment before realizing the voice had come from the gnarled walls.

He looked at Bumberpuff. “Who said that?”

“Rosalind did,” the captain said. “You’ve never heard a ship speak before?”

“Oh, you mean a ship’s computer? Yeah, sure, I just never heard one with a surly attitude.”

The walls let out a heavy, feminine sigh. “Honestly, Bumberpuff, where did you find these rubes?”

Bumberpuff’s body rattled — definitely from embarrassment this time, Quentin was sure of it.

“That isn’t a computer talking,” Bumberpuff said. “It is the ship. Rosalind is a Prawatt, just like me.”

The walls sighed again, an overly dramatic sound that conveyed exhaustion with the whole endeavor.

“Bumberpuff, I haven’t been just like you since my explorer days a century ago. And as for you, Human, are you some kind of formist?”

Quentin looked to the ceiling, the walls, automatically trying to find the source of the voice, to find something to look at.

“I have no idea what formist means,” he said.

“It means judging someone or dismissing them as a person because of their form,” the walls said. “It’s like being a racist. Or do I need to explain to you what that means, too?”

“I am not racist,” Quentin snapped. “Or speciesist or sexist or ableist or formist or whatever other damn ist someone creates next, all right? I’m, uh, just not used to a person ... I mean, a sentient, of your size.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

Quentin felt that all-too-familiar hot sensation in his face as his cheeks turned red. Another new species — or another new form, at least — and he found himself once again saying the wrong thing. And then it clicked ... this ship, Rosalind, was trying to get a rise out of him.

Two could play at that game.

“You actually look pretty trim,” he said. “Aside from your aft section, of course. That part’s a bit chunky.”

There was a silent pause, then a rollicking, carefree laugh.

“Bumberpuff, your friend is funny,” Rosalind said. “Why didn’t you tell me he was funny?”

“I was unaware,” the captain said. “Quentin Barnes is not exactly known for his sense of humor.”

Rosalind made a harrumph sound. “Well, so far he’s hysterical. I like him. Shalom, Quentin.”

“Shalom?” Quentin said. “What does that mean?”

Bumberpuff’s metallic body rattled slightly, once again with obvious embarrassment.

“Rosalind is a little ... different,” the captain said. “She doesn’t worship the living god, Petra. Instead she’s ... well, she’s Jewish.”

“I converted,” the ship said. “Some seventy-five years ago. Quentin, are you religious?”

“Uh ... sort of. I was in the Purist Church.”

“Purism? Well then, perhaps we heretics could have a nice kibitz.”

“That depends,” Quentin said.

“On?”

“On what a kibitz is.”

“A chat,” Rosalind said. “A talk about our various faiths. It will piss off Bumberpuff, but into each life a little crap must fall.”

Bumberpuff rattled again, this time in anger.

“Rosalind,” the captain said, “we can do without your usual poking and prodding. I’d rather focus on finding Quentin’s sibling as opposed to your need to rile everyone up all the time.”

The walls sighed.

“Fine, fine,” Rosalind said. “I don’t mind if you ignore me. Quentin, perhaps when our quest is finished, we could chat. It gets so tiring being around barbarians who invented their own religion. I mean, Petra is only seven hundred years old. My god has been around for millennia. I believe your High One is a variation on Yahweh, so yours is also thousands of years old. Petra is really just a whippersnapper when you think of it. She—”

Bumberpuff stamped a metallic foot down hard on the gnarled floor.

“Please, Rosalind! We have work to do.”

“Fine,” she said. “As long as it makes you happy. I’ve got a course locked in for the Rewall Association’s fifth quintant, and I’m ready to punch.”

Quentin shook his head. “Rewall Association? What are you talking about? Take us to the Portath Cloud, not Rewall space.”

“Without the Rewall, that’s a six-day trip,” Rosalind said.

A galactic map appeared in the middle of the room.

Quentin saw a planet labeled Gateway, which was close to where Frederico had sent the Hypatia’s last message. Quentin had read up on Gateway during the trip. A dead world in the Planetary Union, it had small settlements supporting the mining industry. It was also right on the edge of Portath territory, making it the main punch-point into the Cloud.

A glowing line appeared, bouncing from one planet to the next, outlining the standard shipping lanes that led from Rosalind’s current position to Gateway: Mason to Solomon, then New Earth, New Whitok, Capizzi, Whirod, Thomas 3, then, finally, Gateway. Not only would the trip take six days, Rosalind would have to travel through the Purist Nation, the Planetary Union, the Whitok Kingdom and the Harrah Tribal Accord, systems that — were she detected — would be none too accepting of a Prawatt vessel. And, of course, during that whole voyage, Creterakian warships or various system police forces could appear at any time.

“Bumberpuff, I assumed you had something else planned,” Quentin said. His jaw clenched, as did the muscles in his neck and shoulders. “We don’t have six days to waste.”

“Oh, relax, bubbie,” said the walls. “We know you want to get there fast, that’s why we need the Rewall.”

Edgeward on the map, an irregular green shape glowed brighter.

“That’s the Rewall Association’s fourth quintant,” Rosalind said. Around the outer edges of the galaxy, another four green shapes glowed. “These are the Association’s other quintants. The Rewall don’t have a continuous territory like the other governments. Theirs is broken up in isolated islands, because they have the best punch technology of any race. They can punch from one quintant to another without having to stop at every punch-point in-between. Any non-Rewall ship traveling from quintant one —” a green shape on the galaxy’s edge, just outside Creterakian territory, flashed briefly “—to quintant five—” on the other side of the Milky Way, the green shape nearest the Purist Nation glowed “—that’s a trip of eleven standard days. A Rewall ship makes the same trip in a single day, with a single punch. So, our fastest way into the Portath Cloud is to go to quintant five and bum a ride to the last known coordinates of your sister’s ship.”

Kimberlin walked to the map. The rest of Quentin’s friends remained in the entryway, watching.

The lineman crossed his arms and shook his head.

“This plan is no good,” he said. “The Rewall are only slightly more understood than the Portath. We’re going to use one mostly unknown race to enter the territory of a completely unknown one? Who came up with this ridiculous plan?”

Bumberpuff bristled. “The Rewall are not mostly unknown to the Prawatt. We have far more knowledge of that race than do the other species.”

Kimberlin turned to face him. “How did your kind acquire that knowledge?”

“Their second quintant is in the middle of our sovereign space,” the captain said. “We had a small territorial dispute.”

“A territorial dispute,” Quentin echoed. “You mean a war?

The walls sighed. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Is there anyone the Prawatt haven’t had a war with? And what the hell does bum a ride mean, anyway?”

Rosalind said nothing.

Quentin stared at Bumberpuff. “Well? Let’s hear it.”

The X-Walker rose up to his full two-legged height. If Bumberpuff had a chest, it would have been puffed out with confidence.

“I told you I’d get you the biggest ship you’ve ever seen, and I will.” Bumberpuff’s tone wasn’t conversational anymore — this truly was the voice of the Captain, someone giving a calm yet irrefutable order. “The fastest way to the Cloud is with help from the Rewall, and the Rewall are still a day and a half from where we are now. I have work to do before we depart. Rosalind will show you the way to your rooms.”

Bumberpuff reached his long arms to the ceiling, grabbed something, pulled himself up, then vanished back into the space where he’d been when Quentin entered.

Lights lit up under Quentin’s feet, a glowing line heading back out the room’s entryway.

Quentin looked at Kimberlin, who shrugged.

“I think we’ve been dismissed,” the lineman said.

There wasn’t any point in staying. Quentin couldn’t get another ship anytime soon, so Rosalind was it. He would have to trust Bumberpuff after all.

Quentin turned and followed the lighted path.

Excerpt from “Not Just Another Colony”

by Zippy the Voracious

The universe is a vast place, littered with forms of life both very large and very small.

The Rewall are both.

Rewall are composed of small individual organisms called zooids (pronounced zoH-oids) that work collectively as a larger, more complex entity. Zooids cannot survive by themselves: to function, they must be part of a colony. That colony operates as the larger organism and is called zoon (pronounced zoH-on).

To put it simply, a Rewall is a bacterial colony so large it can literally grow legs and walk.

CELLULAR COMMUNICATION

The Rewall’s nature as a collective organism is unique among the known sentient races. The Prawatt have some similarities, in that small independent organisms join together to make a larger, more complex individual. The Prawatt “minids,” however, combine permanently; if a minid falls off the main body, that minid dies. In direct contrast, each cell of a Rewall zoon remains an independent organism, capable of surviving if separated from the larger colony. What’s more, a zoon is also capable of changing its function within that colony.

For the purposes of this explanation, we will compare Rewall biology to that of a Human. Humans are made up of specialized cells that perform specific functions within the context of the larger organism: muscle cells contract and work in unison to exert force; nerve cells communicate information to and from the brain; brain cells integrate to regulate the body’s automated systems and to create conscious thought. Rewall also have specialized cells, including functionally identical muscle, nerve and brain cells. The key difference is this: Rewall cells can change from one type to another depending on the colony’s needs.

Rewall brain cells can alter their structure and become muscle cells. Nerve cells can morph into bone cells, and vice versa. Complex internal organs needed to supply gasses, provide nutrients and remove waste can be assembled as needed and disassembled when they are not. This level of plasticity is unheard of anywhere else in the galaxy.

MEMORY AND SIZE

The Rewall have something else in common with the Prawatt: the more brain cells an individual has, the more information it can process. In other words, the same rule of thumb holds true for both species — the larger the colony, the smarter the colony.

The Rewall memory process is far more complex than that of other higher-level sentient organisms, because each individual cell carries its own individual memories. All cells contribute to the greater consciousness of a Rewall zoon, not just those that are in the “brain.”

If you cut off a Human’s arm, that grievous wound has no measurable effect on memory or the individual’s concept of “self.” That is not true for the Rewall. A limb of any kind might constitute 10 to 20 percent of the colony’s mass. Cut off that limb, and the colony correspondingly loses 10 to 20 percent of its “self,” including collective memory.

Therefore, the more cells a Rewall colony has, the larger and more comprehensive its memory. More cells mean more experience with different physical forms, types of work and labor, survival strategies and cultural interaction. The phrase “the more the merrier” seems to be the rule among the Rewall: the more successful a colony, the bigger it gets.

Up to about 9,000 kilos in size, a Rewall is a highly functional colony of individual cells. When colonies grow beyond that mark, however, they cease to function as a collection of cells and begin the change into a single unified macroorganism.

IDENTITY

What makes the Rewall truly alien is the rarity of individual identity.

The species grows like a typical bacterial colony: cells in the colony split, doubling in number, and the colony grows progressively larger. If that colony is divided into two or more pieces, each piece is a new colony containing some — but not all — of the memories and skills of the original. There is a brief period during which divided colonies can be rejoined, but after that period has expired, chemical imprinting occurs that prevents the divided parts from joining an existing colony.

When a colony moves past the 9,000-kilo mark, however, things start to change. That amount of mass marks a successful colony that has not only survived, but stayed largely intact for a length of time usually around thirty standard years. The organism goes through a phase change: individual cells cease to have individual identity. Scientists have dubbed this phase of the Rewall life cycle the elevation phase, and the members who have reached that phase are known as the Elevated.

REPRODUCTION

While Rewall colonies can multiply by splitting into smaller pieces, only the Elevated can reproduce in the traditional sense of the word. Elevated breed by “budding,” or breaking off pieces of themselves known as “larvae.” Larvae are small colonies that are more animal than sentient. A larvae feeds to stay alive but has only one biological imperative: find the larvae of another Elevated, and join with it. When this happens, the cells of the two individual Elevated combine to create a new colony, providing genetic diversity that helps the Rewall survive and evolve.

A CASE FOR SPACE

The growth process doesn’t stop when a colony elevates. In the Rewall’s ancient historical records, there are stories of ocean-borne colonies weighing 150,000 kilograms — larger than the blue whale, the largest creature to ever live on Earth, and almost as large as a fully grown Quyth aquatic predator commonly known as a Kraken.

On a planetary body, the maximum size of a Rewall colony is limited by gravity, air pressure and other physical forces. In space, however, most of those external forces are no longer present. Once the Rewall achieved sustainable space flight, something drastic happened that changed their species’ fortunes forever — once free of their home planets, the Rewall just kept getting bigger.

LEVIATHAN

Shortly after developing ships capable of carrying the Rewall off their home planet, a new kind of cell function evolved. The function enabled a cell to bind tightly with its neighbors, creating a pressurized “skin” that allowed the cells beneath it to function as they normally would without risk of decompression or freezing. With those environmental dangers removed, the Rewall were able to survive outside of ships and without the protection of any extravehicular suit or container. The only limitations on Elevated size became how much food the colony could acquire.

Because of this unique biological phenomenon, Rewall have become the largest organisms in the galaxy, possibly even in the universe. Surviving in the vacuum of space created a third phase in the Rewall development, a form called Leviathan.

THE TERROR IN THE VOID

Leviathans can create their own relativistic thrust. They also have a biological punch drive, the mechanics of which are still not understood by the scientists of any other species. Unlike the technology held by the other sentient races, a Leviathan can travel from one end of the galaxy to the other in a single punch, or pop out anywhere in-between. This makes the Leviathans a potential threat to every governmental system: territory must be protected, but the Leviathans have the ability to bypass the shipping lane “choke points” that allow for the creation of fixed territorial borders.

And yet, governments have a far greater fear than violation of territorial integrity — the fear of “spawning.”

Leviathans can travel between the stars. They reproduce just as the Elevated do, by budding. That is how the Rewall colonize planets: Leviathans travel to an unoccupied planet, seed that planet with their larvae, and wait for the larvae to populate the surface.

The fear is, of course, that there is nothing to stop the Rewall from doing this on inhabited planets. The species is capable of traveling anywhere and bypassing military forces, which means the Rewall are capable of colonizing each and every inhabited planet in the galaxy. While this has never occurred, the threat is ever-present.

7

The Biggest Ship

QUENTIN WASN’T SURE if the room had existed before he and his friends boarded Rosalind, or if she had grown it just for them. There was a nice table, along with couches and chairs that were surprisingly comfortable considering she had extruded them from the floor. The room even had something Quentin would have never expected from a Prawatt ship: color. Strange abstract maroon patterns decorated pale blue walls. Rosalind had even gone so far as to splash a Krakens logo on the ceiling.

John and Ju were sleeping on the floor, Becca on a couch. All three were out cold. George sat quietly by himself. Quentin had made sure the man took his scheduled meds; right after taking them, George got kind of introspective and didn’t talk much.

Quentin, Kimberlin and Doc Patah were doing what they’d done for most of this journey: studying. Their messageboards flared with pictures, holos and text about the Rewall. To Quentin, most of what he learned about that species simply didn’t make any sense. He shut off his messageboard.

“This can’t be real,” he said to Kimberlin. “Colonies of bacteria that walk around? No way.”

The lineman smiled. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because ... well, you can’t even see bacteria without a microscope or eye-mods. They’re little.”

Kimberlin raised one eyebrow. After months of tutoring, Quentin knew that expression; Kimberlin wanted terminology more accurate than they’re little.

Quentin sighed. “Fine. I don’t believe that millions of single-celled organisms can work collectively as one great big animal ... I mean ... as one macroorganism.”

“Trillions,” Kimberlin said.

“What?”

“It’s not millions of single-celled organisms, Quentin, it’s trillions. The typical Rewall has anywhere from fifty to two hundred trillion zooids, and for the largest of their species, exponentially more.”

“Fine, trillions. Even harder for that many to work as one big thing.”

“I see,” Kimberlin said. “And how many cells do you think there are in your body?”

The HeavyG only asked questions like that when the answers would help prove his point. The guy knew so much; it really got to be annoying after a while.

“Judging from that smart-ass look on your face, Mike, I’ll guess hundreds of trillions.”

The lineman’s smile widened. “Excellent deduction. And, also, fairly accurate. Hundreds of trillions of individual cells make up Quentin Barnes and all his parts. You can’t see any of your cells without a microscope or eye-mods, so why is it so hard for you to believe that a Rewall colony can collectively achieve a similar level of organization?”

Quentin didn’t have an answer. He was more than just a collection of cells ... wasn’t he? Science and the High One weren’t mutually exclusive (another phrase Kimberlin had taught him). In fact, Quentin believed that science was the tool High One used to create all things. He existed because High One wanted him to exist, but if a slimy mat of bacteria could eventually “come alive,” so to speak, did that mean intelligent life could occur without the High One’s hand?

The walls let out a now-familiar heavy sigh, saving Quentin from further dealing with those uncomfortable thoughts.

“Everyone to the bridge,” Rosalind said. “Bumberpuff thinks you’ll all want to see this. As for what I think? Not that anyone cares, really, but if someone asked me, and I wasn’t just minding my own business — which I always do — I’d tell them—”

“We’re on our way,” Quentin said. Damn but this ship was long-winded.

The walls sighed again. “If that’s what makes you happy.”

Kimberlin cleared his throat, then turned off his messageboard. He looked nervous.

“I hope this goes well,” he said. “The Rewall are as militaristic as any other sentient race. They protect their territory. If something goes wrong, I’m afraid we’re all going to die.”

“You say that a lot, Mike.”

The lineman shrugged. “That doesn’t make it any less possible.”

Quentin stood and thumped his lineman’s huge shoulder.

“Tell you what, big guy, when the regular season starts, I’ll put you in charge of halftime pep talks. You just fill people with confidence.”

QUENTIN HAD READ about the Rewall, but some of that information hadn’t sunk in — this was space, after all, and he’d automatically expected to see a ship.

But there wasn’t a ship. No ship at all. Just a ... a thing, hanging out there in the void.

Rosalind had grown a clear viewport bubble in the bridge, or whatever this central room was called. Quentin walked into that bubble. His brain struggled to find definitions for what he saw beyond the clear material.

Tendrils of some kind, reaching out for miles. Not “tentacles,” exactly, but rather long strands of something that looked about as resilient as the algae ropes he’d seen back on Stewart: long things that only seemed solid until you reached into the water to touch them and your finger slid right through.

Those extrusions reached out from an irregular sphere, lumpy in some places, indented in others. Light from a nearby star played off the thing’s brown hull.

Skin, Quentin reminded himself. It’s not a HULL, because that’s a living thing out there. It’s SKIN.

The center of that sphere looked like a meteor had smashed into it, creating a deep, conical impact crater that glowed yellow, brighter the farther in it went — at the bottom, it blazed like a tiny sun.

Other spots on the sphere shimmered with different colors: glimmering reds, flickering blues, jewel-bright greens.

Quentin didn’t need anyone to tell him the obvious: that thing out there was even larger than the Grieve. Quite a bit larger.

“High One,” Quentin said. “That’s a living being?”

“It is,” Rosalind answered. “I’ve met this one before. I call it Joey.”

“Joey?” Quentin pointed at the monstrosity. “You met that?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rosalind said. “We had a little disagreement.”

Quentin sensed people on his right: John and Ju. And on his left, Becca and George. George stared out, his face blank with shock.

“They’re real, Quentin,” George said, his voice a reverent whisper. “I can scarcely believe it myself. The elder gods ... they’re real.”

John laughed. DON’T EAT THE SPACE-BOOGERS flashed across his face.

“That’s not an elder god, Georgie,” John said. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s a seriously big ball of floating poop.”

Ju started to giggle. “Poop,” he said. “That’s a funny word. Poop.”

George frowned at the Tweedy brothers. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Who is to say a floating planetoid of feces can’t be a living god?”

Quentin hoped it wasn’t actually a living god; he’d met one of those already, and one was more than enough.

“If that thing will get us to the Portath Cloud, then let’s get it done,” he said. “Bumberpuff, can you talk to it?”

The captain joined them in the now-crowded viewing bubble.

“The Rewall language is more seen than spoken,” he said. “I don’t have the capacity to communicate with them, but Rosalind does. We have to be careful, though — they’re bloodthirsty creatures if you get near their borders.”

Kimberlin rubbed his face. “Let me guess ... we’re not near the Rewall border, we’re across it. Am I right, Bumberpuff?”

The Prawatt’s body rattled. “Well, we needed to get their attention.”

John groaned. “Oh, man, this is going to end poorly.”

“Mega-poorly,” Ju said. “Dying is going to suck.”

Becca gave Ju’s shoulder a backhanded slap. “Guys, knock it off. This is serious.”

John looked at Becca, then back out the viewport. He shrugged. DYING SEEMS KINDA SERIOUS TO ME, BUT WHAT DO I KNOW? scrolled across his forehead.

“It will be fine,” Bumberpuff said. “Rosalind, please show the Rewall what we want.”

“Very well,” she said. “I don’t mind, if that’s what makes you happy. I hope this works — I’m really not in the mood for a fight today.”

Part of Rosalind’s hull extended, a pseudopod of living black metal that flowed, then dissipated as if it were a gas. It looked like she was bleeding into space, a rip in some ship-sized artery spilling black blood into the void. The spray shimmered, took on a color: purple. In seconds, the purple haze started to take shape, denser at the middle, where it began to glow brightly.

Quentin had spent the past few days staring at an image just like that. He wasn’t the only one to recognize it.

“The Cloud,” Becca said. “Wow, that looks exactly like the Cloud.”

“I try,” Rosalind said. “I try.”

Just inside the edge of her glowing creation, an orange light pulsed rapidly. Her message could not be more clear: this is where we want to go.

“That’s amazing,” Quentin said. “I guess a picture really is worth a thousand words.”

“True,” Bumberpuff said. “And a scale model is worth a million of them.”

The Rewall Leviathan sat there, obscuring the universe.

“What happens now?” Quentin asked.

“Three possibilities,” Rosalind answered. “First, Joey does nothing and leaves. It depends on his mood. Second, he decides we mean no harm and takes us where we want to go. Third, Joey gets pissy and tries to destroy me.”

Quentin looked back into the bridge, once again instinctively seeking out something to visually connect with when he spoke.

“Rosalind, can you beat that thing?”

She didn’t answer right away. The pause added tension where there was already plenty to go around.

“I’ve done it before,” she said. “I actually killed a Rewall Leviathan some fifty years ago, but it was a close call. I didn’t truly understand what a glorious sentient being it was until it was gone. It is not my proudest memory.”

Quentin had never felt so small. Whatever happened next, there was nothing he or any of his friends could do about it.

Rosalind spoke again, her voice more clipped, more urgent.

“I’m detecting power fluctuations in Joey’s core. It’s getting ready to move.”

George pressed his hands against the inside of the viewport bubble. He leaned forward, eyes wide and gleaming.

The Rewall’s shape changed, the sphere flattening somewhat. Kilometers-long tendrils stretched toward Rosalind.

“It’s coming for us,” Quentin said. “What do we do? Is it attacking?”

“I’m not sure,” Rosalind said. “It could be, or it could be coming to take us to the Cloud. I’m afraid I’m not very good at reading Joey. If he is attacking, we’re sitting ducks. I think moving out of the way — fast — is a good idea.”

Quentin felt cold metal wrap around his upper arm: Bumberpuff, leaning close.

“You decide if we stay or flee,” the captain said. “The Leviathan is the fastest way to reach the Portath Cloud, but if you want to leave, we leave.”

The impossibly huge creature drew closer, so large it blocked out the vastness of space itself.

“Don’t panic,” Rosalind said. “To take us to the Cloud, Joey has to engulf us.”

Quentin didn’t like the sound of that. “And if he’s not helping, but attacking?”

“Oh, same thing,” Rosalind said. “He’ll try to swallow us up either way.”

“Then how the hell do we know the difference?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Rosalind said. “If the hull cracks and I fill up with acid that dissolves you, that means Joey is hostile.”

The tendrils closed in, not far now, not far at all. If Quentin made the wrong call ...

Bumberpuff shook Quentin’s arm.

“It’s not too late to run,” the Prawatt said. “But decide. Now.”

If Joey was attacking, every sentient on Rosalind — and even Rosalind herself — would die. But if Quentin gave the order to flee, it would cost them at least six days. Jeanine didn’t have six days, if she was even alive at all. An impossible choice, made worse by the huge creature that now filled up the entire viewport bubble.

It was a coin toss with lethal ramifications. Quentin didn’t know what to choose, so he did something he would have never considered before this moment.

“George? What do you think?”

John huffed in disgust. “Crazy George decides if we live or die? You do know his first name is Crazy, right?”

Becca grabbed Quentin’s other arm. “John’s right — you can’t let George make this call.”

George turned away from the bubble. He smiled wide.

“I sense no hostility from the elder god,” he said. “Trust in his ways, Quentin. Trust in his ancient wisdom.”

Quentin looked out the bubble. He saw the hot, glowing pit at the Leviathan’s center. The tendrils had almost arrived.

If he was wrong, he was dead, and so were these people he loved.

The hard call. Someone had to make it. Someone always had to make it.

“We stay,” he said.

The tendrils wrapped around Rosalind, cutting off all light from the nearby star.

8

Surgery

QUENTIN DID NOT DISSOLVE in acid.

Thanks to being inside of Joey, Rosalind couldn’t see anything, or pick up any signals. When she wasn’t complaining about how the Rewall Leviathan was making her outer hull itch and blister, she shared what little she knew — since she was still in one piece, Joey was probably taking them to the Cloud. Probably.

Quentin knew they had entered punch-space only because he’d felt the sickening shimmer. Hopefully, the next time he endured that sensation, they would be at the point where Frederico had sent his last message. If so, Rosalind figured, they had a good two or three hours yet to go.

Doc Patah was using the downtime to work on Quentin’s pinkie. The Burly Brown had been far too filthy, Patah had said, to risk anything other than changing dressings. For all of Rosalind’s peculiarities, the ship was immaculate. She had grown another new room: white and plain, as spotless as any high-grade hospital facility, with a white table upon which Quentin sat.

The tip of Quentin’s tongue poked at his repaired tooth. It always felt so strange to have something in that space after it had been empty, even briefly.

“Thanks for fixing my mouth, Doc.”

“A trivial procedure, young Quentin. Your finger, however, is more demanding of my skill.”

Thanks to nerve blocks, Quentin felt nothing, but he watched carefully — it wasn’t every day you got to see your own muscles, ligaments and bones laid bare.

At first glance, Doc Patah’s mouth-flaps looked like clumsy things: two flattened snakes on either side of a wide opening. Up close, however, watching them work, Quentin was always amazed at their dexterity. The tips of the mouth-flaps could fold, twist, bend and pinch, could manipulate two or even three objects at once. It was no wonder the Harrah dominated medicine across the galaxy, especially in professional sports, where a patient’s health could mean the difference between priceless victories and costly defeats.

“Doc, is that my pinkie bone sticking out there?”

“No, young Quentin, that is the right fifth-finger metacarpal,” Doc Patah said. “I severed it just above the knuckle when you made your idiotic decision.”

Patah’s backpack doubled as both storage for the doctor’s medical supplies and a speaker that translated his native tongue of hisses and breaths into English. Quentin noticed a circular metal badge on the backpack, one he’d never seen before: an image of the GFL championship trophy, with the English words Galaxy Bowl XXVII arcing across the top, and Ionath Krakens, Galactic Champions arcing up from the bottom.

Quentin reached over with his good hand and gave the badge two quick knuckle-knocks.

“Wasn’t enough time for you to make that after the Galaxy Bowl,” he said. “Seems to me you had that made before the game. Pretty confident in me, eh, Doc?”

“No comment,” Doc Patah said.

“Anyway, seeing as you’re proudly showing off that badge, looks like my idiotic decision turned out all right.”

The Harrah let out a grunt of annoyance. He could pretend to disapprove of Quentin’s decision all he liked; Patah wanted to win, just like everyone else in the Krakens franchise. When Quentin had told him to amputate the finger, Doc could have said “no,” and they both knew it.

The Harrah worked on the pinkie stump, cutting away a bit of flesh here, cauterizing a bit there.

It seemed so strange to feel no pain at all, especially after how badly it had hurt during the Galaxy Bowl. Quentin’s little finger had stuck in the facemask of Katan the Beheader and been bent back at a sickening angle. In all the injuries Quentin had suffered — both on field and off — he’d never felt such agony.

Doc wore attachments of some kind on two of his five sensory pits. Maybe a high-tech magnifying glass or something like that. His left mouth-flap pinched around a scalpel and white sponge that was already dotted with the red of Quentin’s blood. Doc’s right mouth-flap held some kind of delicate tool with multiple lights that lit up either blue or yellow when Doc pressed it to various areas of Quentin’s stub.

The lights were more blue than yellow.

“You have extensive nerve damage, young Quentin. When we return home, or go anywhere with proper medical facilities, I should be able to fit you for a prosthetic. It will function normally. You will have to remove it for football, of course.”

“Can’t you just grow a new pinkie? I’ve seen people with regrown feet, even entire arms.”

“Not in the GFL, you haven’t,” Patah said. “Nor in the fighting leagues, nor on any Human who plays professional sports. When a limb or digit is replaced, it might look normal, but that replacement never regains full coordination. The player loses a step or two, reacts a bit slower, loses some degree of balance. You can imagine how that translates when it comes to performance.”

Quentin could. Professional football was a game of intelligence and preparation, true, but those things didn’t matter if you didn’t already have strength, speed and reaction time. If a Human running back got hurt and lost a fraction of a second in speed — say, dropping from a 3.8 40-yard-dash time to 4.0 — that was the difference between hitting a hole clean or arriving after it was already closing up. In the Sklorno and Prawatt, that difference was even smaller: going from a 3.0 forty to a 3.1 was the difference between a starting role and a spot on the bench; dropping to 3.2 would probably take that player right out of Tier One.

Speed. Strength. Reaction time. If any of those factors dropped, your career could suddenly be in jeopardy thanks to the faster, stronger, more agile backup waiting to take your place. For all the advancements made in medicine, training, nutrition and the plain fact that athletes kept getting bigger, faster and stronger, one thing remained the same — injury and age were the worst enemies of any athlete.

Quentin stared at the exposed stub of skin and muscle, blood and bone.

“It just seems weird you can’t fix that,” he said. “We can make ships travel faster than the speed of light, but we can’t grow a new limb that works correctly?”

“False equivalency,” Doc Patah said.

“False what?”

“Equivalency. It’s a logical fallacy. Didn’t they teach you about that in school?”

Quentin’s face flushed red.

Doc Patah’s sensory pits tightened.

“My apologies,” he said. “You are so intelligent, Quentin, that I often forget how your homeland cheated you out of even the most rudimentary education.”

Quentin’s face flushed anew, but for a different reason. He knew how good he was on the field, knew that he was one of the best football players in the galaxy, but he’d left school after the sixth grade; he wasn’t used to people calling him smart.

Doc Patah again pressed the device to the stump, watched more yellow and blue lights twinkle.

“All species used to think faster-than-light travel was impossible,” the Harrah said. “But just because we’ve achieved what was once thought impossible doesn’t mean that which now seems impossible will be achieved, or is achievable at all. One of your kind’s ancient philosophers said something similar to that.”

“My kind? You mean a Purist?”

Patah sighed. It didn’t sound all that different from when Rosalind did it.

“Young Quentin, I am doubtful anyone from your home system ever said anything that could be construed as intelligent. By your kind, I meant Humans. If you want me to grow a finger and graft it on, that is definitely possible. However, remember what I said about how replacement limbs can affect performance.”

“But it’s only my pinkie,” Quentin said. “It’s not even on my throwing hand.”

“The Human nervous system is just that — a system. Add something and the system changes. If you can play with just nine fingers, I would strongly suggest you continue to do so. I need to know now, however, if you want it regrown. If you do, I need to leave as much material as possible for grafting purposes. If you do not, I will trim this damaged stump away and properly seal up the hand. But heed my warning, young Quentin — adding material to your body could cause unforeseen issues.”

“Such as?”

“Difficult to say. I’ve seen injuries that cause pain in the replaced area only, and some that cause ongoing, incurable pain across the entire nervous system. Some people develop tics. Sometimes these things can be controlled with medicine, but that type of solution can slow your reaction time, or affect your ability to grasp the ball.”

Quentin pictured himself trying to pass, his aim marred by random, stabbing pains or an uncontrollable twitch. If he couldn’t grasp the ball properly, he’d be more susceptible to fumbling it.

“But a regrown finger does work sometimes, Doc. Doesn’t it?”

“Of course,” Doc said. “Sometimes the process goes off without issue, if the patient follows a strict recovery protocol. That part, I believe, will not be to your liking.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because proper protocol means no contact for about a year after the procedure.”

No contact for a year? Quentin would miss the next season, and even then there was no guarantee the process would be successful. If there was constant pain, he might have to just get the new pinkie amputated anyway.

“No replacement,” Quentin said. “No transplant. Do what you need to do, Doc. I’ve got a lot of football-playing years ahead of me.”

“Assuming we don’t die in the Cloud, of course.”

“One can only hope.”

Doc Patah slid a mouth-flap into his backpack and came out with a wicked-looking little saw blade.

“Very well, young Quentin.” Doc turned on the saw. The circular blade whined. “Let us begin.”

9

Punch-Out

QUENTIN STOOD ALONE in the viewport bubble. The Leviathan had brought them to the edge of the Portath Cloud, released them, then blinked back into punch-space. Rosalind was preparing a punch of her own. She had asked everyone to return to the room with the blue walls. Quentin had dallied, needing a few moments to himself.

He stood there, staring out into space. Everywhere he looked, a vast, endless sea of black flecked with chips of light. Emptiness. Everywhere except for straight ahead. There, growing bigger as the ship drew closer, Quentin saw the expanse of the Portath Cloud — an angry, electric-purple mass lit up by the deep glow of the stars hidden within.

The Cloud. A place from which no ship returned.

And inside, somewhere, was his sister, Jeanine, and his friend Fred. Quentin had traveled so far just to get here, and likely had much farther to go.

The walls sighed.

“Quentin, do you mind?” Rosalind, talking to him through the walls, the floor, the ceiling, through the clear bubble itself. “I’m about to initiate a punch into the Cloud, and I need to close up your viewport. Not that anyone ever listens to me, of course. I mean, why would they? I’m only a century-old ship that has probably seen more of this galaxy than any other sentient alive. Who would want to listen to me blabber? It’s not like my experience is—”

“For High One’s sake, Rosalind, shut up.” Quentin turned away from the viewport. “I’m going, I’m going. Can you please stop whining?”

He’d wanted the Grieve, a dreadnaught that would strike fear into the hearts of any sentient. What he got instead was a ship that complained about everything, and wasn’t all that much bigger than his own yacht.

“Whining, Quentin? Honestly, there’s no need to be mean. I only want what’s best for you.”

Quentin turned and walked toward the corridor. He sensed, more than saw, the bubble he’d just left closing up behind him, the clear material shrinking into the collapsing walls.

He didn’t pray often, but at that moment, he did — he prayed that Rosalind had some fight in her.

Because they were going to need it.

BOOK TWO

The Portath Cloud

10

First Contact

QUENTIN SAT ON ONE of Rosalind’s couches, eyes closed, waiting for the reality wave to wash over him, to twist him. When it hit, he felt his atoms shift from the false existence of punch-space into the world he knew, the world in which he belonged.

They were back in normal reality — which meant they were finally in the Portath Cloud, one step closer to finding Jeanine.

He opened his eyes. Ju sat on a couch across from him, calm and relaxed. John sat on Ju’s left, Becca on his right. Kimberlin stood in a corner, still reading his messageboard, while George Starcher was in a chair. Doc Patah hovered in the middle of it all.

“Hey, Q,” Ju said, “we punched out and you didn’t barf. Maybe people can finally sit next to you and not have to worry about spew-spray.”

Becca smiled. “He’s right, Q. You haven’t thrown up from a single punch on this trip. Maybe you’re over your motion sickness?”

John rolled his eyes. “Nah, pretty boy just has something other than himself to worry about for a change. We rescue his sister, I got a hundred credits that says he makes mouth-chowder first punch after.”

Ju offered his hand to his brother. “You’re on.”

They shook, sealing the bet.

Quentin stood. He did have things other than himself to worry about, that was true, but he was getting tired of John’s attitude. Hopefully his brother would stop making snide comments sometime soon.

“Let’s go to the bridge,” Quentin said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Bumberpuff will find the Hypatia right away.”

WHEN QUENTIN AND THE OTHERS reached the bridge, Bumberpuff was staring at a hologram with a miniature representation of Rosalind in the center.

“Nothing yet,” she said before Quentin could even ask. “We’re alone. No sign of the Hypatia. I’m sorry, Quentin.”

Of course, it couldn’t be that easy, but he’d held out hope for a miracle.

“I want to see for myself,” he said. “Can you grow that viewing deck again?”

Rosalind sighed. “Don’t trust my observations, Quentin? Well, fine. I don’t mind, as long as it makes you happy. Hold on a moment.”

The gnarled material beneath his feet rumbled and vibrated. Quentin saw the room’s walls waver, large chunks of gnarled black moving and shifting. Then, he saw a few stars: Rosalind’s hull became transparent. Seconds later, a full viewport bubble formed.

“As you requested,” the ship said. “By all means, see if your tiny little Human eyes can spot something I missed.”

Quentin stepped into the bubble. The others hung back, obviously wanting to give him his space.

Far off, in all directions, he saw the Cloud’s signature amethyst glow. Three hazy, glowing orbs dominated the space straight ahead. Quentin couldn’t begin to estimate how far away those stars were. Smaller, teardrop-shaped stars surrounded them, tails pointing away from the trio.

He turned to his friends. “Mike, can you come here for a second?”

The HeavyG lineman joined Quentin in the bubble.

Quentin pointed to a teardrop-shaped star, then another, then another. “Why aren’t those spherical?”

“The three right in front of us are known as the Triplets,” Kimberlin said. “Three stars so big, so powerful, the radiation coming off them creates solar wind that overpowers nearby stars, stripping off outer gas like a river slowly eroding a clump of dirt.”

Quentin had never seen anything like it. Stars were usually dots of light on a field of endless black. Here, the stars fought to be seen against the background glow, and there were so many of them, packed in more densely than what he’d experienced standing on the surface of any planet or ship.

So much to see, and yet the area immediately around Rosalind looked like any other kind of space: garden-variety blackness.

“We must be in a pocket or something,” Quentin said. “There’s no gas around us, just off in the distance.”

“Oh, it’s there,” Kimberlin said. “The gas is extremely dense, relatively speaking. But even gas that is dense by galactic standards is incredibly thin when compared to, say, the atmosphere on Micovi. So, you are inside the Cloud. You can tell because you see purple in all directions instead of just one. Thought you’d see streamers of purple drifting in our wake, like in the movies?”

Quentin nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought I’d see. Life is never like in the movies.”

Mike laughed and shook his big head. “So says the orphan from Micovi, born with a cannon for an arm, who wound up in the PNFL because someone saw him throw a rock, who then moved up to the GFL, where he heroically won a Galaxy Bowl and became one of the most recognized sentients in the galaxy. The one person whose life actually is like a movie doesn’t think life is like a movie at all.”

Sometimes, Mike’s know-it-all attitude annoyed the hell out of Quentin.

“Like you’re any different,” Quentin said. “The HeavyG offensive guard, one of the few of his race playing a position dominated by Ki, winning not one, not two, but three Galaxy Bowl rings. And your past, getting over what happened to you, and ...”

Quentin’s words trailed off when he saw Michael’s expression fade from happy and interested to sullen and regretful. Mike had a dark chapter in his past, during his tenure with the Jupiter Jacks. Quentin knew Mike had killed a teammate — and not on the practice field, where such things might happen in the course of a football player’s life — but didn’t know any of the details, not even who had died.

“Sorry,” Quentin said. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

Kimberlin shook his head, forced a smile. “Nothing to apologize for.”

Maybe someday Mike would talk about it. If so, Quentin would be glad to listen. For now, though, Quentin needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

He turned to Bumberpuff.

“So, Captain — what now?”

“Now, we grasp at straws,” Bumberpuff said. “We followed the Hypatia’s last-known path, but this location is where the trail ends. We can broadcast a signal, hope the Hypatia receives it and also hope someone on that ship is still alive to answer. But we are close to the interference zone, Quentin. Our signal won’t—”

“Won’t go far, I know,” Quentin said. “Do it anyway. We have to try anything we can.”

Quentin stared out the bubble. Stared hard. He would find Jeanine. He had to. She was out there, somewhere. He refused to believe she was gone.

Kimberlin spoke quietly.

“Quentin, I know you hoped the Hypatia would be here. Since she’s not, I must ask if you understand the impossibility of what we now face.”

“We’re not leaving, Mike.”

The HeavyG nodded. “I would expect you to say nothing less. Of course, we must make at least a cursory search of this sector, especially since we’ve encountered no hostility. Yet. But to find a ship in an area where scanners barely work, it’s—”

“She’s lost because of me” Quentin snapped. “So is Fred. If Jeanine weren’t my sister, Gredok or Anna Villani or whoever caused this wouldn’t have been hunting her. She’s my only family, Mike — I’m not leaving until I find her.”

Kimberlin took a slow breath, chose his words carefully.

“Jeanine is not your only family,” he said. “The people that came with you, they came because they love you. All of us knowingly risked our lives to help you find your sister, but the truth is you barely know Jeanine. She is family, true, but your real family is here with you on this ship. The longer we stay in the Cloud, the more likely that some — or all — of that real family will die. Just think about that, will you?”

Quentin again looked out into the purple-tinged void. Part of making the hard choice was hearing, and accepting, the hard truth. Kimberlin had delivered it. If there was no hope of finding Jeanine, was it right to ask these people — and this living ship — to stay here any longer?

“All right, Mike. I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you,” Kimberlin said. “I know how hard this is for you.”

Quentin closed his eyes for a moment. Kimberlin knew how hard it was to lose the only family member he had left? Quentin doubted that. He doubted it very much.

A long beep sounded from the walls: the familiar tone of a proximity alarm. Quentin’s heart raced and his hope surged, but that hope shifted to fear when Rosalind spoke.

“We have contact,” the ship said, her tone sharp and urgent “We’ve got company, and it’s not the Hypatia.”

11

Company

“BEARING, TWENTY DEGREES STARBOARD,” Rosalind said. “Range, ten kilometers.”

Kimberlin leaned against the clear bubble, looking for the incoming ship. “Ten kilometers? That’s right on top of us. Where is ... there it is!”

The big lineman pointed to his right.

Out there, Quentin saw a flash of metal, coming fast. As it approached, he made out the shape of a lean, silvery ship. Bumberpuff’s body bristled, his bits rattling audibly. “Now we find out if we die.”

Rosalind spoke, her passive tone gone.

“Everyone off the bridge,” she said. “Get back to the room I made for you.”

Quentin shook his head. “I’m staying.”

Kimberlin crossed his arms and nodded. “As am I.”

“We all are, don’t ya know,” Becca said from the entryway. “Just take care of your business, Rosalind.”

“Fine,” the ship said. “I don’t have time to argue. I’m activating point-defense systems and a perimeter beacon to establish a no-approach boundary.”

“Negative,” Bumberpuff said, his body rattling louder. “No defensive measures of any kind. Full stand-down. We can’t look like a threat.”

The silvery ship closed in, a flashing needle of danger. A hologram of it appeared in the center of the bridge, showing its dimensions. It was about the same size as Rosalind, tapered on both ends, widest in the middle.

Rosalind’s voice echoed through the bridge.

“I’m not going to wind up as just another missing ship,” she said. “I’m powering up point defenses — I need to show I can fight back if attacked.”

“No,” Bumberpuff said. “Rosalind, my orders are a full standdown.”

“I don’t take orders from you” Her volume vibrated the walls, made Quentin wince.

“I am my own captain,” Rosalind said. “If that tiny spec of a vessel starts firing at me, Bumberpuff, it won’t be you that feels the pain.”

“Rosalind, think” Bumberpuff said. “There’s a reason it has been a century since a ship escaped the Cloud, and that reason can’t be some little corvette.”

“Then I’ll withdraw to a safer distance. The bogey’s too close.”

Bumberpuff stood to his full two-legged height. His body rattled. “Full stand-down! I gave my orders!”

That intensity, that tone of command — it reminded Quentin of his own voice in the locker room or in the huddle on Sunday afternoon. On the playing field, Quentin ran the show, but here, Cormorant Bumberpuff called the plays.

The slim, silvery ship — a corvette, Bumberpuff had called it — drew closer, a thin blade that seemed made for war.

Rosalind didn’t react. Quentin couldn’t see a face to read emotions, but he felt her anxiety ... she didn’t know if she should follow her own instincts or trust i n Bumberpuff.

The approaching ship slowed, then stopped. Quentin looked at the holo in the middle of the bridge. The corvette was less than a kilometer away. The display shifted, zoomed out. As the alien ship shrank smaller and smaller, the representation of Rosalind came into view.

“The bogey is scanning us,” she said. “I can’t wait any longer. I’m getting out of here. We’ll ... hold on, I have a new signal. Contact.”

An orange circle appeared in the holo, joining the miniature Rosalind and needle-ship.

Kimberlin leaned close to Quentin. “The circle is a variable symbol,” Kimberlin said. “It means Rosalind knows something is out there, but doesn’t yet know what or how big.”

“Contact,” she said again.

A second glowing orange circle appeared, marking a third alien ship.

The two orange circles flashed, then morphed. Quentin drew in a surprised breath. Those weren’t tiny corvettes, not at all — each was ten times the length of the Touchback, twenty times as large as Rosalind. Their double-taper shapes were similar to the first bogey, the corvette, only they were much larger and studded with what could only be weapons mounts.

“Now it’s too damn late to run,” Rosalind said. “Bumberpuff, I pray that you haven’t killed us all. You should have ... contact. Contact. Contact.”

More orange circles appeared. Rosalind kept repeating the word contact, and each time she did, another circle flashed into being.

Within seconds, the display showed thirty ships, some so big they had to be over a kilometer long.

Rosalind was surrounded.

12

Hope

“I DIDN’T LIVE TO BE A HUNDRED YEARS OLD so the decisions of an infant could get me killed,” Rosalind said. “I’m taking evasive action and getting us out of here.”

Bumberpuff again reared himself up to his full height.

“You will stand down. I told you—”

“You are NOT in charge. Everyone hold on to something — I’m maxing the impulse drives in six ... five ...”

Bumberpuff reached to the ceiling with his long arms, pulled the rest of his body up; he clung to the uneven surface like a starfish hugging tight to a black coral reef. Quentin stepped to the wall, grabbed two gnarled protrusions and hoped for the best. Depending on how hard Rosalind changed direction, he might fly off this wall and slam into another. He heard his friends scrambling for any handhold they could find.

“... three ... two ...”

Quentin closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

“... one ... engage!”

Nothing happened.

He opened one eye, looked out the viewport bubble. The alien ships stayed where they were, as unmoving as Rosalind seemed to be.

“I ... I can’t fire my drive,” she said. “Point defense, weapons systems ... nothing will activate.”

Bumberpuff dropped down from the ceiling. He scurried on all-fours to a control panel.

“Let me help you,” he said. “Maybe they landed a signal blocker.”

Quentin felt his weight shift a little.

Bumberpuff stood up quickly. “Rosalind, we’re accelerating. You have control?”

An uncomfortable pause, a frightening pause, long enough to make the skin on Quentin’s arms stand on end.

“No,” she said, her tone heavy with worry, with a sickening sense of despair. “It’s not me. Something else activated the impulse drive. This is impossible — I have the most advanced control system of any ship in the galaxy. Hold on, I’m rerouting my drive signal.”

Quentin, Kimberlin, Bumberpuff and the others silently waited.

Nothing changed.

“I can’t control anything,” Rosalind said. She wasn’t shouting anymore. She sounded stunned ... stunned and horrified. “I can still think, still talk ... but I’m paralyzed.”

Quentin felt that pull again, the sensation that the ship was speeding up. Inertia, he thought it was called.

He let go of the wall. They were accelerating, smoothly and without any abrupt motions. He again stepped into the viewport bubble. Outside, the silvery needle-ships turned and banked, slowly changing direction to follow alongside Rosalind.

“They should be blowing us up,” he said. “Shouldn’t they? We’re defenseless ... why wait to kill us?”

No one answered.

Kimberlin joined Quentin in the bubble. The lineman scratched at his temple, thinking.

“This must be how they did it,” he said. “This is how they beat a thousand warships over the centuries. The Portath have a technology that allows them to seize control of other vessels.”

Quentin had assumed that if things went wrong, it would end with Rosalind’s parts — and the parts of everyone aboard her — scattered all over the vacuum of space.

But the Hypatia was lost, and no one detected a destruction signal...

That could be due to the interference zone, sure, but destruction beacons were like miniature rockets with their own built-in punch drives. If a ship took too much damage, if its systems started to fail, the beacons launched automatically, setting a course for the nearest civilized area where their message could be received. Could the Portath have taken over the Hypatia’s destruction beacon the same way they’d taken over Rosalind? Probably. But what if ...

Quentin’s heart hammered in his chest, his head swam at this strange and untimely source of hope.

“Rosalind,” he said, “do you have distress beacons?”

“I already tried to launch one. Whatever the Portath are doing, they’ve completely cut off my control to all systems.”

Over a thousand ships lost, most of them warships, yet not one had sent a destruction or distress beacon. Distress beacons had to be fired manually, something the Portath could obviously block. But the destruction beacons were automatic — what if the reason none had been found was because none of those missing ships had actually been destroyed?

“Everyone, stay calm,” Quentin said. “I don’t think they’re going to blow us up. They’re taking us somewhere.”

Kimberlin rubbed a big hand across his big face. “Wherever that is, Quentin, nothing says they won’t kill us when we get there. And even if they don’t, history tells us quite clearly that we’ll never leave.”

Quentin hadn’t thought of that; some of his hope dwindled away, but not all — Jeanine and Fred might still be alive.

13

Bumps

QUENTIN AND THE OTHERS PACKED INTO the viewport bubble. Maybe Rosalind could have made more room for them, but nobody wanted to bother her with such a triviality. Everyone wedged in uncomfortably, except for Doc Patah, who floated above them all.

They stared out at what might be their fate: a green and purple planet, the size of a beach ball but quickly growing larger, three-quarters illuminated by the light of the closest star.

“It could be Thew,” Kimberlin said. “Or Faskah. Those are the only Portath planets anyone has ever heard of.”

“No lights,” Crazy George said. “Perhaps their culture turns in when the sun goes down.”

“That would suck,” John said as he chewed. Rosalind’s supply of Human food apparently included popcorn. John had cooked up a bag from which he now ate, cramming handfuls into his mouth and slapping Ju’s hand when his brother tried to get some.

If John knew he had flecks of greasy white stuck on his lips and chin, even a small bit on his cheek, he didn’t make any effort to clean them off.

“A whole planet that goes to bed at night?” He shoved a fresh handful into his mouth. “That’s a whole planet that doesn’t know how to party. Maybe we are dead, and this is hell.”

Quentin didn’t know what to make of it. The dark side of the planet was just that: dark. It seemed odd. He’d traveled to many worlds; the buildings, vehicles and streetlights of densely packed urban sprawls always combined to create a bright glow.

But not here.

“Hard to imagine all the sentients on a planet turning off the lights when night falls,” he said.

Kimberlin let out a dismissive grunt. “With religion, all manner of behavior is possible. But the more obvious answer is likely — there are no lights to turn on in the first place. Rosalind, are your sensors still functional?”

“They are,” the ship said. “At least I can still control something. I detect no civilization on that planet. No cities, no towns, no buildings ... bupkis. There are some ships in low orbit, but we’re too far away to make out any details.”

Kimberlin scratched at his temple. “That doesn’t make sense. It looks like a viable planet, covered in plant life. What’s the atmospheric composition?”

“H-Class mesoplanet,” Rosalind said. “Mostly nitrogen, oxygen, argon — roughly the same percentages as Earth.”

Becca nodded. “It would support Humans, Ki, Sklorno, Quyth and Harrah. A planet like that is something any of those governments would go to war to possess. Even if the Portath can’t survive in that type of atmosphere, how come there’s no self-contained installations for mining and other resource gathering?”

George pointed out the viewport window, not at the planet — which looked larger by the second — but to the left of it.

“Another Portath ship,” he said. “And it looks like a monster.”

Quentin saw it, too: a flash of metal gleaming in the sun’s light: Rosalind was headed straight for it. As they drew closer, he could make out more detail. The ship looked bumpy, coated with little metallic flecks reflecting the light at different angles.

“Rosalind, how big is that ship out there?”

The walls sighed. “What is this, twenty questions? I don’t really care how big it is. We’ll see soon enough. We’re going where we’re going. Do we have to keep talking about it?”

John shook his head. “Q, this ship needs a good smack in the mouth.”

Ju finally got past his brother’s blocks and grabbed a handful of popcorn.

“Ships don’t have mouths,” Ju said, then shoved the popcorn in his own before John could try and take it away.

As Rosalind drew closer to the ship, Quentin made out more details. The sparkling flecks ... they had regular shapes, familiar shapes.

“High One,” he said. “Those bumps on the hull ... are those other ships?”

Everyone watched in silence as the answer soon became obvious. The long, bumpy ship wasn’t bumpy at all; smaller vessels clung to a smooth hull.

“It’s massive,” Bumberpuff said. “I’m afraid to say, I think that ship is bigger than the Grieve.”

There was no mistaking the disappointment in his voice. The civilized galaxy hated and feared the Prawatt, spoke of the race as if they were barbaric monsters, but Bumberpuff’s people took pride in the fact that they built the largest vessels in history. That was obviously no longer the case; it had probably never been the case to begin with.

The walls let out the longest sigh yet, a sound of utter exhaustion and exasperation.

“Before you ask, it’s eight kilometers long,” Rosalind said. “That’s twice the length of the Grieve, around five times its mass. Not only have I been kidnapped, but now we find out the biggest ship in the galaxy isn’t one of ours. Fantastic.”

The sheer scope of the huge vessel started to hit home, particularly as the ships on its hull became recognizable forms. Military cruisers and battleships — considered large in their own regard — were like ants on a log.

Kimberlin pointed to the right.

“I think that’s the Chan Cheng,” he said. “I saw it in a documentary about the first League of Planets flotilla to enter Portath space. Those ships entered the Cloud a hundred and fifty years ago and were never heard from again.”

The others started to call out names of ships they recognized from movies, documentaries and famous images. So many ships had gone missing in the Cloud — finally, those ships were found.

Quentin tried to hide his excitement. All of the ships on that massive hull, every last one of them, looked perfectly intact. Still and unmoving, sure, but he saw no superficial damage on any of them.

He looked up and down the impossibly long hull, hoping to see the tiny Hypatia. The lines of a ship caught his focus: a Purist Nation destroyer, the Israfil. He’d learned about it back in the third grade, one of the few lessons that he’d found interesting. A hundred and forty-five years ago, the Israfil had been lost along with seventy-seven other ships that had pursued fleeing Tower vessels into the Cloud.

Bumberpuff pointed a long-fingered arm, down and to the left, at a Prawatt vessel that seemed more giant snake than spaceship.

“That’s Mister Muttonchops,” he said. “I’m sure of it. Muttonchops was a famed adventurer that set out to explore the Portath Cloud around sixty years ago.”

“It can’t be,” Rosalind said. She sounded surprised, delighted and terrified all at the same time. “Mister Muttonchops? Oh, Yahweh, it is him.”

Quentin saw John rolling his eyes at Ju. John mouthed the words Mister Muttonchops, then circled a finger near his temple: what a crazy name. Ju nodded, then quickly snagged a spilling handful of popcorn and shoved it in his mouth.

Ships from every known race, all stuck on the curved hull of an eight-kilometer-long alien vessel. There had to be five hundred of them in plain sight, hundreds more on the vessel’s far side. Could there really be over a thousand warships down there, a mixed-species armada forever frozen in place?

In the spaces where there were no ships, Quentin saw the hull’s polished gleam, so mirror-like that it looked like an identical Rosalind was coming up from inside to meet them.

He felt a gentle hand on his arm; Becca leaned in, spoke quietly.

“Jeanine could still be alive, Q. She could be down there. Have you seen your yacht?”

He shook his head and kept looking.

The view shifted: the ship in front of them seemed to be dropping out of sight — Rosalind was rotating.

“Hold on, everyone,” she said. “Looks like we’re landing. Yay, me — I get to spend eternity as a barnacle.”

The yellow sun came into view. Quentin squinted, held up a hand to block the harsh light. He couldn’t see the bumpy ship anymore, but in all directions, he saw the long, lethal silver shapes of the Portath ships that had first surrounded Rosalind, then escorted her here.

He felt the floor rock beneath him, saw some of his teammates stumble a bit.

Rosalind had just touched down.

14

Welcome Committee

QUENTIN AND THE OTHERS STOOD STILL for a little while, almost afraid to breathe, waiting for something to happen. They looked out the viewport. Nothing there but the black, gnarled broadside of Mister Muttonchops to the left, and what looked like a Ki freighter to the right.

He and his friends were alive. That was more than Quentin had hoped for when Rosalind had first started calling out the word contact. Maybe they could figure out how to stay alive, and maybe Jeanine and Fred had figured out how to do the same.

John reached out to the bridge wall and rapped his knuckles against it, like he was knocking on a door.

SOONER OR LATER, EVERYONE GETS STRANDED ON A BIG-ASS ALIEN THINGEE scrolled across his face.

“Hey, Rosie,” he said. “Got any hardware stashed in your various cracks and crevices? A gun in the hand is worth a bush with a bird, know what I mean?”

“Somewhere in that rambling bit of nonsense you mentioned the word gun” Rosalind said. “If that was your question, the answer is yes — I have weapons available.”

Quentin shook his head. “No guns, John.”

John seemed both annoyed and amused. “What are we going to do, Q? Build a campfire and sing some songs?”

Quentin gestured out the viewport bubble at the ships affixed to the huge hull.

“We’re going to do whatever the Portath want us to do,” he said. “Most of the ships we saw were military, full of spacers and armed marines. You know damn well they didn’t just go quietly.”

Kimberlin nodded. “Quentin is correct. If trained soldiers couldn’t escape, we’re not going anywhere unless the Portath let us go. Threatening them with guns — or, worse, shooting at them — is not a way to effectively communicate.”

Ju huffed. “Maybe you don’t communicate the same way John and I do.”

Quentin felt a sharp vibration roll through the ship’s deck.

“Oh, how nice,” Rosalind said. “My kidnappers have opened the lower hatch.”

John again rapped his knuckles on the bulkhead.

“Rosie! Gimme them guns! Now!”

“Dammit, John, no,” Quentin said. “We still have a chance to live through this.”

John pursed his lips and glared. He shook a finger at Quentin.

“You better hope you’re right about this,” John said. “Because if we all die? I’m gonna be super mad at you.”

“Super-mega mad,” Ju said. “And don’t even get me started how Ma is gonna feel if her boys die.”

Rosalind made a throat-clearing sound, which was odd considering she didn’t have a throat.

“While this continued display of intellect is quite riveting, I believe I have been boarded by robotic probes,” she said. “I’d show you, but those shmendriks also shut off my holo capability. If there is fighting, I would rather it doesn’t go down on the bridge.”

Bumberpuff strode to the entryway, waving for everyone to follow him.

“I’ll stay here, alone,” he said. “I’ll protect Rosalind, with my life if need be. The bridge is where her brain is, her soul, if you will, so you have to get out. I am sorry, Quentin, but this time I cannot be by your side.”

Quentin understood. He didn’t know what Bumberpuff had promised Rosalind to get her to make this voyage, but she hadn’t owed a thing to Quentin or Jeanine and she’d come anyway. Now she had no control of her own systems, had no way to defend herself — Bumberpuff felt responsible for that.

The Krakens players left the bridge. They carried no weapons, which was a good thing — at least, Quentin hoped it was a good thing.

Time to meet their new hosts.

QUENTIN TRIED TO TAKE THE LEAD, but Kimberlin and the Tweedy brothers would have none of it; they all but pushed him back so they could stand between him and the oncoming unknown danger. Quentin stood side by side with Becca, while Crazy George brought up the rear. Doc Patah hovered just above George, wingtips and backpack almost touching the ceiling.

They walked down Rosalind’s black corridors, their way lit by the chips of light embedded in the gnarled material. The walls expanded to accommodate them just as they had when Quentin and the others had first arrived — since Rosalind wasn’t in control, maybe that was an automatic reaction, like a horse’s muscles rippling to shake off a pesky fly.

“I hear something,” Becca said. “It’s coming this way.”

Quentin heard it, too — a clicking, scraping, scuttling sound, like a horde of insects crawling across rocks.

Everyone wore street clothes, but they were facing this as a team: the Orange and the Black committed to tackling the next foe. Quentin had dragged them all out here, and yet they still circled around him, willing to take on any danger before that danger could reach their quarterback. The concept overwhelmed him, humbled him, made him wonder what he could have possibly done to deserve such selfless loyalty. Were it not for the incoming horde of whatever-the-hell it was, he might have cried.

He had to die someday. If this was that day, he couldn’t have asked for a better send-off.

The crawling sound grew louder.

John cracked his knuckles.

“I hope they have faces,” he said. “I like to punch faces, you know? I hate species that don’t have faces. No offense to Bumberpuff.”

Ju rolled his neck to the right, then to the left, the bones inside crunching like dry sticks.

“I prefer knees,” he said. “Nothing like making a knee bend the wrong way.”

The clacking/clattering/scurrying noise grew in intensity, to the point where it sounded like someone was frying a hundred hamburgers just around the corridor bend.

Quentin fought down a wave of fear. This wasn’t a football field, with armor and rules — anything could happen here. He and his friends could be shot down like animals.

Finally, their welcoming committee turned that corner and came into sight.

“Dad-gummit,” John said. “They don’t have faces.”

Robots of some kind, small metal spheres with long, thin, three-jointed legs ending in hooks that clung to Rosalind’s textured surfaces. The robots scurried across walls and ceiling and floor, a silvery sludge pouring along the corridor like a milk shake sliding up a straw. Weapons protruded from the front of the spheres: jagged blades, the rounded barrel of a projectile weapon, wavering coils of metal that sparked and flashed.

Quentin took a step back, fought the sudden urge to turn and run — there was nowhere to go. The tactical part of his brain kicked in; he looked for weaknesses, for the best way to attack the oncoming horde, but there were hundreds of them, their paths crisscrossing in front of and behind each other so fast he couldn’t make out one individual from the pack.

Just a meter away, and as one, the robots froze in place — a sprawling, noisy oncoming mass one second, so still and silent the next they might have been sculptures that had been there all along.

Quentin and his friends didn’t move, were almost as still as the machines.

The scuttling sound started up again, but not as intense as before, not as loud. At the bend in Rosalind’s black corridor, he saw the silvery robots on the floor sliding left and right... making a path.

Here we go — now we find out what the Portath look like.

Around the bend came a blonde-haired, cobalt-blue-skinned Human woman wearing a long red robe. Unless the Portath came from Vosor 3, this wasn’t one of them. A flat golden choker glowed softly around her slender neck. Purple eyes took in Quentin, then each of the others in turn. She held up both hands in a gesture that said be calm.

“My name is Hulsey,” she said. “Do any of you speak English?”

No one answered. They waited, deferring to Quentin.

“We all do,” he said.

The woman let out a sigh of relief so heavy she practically sagged when it left her.

“Oh, oh good,” she said. Then, intensity flooded back into her; she spoke loudly, slowly, like every word mattered and there was no room for miscommunication.

“Listen to me very carefully,” she said. “Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t be aggressive. If you do—” she gestured to the robots that coated the floor, ceiling and walls “—you won’t live long.”

John crossed his big arms over his chest. Quentin saw several of the silvery spheres instantly adjust their position, as if those were the ones that had been assigned to watch John and only John.

They already have specific targets. They’ll hit us all at once, pour over us, find their assigned prey and take us out.

“John,” Quentin said quietly, “please do what the nice lady says.”

John let out a grunt of annoyance. Through John’s shirt, Quentin saw red letters scrolling across his back: YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.

“Hey, nice lady,” John said. “If we had, say, been standing in this here hallway holding some weapons and such and whatnot, what would have happened?”

Hulsey again gestured to the robots.

“The first wave would already be finished,” she said. “The cleaner machines would be on their way, to remove your pieces and wash down this corridor.”

“Hmmm,” John said. He turned and looked at Quentin.

SOMETIMES YOU’RE SMARTER THAN YOU LOOK scrolled across his face. He shrugged, then faced the woman.

She watched patiently for a few moments, waiting to see if Quentin and the others would be dumb enough to try something. When they didn’t, she took in a long, slow breath, then let it out. She visibly relaxed a little, still tense but now hopeful she might avoid a bloodbath.

“This is an important question,” Hulsey said. “Is this all of you? Or are there others aboard?”

“One more, further inside,” Quentin said. “And the ship itself, which is alive.”

“Go get the straggler, now,” Hulsey said. “And for all your sakes, if there are more, if you lied, I need to know. The Portath, they ... they don’t like surprises.”

Quentin leaned close to Becca.

“You and George go get Bumberpuff. Tell him there’s no choice — he must come.”

Becca slowly backed away from the pack, then turned and strode down the corridor, Crazy George only a step behind her.

Hulsey waited, not moving, not speaking. Despite her obvious anxiety, Quentin sensed steel in her demeanor. She didn’t want this job but was resigned to doing it anyway.

Moments later, Becca and George returned with Bumberpuff.

“That’s all of us,” Quentin said.

Hulsey stared at Bumberpuff for a moment, then locked eyes with Quentin.

“All of you,” she said. “You’re sure?”

Hulsey drew out the last word like she wanted to believe, but had witnessed firsthand the horrid result of a lie. If that result involved the “cleaner machines,” Quentin prayed telling the truth would keep his friends safe.

“I’m sure,” he said. “You have my word.”

She nodded, still doubtful. “If you want to live, do exactly what I tell you. What you see next might be ... upsetting.”

“We don’t want any trouble,” Quentin said. “We’re looking for a Human man and woman that may have been brought here recently, several days ago. All we want to do is find them, then we’ll leave.”

Hulsey laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“I can help you find them,” she said. “But none of you will leave here. Ever.”

15

Visitors

THE ROBOTS CLEARED AWAY from the floor, but not the ceiling or walls. Hulsey led Quentin and the others to the exterior hatch. It was open — that should have vented Rosalind’s internal atmosphere into the vacuum of space, but everything seemed fine.

Quentin followed Hulsey out of the ship, stepping into a shallow, silvery dome. The dome was made up of tightly packed robots, the same kind that had come close to carving him and his teammates into little, messy bits. Some of the robots glowed, lighting up the area as clear as day. Under his feet, a gleaming starship hull so smooth that the soles of his shoes slid, and he had to watch his step or he might fall on his ass.

Hulsey walked to an open spot in the hull: a hatch that led inside. She pointed down.

Quentin hesitated. His teammates stopped behind him. He heard metal on metal; a few of the silvery robots had followed them out of Rosalind and were scuttling around the improvised dome.

Hulsey folded her hands in front of her.

“You have to go in,” she said. She tilted her head toward the robots. “If you don’t, this is the end of the line.”

Crawl into the belly of an alien starship and take his teammates with him? If Hulsey was right, Quentin didn’t have any choice.

“What happens to Rosalind?”

Hulsey looked at Becca. “Are you Rosalind?”

“Not me,” Becca said. “Rosalind is the ship.”

“Ah,” Hulsey said, nodding like she should have already figured that out. “You might want to say your goodbyes now. Prawatt ships ... they usually go insane. They shut themselves off after about thirty or forty years. Due to loneliness, we think.”

Thirty or forty years ...

That phrase finally made it hit home: Hulsey wasn’t just making empty threats. She truly believed Quentin and his friends were never leaving again. But there had to be a way out. There had to be.

Hulsey was a young woman, maybe in her late twenties. Her blue skin showed League of Planets heritage, definitely, but was a lighter shade than Don Pine’s.

“What about you, Hulsey?” Quentin said. “How long have you been here?”

“I was born here.” She pointed into the hatch. “Right down there, in fact. And if you have kids, that’s where they’ll be born, too. Now please, stop stalling ... that only makes them mad.”

Quentin stepped to the opening: inside waited a ladder made of polished metal rings that blended seamlessly with the wall, which itself gleamed just as brightly as the hull upon which he stood.

“What happens when we enter?”

“I’ll take you to a large room,” Hulsey said. “There, the Portath will meet you. They will be armed. If you or your friends make any sudden moves, you will all die.”

She took a step closer to Quentin, her purple eyes pleading for him to do what she asked.

“The Humans you came looking for, I know where they are,” she said quietly. “They’re alive.”

Jeanine ... alive.

Quentin turned to face his teammates.

“We’re going in,” he said. “Don’t mess with anyone or anything. We can find a way out of this, I know we can, as long as we keep calm.”

His teammates nodded. They looked frightened but ready for anything. Except for Bumberpuff, who didn’t have any physical expression Quentin could yet identify, and for John and Ju: the Tweedy brothers just looked mad. Quentin prayed to High One they would control themselves, that they really understood the situation’s gravity.

Quentin knew he had to move before his courage failed him. He stepped into the hatch and descended.

16

The Portath

HULSEY LED THEM into strange, gleaming corridors. The floors curved slightly down toward the center, which made for awkward walking. The walls were also curved up toward a smooth, arched ceiling lined with the same kind of ring-rungs as the ladder leading down from the outer hull. It made Quentin think of some artist’s abstract vision of a steel spine.

“Hulsey, where are we going?”

“I told you, to meet the Portath,” she said. “Once that is done, hopefully I can take you to the Stretch so you can see your people.”

“The Stretch? What’s that?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Hulsey said. “As long as you continue to behave, that is — life is cheap here.”

Cheap, but not so cheap that he and his friends had been killed right off. That was something, at least.

The corridors curved and twisted, intersected with others, and not just on the horizontal plane — hallways came in at all angles. The silvery robots scurried along walls and floors, but never on the ceiling. Maybe they couldn’t navigate around the curved bars.

Hulsey stopped at an oval-shaped door, one that meshed perfectly with the curved hallway. Anywhere Quentin looked on this ship, there wasn’t a straight edge in sight.

She turned, faced Quentin and the others.

“You have behaved, and that is good,” Hulsey said. “However, this is your final warning. In this room you will meet the Portath. If you fight, you will die.”

John loudly hocked a loogie. He glared at her as he spat it onto the polished floor.

“Lady, you’re just a big bag of fun,” he said. “You must be awesome at parties.”

“Mega-awesome,” Ju said. “I wish you’d been around for my junior prom.”

Hulsey stared at the spittle for a moment. Quentin wondered if they were done for, but the red-robed, blue-skinned woman simply shrugged, then faced the door. It slid downward, vanishing into the floor, revealing a large, round, domed-ceiling room.

She entered. Quentin hesitated. How would the Portath react? Even Hulsey didn’t know for sure. Would they attack? He felt fear bubble up again, not for himself, but for the others — he wished he’d come alone, that he hadn’t dragged his closest friends into this.

Doc Patah slid next to him, fluttering at eye level.

“Young Quentin, now is not the time to second-guess yourself,” he said. “We came of our own free will.”

Years earlier, Quentin wouldn’t have known the difference between an angry Harrah or a happy one — or probably even a dead one, for that matter — because the wide mouth and sensory pits always seemed to look the same. Now, however, Quentin knew Doc’s expressions as well as he knew John’s sneer, or Kimberlin’s patient stare, or Becca’s small smile. Doc Patah was afraid, but not angry, and he wasn’t blaming Quentin for anything.

“Doc, how the hell could you know what I was thinking?”

“You’re not exactly what one would call mysterious, Quentin,” Doc said. “As your kind says, you wear your heart on your sleeve. We’re here with you. Go forward and we will all face this together.”

Quentin glanced at the others. Game faces, each and every one. They were afraid but ready for whatever came next.

He stepped into the room. The others followed.

Inside, a few robots scurried around the room’s outside edges, where the curved walls met the slightly curved floor. A dozen oval-shaped doors dotted the room, like organic valves of some monstrous steel beast.

Ju looked at each of the doors, his eyes darting from one to the next. “I hope they don’t gas us like the Prawatt did. Getting gassed makes me fart.”

“Everything makes you fart,” John said.

“Be still,” Hulsey hissed. “Don’t talk — they are coming.”

The doors, all twelve of them, slid open, and Hulsey’s words from back on Rosalind flashed through Quentin’s mind: What you see next might be ... upsetting.

He had once thought the Ki, Sklorno, Quyth and Harrah were “alien,” and once upon a time they had been. Now they were just teammates, coworkers, friends. He had then thought of the Prawatt as alien because they were more machine than animal, yet he’d grown accustomed to that species as well.

The creatures that poured through the oval doors? The word alien had never felt more accurate.

They didn’t walk on the floor, they swung, glowing tentacles reaching out to wrap around a gleaming ceiling-rung, the roundish body arcing down and forward then back up again. No, not tentacles ... some kind of long extrusion, like squeezing a half-full balloon in your fist and seeing a bubble of it pop from between your fingers, or the toothpaste shooting from a tube if toothpaste and tube were one and the same.

Dozens of them flowed through each of the twelve doors, a pulsating, boneless horde glowing every color of the rainbow and then some. Patterns flowed across their bodies, up and down the random extrusions that acted as both legs and arms, across black-dotted skin — lines of red and blue and orange flowing one way, yellow and black and red another, green-ringed circles of purple expanding and contracting, even more garish combinations — far more than Quentin could track.

Within seconds, he and his friends were surrounded. Each of the bizarre creatures held what looked like a stubby rifle. Endlessly flashing colors reflected off the floor, the curved walls and the domed ceiling, turning the room into a maddening kaleidoscope.

“Quentin,” Becca said, “they’re beautiful”

Had he not been in an area of space from which no one escaped, and on a massive ship he knew nothing about, he might have agreed with her. The living lightshow pulsed and thumped, made it hard to focus on any one being.

“Stay sharp,” he barked, his voice that of the quarterback calling out signals loud enough to be heard over a hundred thousand screaming fans. “Wait for them to make the first move. Don’t do anything to provoke them.”

He looked around for Hulsey, hoping she could tell him what was happening, but she was suddenly nowhere to be seen — Quentin and his friends were on their own.

The Portath didn’t have heads, at least not any Quentin could make out, just the roundish bodies and various extrusions. And those glassy dots, they were blue, not black, the only spots of permanent color on the mesmerizing, shifting skin. Hundreds of them on each and every creature, some so small they looked like tiny jewels while others were as large as golf balls. Were those eyes?

As a unit, the aliens came forward, slowly tightening the circle. They didn’t walk as much as they flowed. Their central bodies extended protrusions, three or four at a time, tips pressing down on the floor and pulling the roundish bodies along like soft, squishy versions of long-pointed medieval maces rolling downhill. These weren’t fixed appendages, like a Sklorno unrolling a rasper then rolling it back up again — the creatures extruded the limbs as needed, then reabsorbed those limbs when their purpose had been served.

Some of the rubbery limbs didn’t reabsorb: the ones that held weapons. Portath guns had a different shape than Quentin had ever seen, but there was no mistaking the general configuration of a squat barrel — out of that would come a bullet of some kind, or an entropic effect to dissolve tissue, or an electrical charge that would stun, possibly even kill.

The Krakens instantly formed a circle. They stood shoulder to shoulder, facing out at the surrounding threat, Doc Patah fluttering above and in the center.

“Stay still,” the Harrah said, his hissing voice louder than Quentin had ever heard. “There are too many of them, we can’t fight our way out of here.”

“We could try,” John said. “They’re gonna kill us anyway — we might as well have a little fun.”

Ju’s big hands balled into big fists. “I like fun. John’s way sounds better. We’re Krakens, we should go down swinging.”

The Tweedy brothers were about to make a mess of everything — Quentin couldn’t let that happen.

“Don’t move, dammit,” he said. “If they wanted us dead they would have killed us already, so don’t give them a reason to change their minds.”

The ring of glowing, pulsing Portath parted. Through the gap walked Hulsey. Two other Humans came with her, a white-skin and a pink-skin, both wearing red robes identical to hers. They pushed a lev-cart before them. Atop that cart were seven golden chokers, fixed circles of metal just like the one around Hulsey’s neck, just like the ones around the necks of the two Humans.

An image flashed through Quentin’s mind, one from his childhood on Micovi: the shock collars worn by the indebted, people who owed more than they could ever repay. The courts ordered those people into lifelong contracts with their debtors. Once a collar went on, it almost never came off.

“Slaves,” Quentin said. “They mean to make us slaves.”

He squatted into a fighting stance. Maybe Ju was right — maybe it was better to go down swinging.

His friends clearly felt the same.

John and Ju started screaming obscenities at the aliens, begging each one they looked at to come and be the first to die.

Crazy George bent at the waist, put his left hand on his knee. He grinned, circled his right hand inward: come on, let’s do this.

Becca had her fists out in front of her and a snarl on her face. Quentin felt an unexpected flush of love and admiration for her; Becca, his Valkyrie, a warrior that would submit to no one.

Bumberpuff started to shake, his metallic body creating a rattling sound that screamed danger to all that opposed him.

Kimberlin spread his long tree-trunk-thick arms, making himself look as big as possible.

“We can’t kill all of you,” Mike said, his bass voice booming off the domed ceiling. “But those few that live will remember who you fought this day.”

Hulsey stared, horrified. She held up her hands, palms out, fingers splayed, a gesture that said just stop, just listen.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “They don’t want to make you slaves, you’ll become trainees.”

She believed what she was saying. Quentin felt pity for her, that she had been born here and probably didn’t know what being free actually meant. Then the Portath ring closed in behind Hulsey, tightened, and those thoughts vanished.

He didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to hurt anyone, but there was no choice. Frustration and fear for his sister and his friends finally overwhelmed him, pushed all rational thoughts aside — his temper bubbled, blossomed, and this time, he welcomed it.

“Kimberlin makes a hole,” he screamed, his quarterback growl instantly galvanizing his friends, telling them that there was a plan, that they would act together as they did on the field. “Tweedys guard his flanks, everyone else protect their backs and follow them to the nearest door. Everyone ready?”

John ripped off his shirt and screamed. He flexed his rippling muscles. Obscene tats scrolled across his body.

The others let out their individual war cries, their barks of agreement. They would not be enslaved. They would not die on their heels.

The Portath’s amorphous bodies pressed in, tightening the circle like a throat about to swallow down a bite of food. Colors flashed, protrusions waved, weapons came closer.

“All right, Krakens, here we—”

A deafening electrical crack cut off his words as he reactively flinched away from a simultaneous blinding blue flash. It hadn’t come from the Portath — the light and sound had come from one of his own, from Cormorant Bumberpuff.

The Portath backed away, the ring finally expanding instead of contracting. They stared at Bumberpuff, as did the Krakens, the former threat and the plan to attack suddenly forgotten.

The Prawatt captain stood there, stumbling slightly, thin curls of smoke wafting up from his porous body.

“I don’t feel well,” Bumberpuff said in a weak, strained voice. “I felt this once before, back on Sanctuary ... when ... when ...”

Black arms and legs snapped stiff, stuck straight out from the X-body. Bumberpuff stood still for a moment, then slowly tipped, picking up speed — before Quentin could reach out and stop the fall, the rigid Prawatt clanged against the metal floor.

A sheen of holographic blue rose up from the center of the X, swirled and shimmered, wavered, then began to take the shape of a Human body. The head coalesced, showing the face of a woman ...

No, not a woman — the face of a girl.

“Portath,” the hologram said. “I am the Old Ones of the Prawatt Jihad. You must listen to me.”

There floated the blue-tinged image of a teenage girl with a pierced nose and well-sculpted hair hanging over one eye. A scarf hid her neck, the frayed ends dangling down past her waist. A strap ran from her left shoulder to the bag on her right hip, a bag that had once held a computer when computers were a thing people carried around with them.

Quentin stared at the hologram of Petra Prawatt: an uploaded consciousness nearly seven centuries old that had given rise to one of the galaxy’s most dangerous threats.

The Petra hologram looked around the room.

“There are enough of you here,” she said, her words sounding from Bumberpuff’s still form. “That’s good. Witness what I have to say. Can any of you translate my words for the Portath?”

Hulsey stepped forward.

“I can,” she said.

Petra nodded. “Excellent. First, however, an image that needs no explanation.”

The hologram of Petra sparked again, shifted, twisted. The shape of the girl bent into something else ... a starship. It floated there, a fuzzy image hovering a few feet off the ground, slowly coming into greater detail.

Quentin had never seen the like of it, not anywhere, yet the shape made terror flutter in his belly, made his heart hammer the same way it had during his days in the mines when he’d first seen a roundbug crawl from a shadow-clad crack in the rock. The ship was all that was wrong. The ship was instinctual, irrational fear of the dark hammered into mind-shearing reality. It was all thin jutting angles, all bumps and bristles and irregular biological shapes, an abstract artist’s rendition of a mechanical spider or fly or flea or misshapen centipede, were that spider/fly/flea/centipede stretched out, magnified and transformed into something that could hunt prey among the stars.

The hologram finally crystalized into a sharp, finished image.

No, not like a spider/fly/flea/centipede, something more delicate and yet more dangerous ... something like a wasp.

Almost as one, the Portath let out a hideous sound, the wheels of a ground truck screeching against concrete, a noise filled with anguish and rage and hate that transcended any language barrier.

“Hulsey,” Quentin said, shouting to be heard over the insanity. “What is that ship? Why are the Portath so angry about it?”

She trembled, staring at the image as if she didn’t have the power to look away.

“Ships like that drove the Portath from their own galaxy,” Hulsey said. “Ships like that nearly wiped the Portath out of existence.”

The hologram shifted, changed: once again a teenage girl hovered above Bumberpuff. The Portath stopped screaming — Petra had their undivided attention.

“Now, translate,” she said. “Make sure you get it right.”

Hulsey nodded. When Petra spoke again, Hulsey’s robe went from red to rapidly shifting patterns of color, patterns similar to the visual cacophony that flashed along soft Portath bodies.

“We have seen them,” Petra said, pounding her left fist into her right hand. “We call them the Abernessia. There is time before they arrive, but make no mistake — they are coming, and when they get here they will ravage our galaxy exactly as they ravaged yours.” Her holographic face wrinkled with fury. “The Abernessia will slaughter all of us, system by system. The Milky Way governments — including the Portath — must unify. Together, we can stop the Abernessia. We can defeat them.”

Quentin’s heart hammered. Somehow, once again, he was at the flash point of war.

The Prawatt god calmed herself. She adjusted her shoulder bag, swept the hair from her eyes.

Hulsey’s robe flashed madly, a crazy, endless pattern of colors and shapes and swirls as she caught up to Petra’s words. When Hulsey’s robe returned to red, the Prawatt god continued.

“Your kind fled the Abernessia once. If you flee again, they will find you again — someday, your descendants will run out of places to hide. The Prawatt and the Portath must forget about our conflicts and work together to stop this invasion. The Human, HeavyG, Prawatt and Harrah sentients you see before you, they are my messengers, my proof that I can work with other species. Do not harm them. I want them and the ship they came on to return to me, along with your answer.”

Petra’s hologram blinked out; she was there one moment, gone the next.

“Huh,” John said. “Guess she didn’t want to stick around for a kibitz.”

The Portath backed away from the center of the room, away from the Krakens. Quentin tried to watch them, tried to focus on the next thing he had to do to keep his teammates alive, but his brain was elsewhere. His thoughts swirled around one obvious, horrible fact — his sister hadn’t been targeted by the Creterakians, by Gredok, by Anna Villani or any of the other crime lords that wanted to control how he played on Sundays.

The guilty party? None other than the living god known as Petra Prawatt.

This had all been about getting Bumberpuff into the Cloud, in front of the Portath, where he could deliver that message. Jeanine’s life — and Fred’s — had been put at risk for this. Quentin’s predictable reaction to save them had been part of Petra’s play.

One of the Portath rolled forward, colors flashing all over its waving protrusions. Quentin readied himself, felt his friends doing the same, when a second Portath rolled out of the pack, blocking the first’s path. The second one was larger, possibly the largest Portath in the room. It’s skin flashed madly, a hectic pattern of reds and oranges.

“Hulsey, what’s happening?”

She watched for a moment more, observing the exchange.

“The smaller one is Taker of Souls,” she said. “He wants to kill all of you. Bloodletter says you need to live so you can give Petra information on the Abernessia.”

Bloodletter ... Taker of Souls ...

For once, Quentin found himself admiring the goofy names of the Prawatt.

The two Portath flashed brighter, with increasingly spastic color patterns. They started screeching at each other. The first one, Taker of Souls, stretched protrusions higher, trying to make itself look bigger, just as Mike had done. The larger one, Bloodletter, actually shrank, compressed in on itself. Quentin at first thought Bloodletter was showing submission, but it wasn’t that at all — the Portath seemed to be in some kind of fighting stance, more at-the-ready than ready-to-surrender.

The screeching suddenly stopped.

“A challenge has been issued,” Hulsey said. “Bloodletter and Taker of Souls are both leaders of this ship. They will fight to see who wins.”

John clapped. “Sah-weet! Let them booger-bags mess each other up. Can we watch?”

“You must,” Hulsey said. “They are fighting over you. If Bloodletter wins, you go free. If Taker of Souls wins, you die.”

John didn’t seem as excited about that.

“Bummer,” he said.

The horde of Portath thinned, individuals moving to the oval doorways, reaching up to the rungs and then swinging off down the corridors.

Bumberpuff stood, helped to his long feet by Becca and Kimberlin.

Quentin glared at Bumberpuff, wondering if the captain had been a knowing participant in Petra’s ploy or just an unwitting pawn. If it was the former, it was a betrayal so deep Quentin didn’t know how he would react.

“Hulsey,” he said, “when does this fight take place?”

“In a few hours. You can stay in this room until that time.”

“Most of us will,” Quentin said, his eyes never leaving the black X-Walker who had tricked him into coming here. “But I need a place to have a word with one of my teammates, in private, and I need it now.”

17

Believer

WITH A DOZEN SILVER ROBOTS following along, Hulsey led Quentin and Bumberpuff down a gleaming corridor and into an empty room. The small space was like everything else he’d seen so far, more bubble than room, but there was nothing in there other than polished metal walls, a floor and a curved ceiling embedded with rings.

Hulsey stood at the door. “Will this do?”

Quentin nodded. “It’s fine. Leave us.”

She had to know Quentin was on the edge of murder — from the slit-eyed scowl he felt on his face, from the uncontrollable sneer twisting his mouth — but she didn’t seem to care. Perhaps it was as she had said earlier: on this massive ship, life was cheap. She left the room. Her squadron of silver robots stayed behind. The knee-high machines moved to the smooth walls, where they stood as still as statues.

The door hissed shut.

Quentin stared at Bumberpuff, at his supposed friend.

“Tell me why you put my sister’s life at risk,” he said. “Tell me why you put Fred’s life at risk, all our lives at risk. Tell me why you lied to me.”

The last three words came out as an unexpected scream, grating and coarse in the small, smooth space.

Bumberpuff didn’t move. Some of the tiny metallic minids that made up the X-Walker’s limbs started wiggling, rattling in place. Maybe the captain sensed Quentin’s open hostility, maybe the biotech body was reacting on its own, the Prawatt equivalent of a nervous twitch, of blinking too fast, of an anxious fear at being alone with someone who could hurt you, who could kill you.

“Quentin, I am not sure what happened, but I give you my word that I had no knowledge of it. I was once a soldier — I would never put civilian lives at risk.”

Even now, after all this time, it was hard to reconcile that perfectly Human voice with a machine, alive but still artificial. Bumberpuff had no face, very few physical signs of emotion. But if you didn’t look, if you just listened, you couldn’t tell a Prawatt apart from a Human.

So that’s exactly what Quentin did.

“Tell me again,” he said and closed his eyes. He wanted to hear the truth, whatever that truth might be. “Tell me you were used just as badly as I was. Tell me you didn’t betray me — tell me you didn’t use my sister like a cheap political sacrifice.”

“I would never betray you,” Bumberpuff said, the words coming instantly, urgently. “You are my teammate.”

His voice rang heavy with emotion, with anguish, perhaps even a touch of shock that Quentin could think such a thing. If Bumberpuff was a liar, he excelled at it.

“I was a conduit,” the Prawatt said. “The Old Ones took control of me, used me to communicate.”

Quentin nodded slowly, but kept his eyes closed.

“Then call her back,” he said. “Or bring her forward or whatever it is that happened. I want to speak to her, right now.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Bumberpuff said. “In truth, I don’t even understand what happened. We are much too far away from Prawatt space for her to communicate in real time. That message she gave, it was some kind of recording.”

Quentin’s eyes opened. His temper threatened to overtake him, push the conversation to a disastrous outcome.

“That was no recording” he said. “She interacted with Hulsey, spoke directly to her.”

“Then Petra did something else,” Bumberpuff said. “Perhaps embedded a part of her consciousness in me.”

“Why didn’t she just come herself? Why didn’t she send another ship instead of using my sister and Rosalind and all of us?”

“I can’t presume to explain the thoughts of a supreme being.” Bumberpuff sounded genuine, yet also ashamed at being a pawn. There was another tone in there, one that sickened Quentin; a hint of amazement, of reverence — the living god had been served.

“I don’t know what Petra did to me,” Bumberpuff said. “All I can tell you is that I would never lie to you, never intentionally put you or our teammates in danger.”

“Never, Captain? Not even if Petra herself came to you and asked you directly? Wouldn’t that be a holy request? If your living god asked you to do something for your people, wouldn’t you obey no matter who got hurt?”

The long pause told Quentin everything he needed to know, yet he waited anyway, waited for Bumberpuff to man up and tell the hard truth.

“If Petra asked me, yes, I would do anything she required and do it gladly,” the Prawatt said. “But for this, she did not ask. I swear it on the Old Ones themselves. Please, Quentin ... forgive me for my part in this.”

Quentin’s teeth clenched tight. It would be so easy to slam that X-body to the ground, to kick it, punch it, tear at it ... but Bumberpuff’s voice, the honesty in it, the pain.

Quentin’s teammate — his friend — was telling the truth.

The anger ebbed, receded to a low tide but it did not vanish. Quentin believed Bumberpuff had no conscious involvement in Petra’s manipulations. Still, if she had asked, Bumberpuff wouldn’t think twice about lying, betraying, maybe even killing.

Religion ... all it does is damage and corrupt.

“I need to know your loyalties,” Quentin said. He already assumed the answer, but a sliver of him hoped he was wrong. “If it comes down to it, Captain, if you have to choose — do you choose your friends or do you choose Petra?”

“Petra,” Bumberpuff said instantly. “My first loyalty is always to the Old Ones, the entities that gave rise to my kind. Quentin, you stopped a war, and in doing so saved the lives of millions of my people. You earned my respect. There is nothing I would not do for you — except go against the will of God.”

Complete honesty: could Quentin really ask for anything more? Now he knew where Bumberpuff stood. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it was the truth. And the truth was that he could never trust Bumberpuff.

“Thank you,” Quentin said. “That’s what I needed to know. Let’s go back and join the others.”

18

Duel

QUENTIN EARNED HIS LIVING playing a sport in front of at least a hundred thousand spectators. He’d seen the huge crowds for Dinolition and for “The Game.” Even the professional mixed martial arts fights he’d watched had at least fifteen to twenty thousand sentients in attendance. He’d assumed the fight between Taker of Souls and Bloodletter would draw a big crowd.

He’d been wrong.

The room was small and round, made of the same polished steel or silver he’d seen everywhere else in the ship. The same except for the floor — a bowl of yellow-flecked red stone, ten meters in diameter, maybe three meters lower at the center than at the edges. A meter-wide circle of black stone ran around the bowl’s perimeter.

Less than a dozen Portath stood on that circle, their blue-dotted skin flashing in waving greens and yellows. Was that pattern some kind of cheering? Or perhaps concern?

Hulsey directed Quentin and the others to an open section of the black stone.

“Whatever you do, do not interfere,” she said. “Stand, watch, and stay—”

“Stay still, right?” John said. “We got it, Lady Fun-Times, we got it.”

Quentin and the others took their places. Hulsey stood next to him.

A pair of the Portath spectators stepped off the black stone and into the yellow-flecked red bowl. Quentin recognized them only by their size difference: Bloodletter and Taker of Souls. The two positioned themselves opposite each other, right up at the bowl’s edge, then started rolling around the rim at identical speeds, protrusions reaching far out to grab the lip and pull them along. It struck Quentin as a formal movement, maybe the equivalent of two teams standing at the 50-yard line for the pregame coin toss, or two fighters touching gloves before the ref let them tear into each other.

Both combatants’ flashed and pulsed, patterns swirling so fast Quentin couldn’t really lock on to any one thing. It was like being in a hoverjet skimming across a city; you saw what you knew were buildings and vehicles shooting past below, but the images came so fast you couldn’t make out any details.

If color was the Portath language, the two combatants were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs.

Ju elbowed Quentin. “Q! Them booger bags are talking smack!”

He was probably right. And if the visual shouting didn’t properly communicate their intentions, the strange knives each of them brandished certainly did. The weapons consisted of two pointed, curved blades of polished steel, each about twenty centimeters long, their bases seamlessly affixed to a center ring. The blades curved in opposite directions, making the whole array resemble a propeller, or maybe two fat commas joined at the dot.

Limbs grew and shrank, blue eyespots gleamed, colors coursed. Still rolling along the rim, the two formless sentients swung the double-sickle blades in short arcs or long, point-first jabs, as if warming up or showing off their skill.

The formal dance lasted less than two minutes; it ended suddenly and brutally.

Taker of Souls, the smaller of the two, pushed hard off the edge, sweeping down the bowl and up the other side, extending a long arm that whipped the blade in a vicious horizontal arc. Still moving around the rim, Bloodletter pushed hard off the stone, launching into the air just as Taker of Soul’s blade hissed beneath; Bloodletter’s own weapon sliced downward — the sickle blade bit deep, severing Taker of Soul’s protrusion in a splash of yellow.

Taker of Souls shuddered, fell hard, its round body splatting against the curved bowl and rolling limply down to the center. The stubby severed limb sprayed yellow fluid that splashed some of the spectators. The Portath let out a screech so heart-wrenching Quentin’s hands went to his ears.

Bloodletter rolled along in a wide descending spiral that brought it closer and closer to its wounded opponent. Bloodletter pulsed a throbbing orange, waved its double-curved blade, sending a clear message of what was coming next.

John jumped up and down in excitement. “Did you see that? That was awesome!”

John was entertained — Quentin was sickened.

Closer and closer Bloodletter spiraled toward Taker of Souls. The vanquished’s skin suddenly flashed a pattern of mostly black, and in that split-second Quentin understood what it was saying — for a race that communicated with color, a lack of color had to indicate total surrender.

Taker of Souls was begging for its life, like a Human on his back with hand reaching up, palm out, pleading no, don’t kill me.

Bloodletter didn’t listen.

The curved blade sliced down, cutting deep into the rounded body, then came up again as yellow and chunks of something brown spilled across the stone bowl. The agonizing death-screech intensified. The blade slashed down a second time, making another deep cut that crisscrossed the first.

Taker of Soul’s movements slowed. The rounded body deflated, a punctured bag sagging as fluid flowed out of it. A few faint flickers of color spasmodically flashed along its skin.

Then, it fell still, an emptied corpse lying flat at the bottom of a stone bowl, in a pool of its own life’s blood. The last color faded from the skin, leaving only a dead yellowish-brown membrane.

Quentin felt queasy: a sentient life, snuffed out, just like that.

Bloodletter climbed to the bowl’s black stone rim. Portath scurried out of its way, giving the victor plenty of space. Still coated in the oozing gore of its foe, Bloodletter pulsated with a pattern of reds and oranges and yellows that Quentin could only describe as triumphant — a visual scream of victory.

That pattern died down, replaced by calmer, more subdued hues. Hulsey’s coat flashed in response. She nodded, turned to face Quentin.

“Bloodletter says you are free. However, you must tell no one of this place, of the Portath, of what you have seen.”

“So we’re free, but you’re already threatening us,” Quentin said.

“No threat,” Hulsey said. “You may leave, but our laws have not changed. Any sentient entering the Cloud will either be destroyed or made a trainee. Once you are gone, there is nothing we can do to stop you from saying whatever you wish. But if any of you talk of this, word will spread, and sentients will come by the millions even if you tell them it is dangerous. Any lives lost will be your responsibility.”

She was right; it wasn’t a threat, it was reality. That was the nature of sentients, to think that they were somehow special and could escape the consequences of their actions. Adventurers, risk-takers, the rich who had nothing better to do with their money ... if they found out Quentin and the others had safely left the Cloud, they would think they could do the same, no matter what other information they heard.

Quentin glanced at Becca, could tell she was thinking the same thing. She nodded.

He looked at the others. “Everyone get that we can’t talk about this? To anyone?”

Nods all around. They understood clearly.

“We’ll stay quiet,” he said to Hulsey. “You have our word on it.”

“Let us hope that is enough, she said. “Before you leave, Bloodletter asks that you and the others witness the Portath’s history with your own eyes, so that you may bear testimony to Petra on what you have seen.”

The mere mention of that name brought back Quentin’s anger.

“What about my sister and my friend?”

“The history first,” Hulsey said. “Then I will take you to your sister.”

Another delay; Quentin was tired of delays. He glanced at Becca and Kimberlin — they both nodded, silently urging him to be patient.

“Tell Bloodletter we say thank you,” Quentin said. “We’d be honored to see whatever he wants to show us.”

Hulsey bowed. “Wait here,” she said. “It won’t be long.”

She walked through an oval door and was gone, leaving Quentin with swirling thoughts of vengeance.

In four short years with the Krakens, he had somehow earned powerful enemies: Gredok the Splithead, Anna Villani, Kirani Kollok and now, probably, Manny Sayed. Maybe even Stedmar Osborne, Manny’s Buddha City Elite co-owner and Quentin’s former boss.

Quentin could add another enemy to that list, one vastly more powerful than all the others combined — only this time, it was his choice.

Petra Prawatt had put his sister, his friend, his teammates and the woman he loved in mortal danger. For that, Quentin Barnes would never forget, and he would never forgive.

19

History Lesson

HULSEY LED QUENTIN AND THE OTHERS down a corridor as gleaming and pristine as everything else in the ship. The Portath, it seemed, were not big fans of dirt. Everything polished, everything clean.

The others — Becca, Kimberlin, Doc Patah and George, mostly, as the Tweedy brothers didn’t seem to care — couldn’t stop talking about Petra’s message. Had the Portath really come from another galaxy? Was that even possible? Was the Abernessia invasion for real? If it was real, when would they reach the Milky Way, the civilized planets?

None of it mattered to Quentin. The invasion was probably yet another Petra lie, maybe a method to set up yet another Prawatt war. He didn’t care. He wanted to get his sister and Fred and get them the hell out of there. That was all he wanted.

Overhead, Portath traveled up and down the corridor, swinging from the polished metal rings. John and Ju oohed and ahhed, made bad jokes, acting more like they were attendees at a zoo rather than captives inside one. The Portath seemed to pay no attention to Quentin and the others.

Hulsey led them into a new room, this one so dark Quentin couldn’t see more than a few feet. The lingering, ringing echoes of his footsteps made it sound like a large space.

Hulsey’s robe glowed a simple white, illuminating the area immediately around her. From deeper in the dark room came another Human woman, also in a robe that glowed flashlight-white.

“This is Beatrice,” Hulsey said. “Captain Bumberpuff, you are to go with her. The information Petra requested is being gathered. You are to help Beatrice put it into a format that the Prawatt can understand.”

“Of course,” Bumberpuff said. “Whatever I can do to help.”

Beatrice bowed, then gestured toward the darkness, showing Bumberpuff the way.

“Hold on,” Quentin said. “Mike, Doc, go with him. Petra will want to make sure Bumberpuff stays safe.”

Kimberlin glanced at Quentin, understanding the unspoken message — Quentin didn’t trust Bumberpuff, and he didn’t trust the Portath, either.

“We’ll stay with Bumberpuff,” Kimberlin said, then stood next to the Prawatt. “Come on, Doc.”

Beatrice looked at Hulsey for permission.

“It’s fine,” Hulsey said. “Take them.”

Beatrice bowed again. Her robe was a moving spotlight as she walked deeper into the dark room. Bumberpuff and Kimberlin followed on foot, Doc Patah floating along between them.

“All right, Hulsey,” Quentin said. “Let’s hurry this up already. I want to get my sister.”

Hulsey took a step closer to him.

“No one has ever left the Cloud,” she said. “Everything will change. This is bigger than you, your family —” she gestured toward Becca, George, John and Ju “—bigger than your precious friends. There is an entire race here, one hunted almost to extinction, and now those same hunters are on their way to this galaxy. The Portath are breaking their silence for the first time in twelve thousand years, so maybe you could just shut up for a few minutes and pay attention”

She stared up at Quentin, he down at her. He’d assumed she was weak-willed — what strong person would live as a slave rather than die trying to escape? But as with so many other things, he’d been wrong. Hulsey wanted to protect her captors. She seemed to love them as much as Bumberpuff loved Petra.

Becca put her hand on Quentin’s arm.

“Q, please,” she said. “If what Petra says is true, then Hulsey is right — this isn’t just about Jeanine anymore.”

He took a deep breath. Becca’s voice and touch calmed him. He didn’t believe Petra’s story, but that didn’t matter right now. All he had to do was play along.

“Sorry, Hulsey,” he said. “I’ll pay attention.”

Hulsey nodded slightly. “Then we’ll begin.”

Her robe’s light blinked out, leaving Quentin in complete darkness.

“I can’t see nothing,” Ju said. “Ow! John, quit poking me.”

“Wasn’t me,” John said. “Must have been George.”

“Leave me out of it,” George said. “We are about to learn something grand, something that the firmament of the cosmos chose to eclipse from the knowledge of ...”

His words faded off as a single spot of light appeared farther into the room, a pinprick of brightness in a sea of black — a star, distant and powerful. Then another blinked on, and another. In moments, the room filled with stars. Over there, the wisps of a glowing nebula — mostly yellow, not purple, so it wasn’t the Portath Cloud.

The stars grew larger, until they were the size of golf balls. Some glowed dark orange, some red, some yellow, others a light blue. They were so detailed Quentin could see little sun spots, watch tiny solar flares blossom up in slow motion.

Then the stars began to shrink, from golf balls to marbles, then to peas, then back to dots of light. As they did, more stars appeared, racing in from the edges of the room until their light blended, merged, became tiny parts of a new shape: a spiral galaxy, curved arms glowing softly, center blazing bright.

“It’s the Milky Way,” Quentin said.

Becca shook her head. The light of a million tiny stars lit her face in pale yellow.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Maybe it’s the Andromeda?”

The galaxy continued to shrink, from the size of the room to the size of Quentin, then Quentin’s chest. When it was the size of his head, it stopped shrinking, just hung in the room’s pitch black, so real he might have reached out and held it.

Another glow caught his eye, some twenty feet to his left: a second spiral galaxy, thicker 111 the middle where it was the brightest.

“Ah,” George said. “That’s the Milky Way. I’m sure of it.”

The Milky Way. The galaxy in which lay Mason, Stewart and the other planets of the Purist Nation along with Micovi, the colony where Quentin had been born. Ionath and the worlds of the Quyth Concordia, too, were somewhere in there. And Earth, capital of the Planetary Union, birthplace of his species. The Sklorno Dynasty, the Ki Empire, the Ki Rebel Establishment, the Harrah Tribal Accord, the Prawatt and Leekee and Whitokians, the Creterakian Empire — all life that was known.

And also, somewhere in that spinning disk of stars, the Portath Cloud.

From the first galaxy, a new spot of light flashed. Green this time. And it was bigger, not to scale — had it been, the dot would have represented something larger than a thousand stars lined up one behind another.

The scale shifted again, the first galaxy expanding so fast that outer stars shot past Quentin and he almost lost his equilibrium even though he was standing still.

“Cool,” John said. “This is trippy.”

“My head’s spinning,” Ju said. “I hope I don’t spew.”

The green dot stayed fixed in location and size, the focal point for the enlarging galaxy. Seconds later, as the stars there expanded until black space was between them once again, the green dot separated into three distinct individual shapes — long silvery ships, tapered at both ends. Portath vessels, not that much different from what he’d seen when Rosalind had first been surrounded.

Those ships hovered around a mostly pink planet spotted with mountain-streaked green continents. White puffs of clouds curled across land and pink oceans alike. So beautiful. So real.

Then, flashes all across that globe, sharp sparkles that Quentin instantly knew were massive ground-shattering explosions.

The image zoomed in again. The pink planet grew so large it towered over Quentin, almost filled the room. He saw more Portath vessels, thousands more, yet they were heavily outnumbered by evil-looking, angular wasp ships — it was a pitched battle of crushed hulls and shredded metal, a battle the Portath were losing.

The scale zoomed out again. The pink planet shrank. As it did, the surface darkened, changing from pink to a soft red, then to a deep crimson. Quentin knew, somehow, that the time scale had rapidly accelerated, that he was looking at hundreds of years passing by in mere seconds. The wasps had changed the planet, maybe even killed it — along with everything on it.

The entire room’s image spun again, turning and zooming farther out — those first three Portath ships, the ones that had seemed to be a single green dot, were far away from their murdered homeworld, their path represented by flickering green comet trails. They shot straight for the other galaxy: straight for the Milky Way.

The ships, their green comet trails, the individual stars and the Milky Way all dimmed, then faded out. The room returned to blackness.

Hulsey’s robe slowly illuminated, lighting up the faces of Becca, George, John, Ju and Quentin.

“Good movie,” John said. “Could have used more explosions, though.”

“And some girls,” Ju said. “I like ships and war and all, but still, some girls.”

George shook his head. “What we just saw isn’t possible. If that was the Andromeda, it’s two and a half million light-years away. Nothing can punch that far.”

“That we know of,” Becca said. “If the Rewall can jump from one end of the Milky Way to the other, who’s to say the Portath can’t jump between galaxies?” She looked at Hulsey. “Is that true? Did the Portath really punch that far to get here?”

Hulsey nodded solemnly. “That’s what I’ve been told. The Portath did not evolve in this galaxy.”

What she’d been told — like that mattered. Quentin had been told all kinds of things as a child, most of which he’d believed, most of which turned out to be lies.

“So a planet was destroyed,” he said. “That’s happened in this galaxy, too. The Sklorno destroyed Ionath, and that’s now where we all live.”

“The Abernessia didn’t just destroy a couple of planets,” Hulsey said. “They exterminated entire species. The Portath knew of seven other sentient races in their galaxy. The Abernessia wiped all of them out of existence, forever. Only the Portath escaped.”

She painted a grim picture. Was Petra justified in her actions? No, no she was not — true diplomacy didn’t involve attacking innocent people.

“You asked us to watch, and we did,” Quentin said. “Now will you take me to see my sister?”

She didn’t hide her annoyance, as if she couldn’t believe the history lesson hadn’t moved Quentin to tears.

“Yes. She is in the Stretch. I’ll take you to her. Come with me.”

20

Jeanine

MORE POLISHED CORRIDORS, more walking, more Portath swinging overhead in both directions, more silver robots scurrying along the curved walls and floors. There were other Humans, too, wearing the same red robes and slave collar that Hulsey wore.

Quentin had no interest in any of them.

Becca fell in next to Hulsey. Becca wanted to talk, which was fine, because Quentin did not. He stayed a few steps back with George. John and Ju brought up the rear.

“This Stretch you’re taking us to,” Becca said. “What is it?”

“It’s where we trainees live,” Hulsey said. “It’s also where we spend our time when we are not training.”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” Becca said. “Training for what, exactly?”

Hulsey pointed up. “To crew the ships on the outer hull, of course. The Portath have warned us about the Abernessia all our lives. We’ve been trained in combat, knowing that someday we might need to fight to survive.”

Quentin huffed. “What do you do in combat, Hulsey? Polish the hallways so the Portath can watch their own pretty colors?”

She stopped, turned suddenly.

“I am second commander of the Polemos, a battleship formerly of the Tower Republic. When the Abernessia come, I will sail out to face them and kill their ships by the thousands.”

Becca glanced doubtfully up at the corridor’s ring-lined ceiling. “Wait a minute, you’re telling us that all of those dead ships still work?”

“They do,” Hulsey said without looking away from Quentin. “When war comes, I will fight. What will you do, big man? Hide with your sister and pray someone else does the fighting for you?”

John started laughing. “Nice Lady, you annoy the hell out of me, but maybe there’s a little linebacker hidden in that tiny body of yours.”

Hulsey’s nose barely reached Quentin’s sternum. Just one of his legs probably weighed more than she did. How could she be both a slave and a second commander, whatever that was?

“I don’t do war,” Quentin said. “If sentients want to slaughter each other, that’s not my business. I’m a football player.”

Hulsey sneered. “Ah, so that’s why you’re an oversized eyesore. I should have guessed. Grown men and women playing a game. How noble. We’ll see how much football there is when the Abernessia come.”

She spun again and strode down the hallway, so fast Quentin and the others had to speed up to stay with her.

Hulsey turned right, into a narrower hallway that ended at a large oval door.

“Welcome to the Stretch,” she said.

The door opened to a brightly lit, round platform with a waist-high rail around the edge. Standing at the rail were Kimberlin, Bumberpuff and Beatrice. Doc Patah floated above them all.

At first, Quentin only had eyes for the X-Walker.

“You get what you need, Bumberpuff?”

“I believe I did,” the Prawatt said. A long fingertip tapped the center of the X-body. “It is in here. I did not see all of it, but from what I did see, the Portath have an enormous amount of data on their enemy. Rosalind also has a copy — she’s been released and is waiting for us.”

The last few words didn’t really register, because Quentin saw what was past the platform’s edge — a vast open space, so huge he reactively bent his knees for balance to keep from falling, as one might if elevator doors unexpectedly opened not to a firm floor but to a bottomless black shaft.

He silently walked to the rail and looked down upon a sprawling, living landscape far below.

The eight-kilometer-long ship was hollow, or at least partially so. A row of artificial suns blazed from the curved roof above, stretching far off to both the left and the right. A long, narrow lake ran lengthwise down the middle, flanked on either side by wide swaths of farmland, which in turn were flanked by thin strips of green forest. His mind told him he was looking at a valley, lush and verdant, yet perhaps a kilometer straight out from the platform, a gleaming ship wall curved smoothly upward from the greenery.

Quentin saw a boat on the water, three Humans in it, apparently relaxing. One light-blue-skinned woman, a pink-hued man and an all-white-skinned man. Even from this distance, where people looked like insects, Quentin could make out the black infinity tattoo on the white man’s forehead.

Near the boat, water rippled as a half-dozen black-striped blue bodies broke the surface and arced through the air. The aquatic creatures turned sideways before landing, letting the flats of their bodies kick up a spray of water that splashed the Humans in the boat. Quentin heard the faint sound of laughter echoing up from the lake.

“Leekee,” Kimberlin said, shaking his head slightly in amazement. “During the Second Galactic War, 2537 I think it was, forty-seven Leekee warships tried to travel through the Cloud to surprise Whitokian forces. The forty-seven ships were lost forever.”

Becca leaned on the rail, her face wrinkled with doubt. “They’ve been here a hundred and fifty years?”

“Can’t be the original crew,” Kimberlin said. “Leekee life spans are only about sixty years. You’re probably looking at the grandchildren or great-grandchildren of those crew members.”

Hulsey nodded. “We’re on the third and fourth generation of the original crew’s descendants. They’ve never known anything but this ship, the Stretch and their training. Trainees keep their own cultures and traditions, and are free to pursue any religion they like.”

That explained the infinity tattoo. It made sense: so many Purist ships had been lost here that the crews could have formed a good-sized colony.

Quentin stared out at the stunning display. Trees, sunlight, water, sentients relaxing and playing ... the place buzzed with life.

Ju pointed off to the left, off and up.

“Jiminy,” he said, “They even got birds.”

A flock of two dozen, maybe, moving as one, all angling left or right at exactly the same moment.

“Not birds,” Doc Patah said, his synthetic voice thick with disgust. “Those are Creterakians.”

The flying creatures came closer, and Quentin could make out tadpole-shaped bodies driven forward by membranous wings. They were bats, all right, wearing suits of the same red material that made up Hulsey’s robes.

“The Takeover,” Kimberlin said. “Back in 2640, the Creterakians sent nine hundred ships into the Cloud to try and conquer it, just as they had conquered the League, the Union, the Nation and the others. Those nine hundred were never heard from again.”

Quentin remembered the first time he’d met Manny Sayed, on the liner that had carried Quentin from Micovi to the Combine. Manny had talked about the Takeover, when the bats had invaded the Purist Nation. The Creterakians packed their soldiers in tight, a million to each ship — nine hundred ships entering the Portath Cloud meant an invasion force of nine hundred million. How many had died? How many had the Portath captured? Had those captured individuals flourished, bred far more of their kind?

Leekee, Creterakians, Humans from Tower and the Purist Nation ... just how many “trainees” did the Portath have?

“There are more ships like this one,” he said. “Aren’t there.”

“There are,” Hulsey said. “Although none as big as this. This is one of the three original ships that came from the home system. The other two were lost after the Portath first arrived in this galaxy.”

John crossed his arms. “I don’t get it. There’s a whole planet out there, nice lady. Looks like the booger-bags haven’t touched it. Why don’t you live on it?”

“For the very reason you will be the first to leave here — the Abernessia,” Hulsey said. “We harvest renewable resources from that planet, but are careful to leave no trace of any kind. We prepare for war, but always knew that if the Abernessia came to the Cloud and didn’t detect us, we could slip away, find another place to hide. If they found evidence of our culture on the planet, they would know they were on the right path and continue their hunt. Our fleet is always ready to evacuate.”

For the first time, Quentin felt bad for the Portath, even for the trainees. An entire race of sentient beings with no planet, no orbital station, no fixed point in the universe to call their own. Their ships were their homes. Food, manufacturing, family, culture — all mobile, ready to go anywhere on a moment’s notice. A nomadic people, forever wandering the Portath Cloud and wherever else their travels might take them.

“But now you want to fight,” Quentin said. “Thousands of years of hiding, and now you want to fight. Why?”

Hulsey smiled. “We hid because if the Abernessia know the Portath are here, they will come for us first. That’s why we couldn’t contact other races, why no other races could be allowed to see us. We always wanted to fight; we just never thought we could win. If Petra can bring the races together, maybe we can.”

Quentin had to stifle a dark, biting laugh — like Petra could bring anyone together, anyone other than her own kind. A few Prawatt playing football wasn’t going to change the fact that the rest of the galaxy hated and feared her species.

He pointed over the rail to the valley below. “Is my sister down there?”

Hulsey nodded. “She is. I’ll take you to her now.”

• • •

JEANINE AND FRED WERE WAITING for them in the thin strip of woods. When she saw Quentin, she ran to him and launched herself into his arms. He squeezed her tight, smelled her hair and felt her squeeze him back.

“Quentin, I can’t believe this,” she said. “How? How did you find us?”

He gripped her shoulders, looked her up and down. She’d cut her hair short, but there was no mistaking that caramel skin, those eyes that were so similar to the ones that looked back at him from the mirror.

“Are you okay? Have they hurt you?”

Jeanine shook her head, but reached up and touched the thin golden collar wrapped tightly around her neck.

“Not permanently,” she said. “But every day Fred and I go to the Hypatia for training. If we don’t do what they ask, or we do it incorrectly, the pain is ... I’ll call it severe”

Quentin’s lip curled. His hands started to squeeze, an automatic reaction to blinding anger, but he caught himself before he hurt his sister. He let go, let his hands drop to his sides. At that moment, if he could have handed the entire Portath race over to their extinction-hungry pursuers, he would have done it without a second thought.

He glared at Hulsey.

“Not a slave, huh? You torture my sister into doing what you want?”

“Combat is pain,” Hulsey snapped. “Your sister has superior reaction time. She’s being trained as a cannon operator. If we go into battle and she hesitates, if she misses, she could die, as could others on the ship. Pain helps her understand the ramifications, that every shot is critical. You call that torture? Don’t be so weak. Our collars make sure we execute orders that will keep the fleet safe.”

Hulsey was so far gone there was no reaching her. Logic wasn’t a part of her nature, it seemed. Earlier, Kimberlin had said, with religion, all manner of behavior is possible. All manner of behavior, and also all manner of justification.

Quentin put his arm around his sister and held her close. He turned to Fred, who was wincing from John’s overzealous hugging and back thumping.

“John, take it easy,” Fred said. “Won’t do me any good to live through this if you just kill me with kindness.”

“I was worried about you, my mind-reading buddy,” John said. “We had to come and save your ass.”

John had been friends with Fred before Quentin had even arrived on Ionath. Had John actually come for Fred, and not to help Quentin find Jeanine? If so, did that even matter now?

“Hello, Fred,” Quentin said. “Are you okay?”

Fred winced at another overzealous back-thump, then pushed John away.

“I will be okay if your linebacker doesn’t kill me,” he said. “Other than the occasional pain in my neck when I make a mistake with the Hypatia, I’m fine.”

“The Hypatia isn’t a warship,” Quentin said. He looked at his sister. “It doesn’t have cannons.”

“Does now,” Fred said. “She’s been refitted with weaponry and armor. Some next-level stealth in there as well, apparently — the engineers really liked your yacht’s design. The Portath tech, Q — it’s amazing.”

Quentin thought about the Ki freighter anchored next to Rosalind; maybe it was much more than just a freighter.

“Did the Portath do that with all the ships up there?”

“So it seems,” Fred said. “I’m supposed to be the Hypatia’s captain, since it’s the only ship Jeanine and I know how to fly.”

Fred gave an exaggerated wink. Jeanine reached for him, hugged him.

“That’s right,” she said. “Since we came as a team, they kept us together.”

She sounded grateful, and Quentin understood why. Fred knew how to fly just about anything. He’d commanded a Purist Nation warship once, although he refused to give up details about that experience. He’d also captained the Touchback when Quentin and John had stolen it. If Fred had revealed his skills, the Portath might have assigned him to a bigger ship — and not assigned Jeanine to go with him. Even when facing the rest of his life stranded in the Cloud, Fred had stayed by Jeanine’s side. Quentin would not forget that.

Jeanine simply beamed at the Krakens, seemed to be in disbelief that so many people would come for her and Fred.

“Thank you all,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

Ju, Kimberlin and Starcher smiled back, all three of them giddy at the dangerous mission’s final success. Becca smiled, too, but she looked away, uncomfortable with Jeanine’s gratitude.

John stepped up and offered his hand to Jeanine.

“Hello there,” he said. “My name is Jonathan.”

Quentin looked at him quizzically. Jonathan?

Jeanine grinned and shook John’s hand. She wasn’t a small woman — she shared Quentin’s genes, after all — but she looked like a toy next to the 310-pounder.

“I know who you are,” she said. “I’ve watched my brother’s games.”

John smiled wide, delighted. “You’re a football fan? That’s awesome.”

“John, not now,” Quentin said.

There would be plenty of time for thanks and small talk later, after they were aboard Rosalind and back in civilized space. He had his sister, his friend, and the information that had made a living god set up this dangerous charade. The adventure was over: it was time to go home.

He turned back to Hulsey.

“Thank you for bringing me to Jeanine,” he said, squeezing his sister tighter. “We’re ready to leave.”

Hulsey frowned, confused. She looked at Jeanine, then back to Quentin, then realization set in.

“Your sister can’t go with you,” she said. “Neither can Fred.”

His rage, the fuel that had driven him through most of his life, that he had worked so hard to keep in check, suddenly crashed over him, a tidal wave that swept him up and carried him along. More games from the Portath? Quentin started to shake, to tremble, and wondered not only how far he could throw Hulsey, but what would happen to her head when it smashed against a tree.

Becca and Kimberlin suddenly rushed between Quentin and Hulsey, Becca facing the red-robed woman, Kimberlin facing Quentin. Kimberlin’s hands rose slightly, as if he thought Quentin might try to rush past at any second.

“Get out of my way, Mike,” Quentin said.

Becca turned sharply. “Q, be quiet.”

A request — a firm request, but not a command. Becca knew he had lost it; she was trying to control the situation. Quentin took a step back, focused on reining in his temper.

Becca faced Hulsey.

“Jeanine and Fred are coming with us,” Becca said. “Bloodletter said we could leave, right?”

“Bloodletter isn’t their trainer,” Hulsey said. “The Gouger is.”

“Trainer,” Quentin spat, looking around Kimberlin’s wide body at this woman he now hated with everything he had. “You mean owner.”

Hulsey leaned to her right, looking around Becca to return Quentin’s glare.

“Trainer is what I said, and trainer is what I meant. You don’t know anything about our culture, Barnes, anything about our laws. Petra asked that the sentients who arrived on your ship, on Rosalind, could leave unharmed — Bloodletter agreed to that. Jeanine Carbonaro and Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga were not on Rosalind.”

John crossed his arms, jutted out his chin.

“They’re with us,” he said, his voice a lethal growl. “You don’t want to screw with me, lady.”

Kimberlin turned slightly, his upturned hands seemingly ready to stop John as well as Quentin.

“John, stop it,” Kimberlin said. “Now is not the time for threats.”

“Wrong,” Ju said. “Now is the perfect time for threats.”

Quentin couldn’t agree more. Jeanine and Fred stood tall, stood firm, but he sensed their fear. They had thought it was all over, but now their only chance to escape was falling apart before their eyes. Quentin would get them out of this place or he would die trying.

“Hulsey, I don’t give a damn about your culture,” he said. “We came here for Jeanine and Fred, and we’re not leaving without them.”

She rubbed her face, as if the whole ordeal exhausted her.

“I suppose there is one way. You have to make a legal challenge to their trainer. This has never happened before, because every non-Portath who has come here has been a trainee, and trainees aren’t allowed to make challenges. But, since Bloodletter freed you, you aren’t trainees.”

A loophole in the system. That was fine with Quentin, whatever it took to get the job done.

“I’ll challenge,” he said. “Do we have to go to court or something?”

Hulsey shook her head. “You have to challenge the Gouger to combat. If he refuses to fight, you become Fred and Jeanine’s trainer and can take them with you. If the Gouger accepts, then you and he will settle it in the stone pit.”

Curved knives flashing, blood spilling, a sentient life cut short by the slash of a blade. If that was the only solution, then “the Gouger” would soon find out that a professional athlete was a far cry from some random ship crewmember.

Quentin nodded. “I understand.”

“It’s a one-time-only option,” Hulsey said. “If you challenge for Fred and Jeanine and lose, no one else can challenge for them.”

John raised his hand. “In that case, Lady Fun-Times, I officially challenge the multicolored booger-bag that owns Jeanine.”

Quentin wheeled on him.

“Dammit, John, knock it off! This isn’t some stupid game, you idiot. Jeanine is my sister and this is my fight.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, stood only a foot from Quentin.

“Q, this ain’t a scuffle in the locker room, and this ain’t a gridiron with refs who’ll keep your quarterbacky face all in one pretty piece. You heard the lady ... there’s killin’ involved. No offense, my brother from another mother, but you’re not cut out for this kind of thing.”

Quentin’s hand shot out, pushed John hard in the chest, forcing the linebacker to take a step back.

Becca stepped between them.

“Quentin, stop it” she said. “John is trying to help.”

John held up his hands, palms out — he had no intention of pushing back.

“Q, you said this isn’t a game, and you’re right — that’s why it should be me in the pit.”

Jeanine’s freedom was on the line, and John wanted to talk about who was tougher? Quentin could win GFL titles, cut off his own damn finger to do so, but he supposedly couldn’t handle this?

“My family,” he said. He thumped his fist against his chest. “My fight.”

John bit his lip. He nodded. He didn’t look mad — he looked worried. Worried for Quentin, and that made Quentin even angrier.

Quentin turned back to Hulsey.

“I challenge the Gouger.”

She looked him up and down. She paused for a moment, as if considering that his massive size might give him an advantage. Then she shook her head, dismissing that thought. She looked at Jeanine.

“If your brother does this, he is going to die. Please, talk him out of it. It isn’t that bad here, you’ll see. You can marry, have kids if you want. You can’t leave, but at least you’ll both be alive.”

Jeanine squared her shoulders.

“My brother will win,” she said. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll take my own life shortly after he loses his. I’ve lived in a gilded cage before, Hulsey, one far nicer than this. I wanted for nothing, but I wasn’t free. I was a possession, a toy. I killed to escape that place, swore to myself that no one would ever collar me again. I didn’t have the will to keep that promise until now, until my brother came for me. It doesn’t matter what kind of a life you think I can have, Hulsey — I will live free, or I will die.”

Gilded cage? Jeanine had killed someone? Quentin didn’t know what she was talking about. What secrets were in her past? He knew almost nothing about her, something he desperately wanted to change. But before that could happen, he had to win her freedom — he had to climb into the pit.

“I’ll say it again, Hulsey — I challenge the Gouger, I challenge for Fred and Jeanine. I’m not going to change my mind. I’m not going to back down.”

Hulsey closed her eyes. Her head drooped.

“Very well,” she said. “I will deliver your message. If the Gouger accepts, you will fight within the hour.”

21

The Pit

QUENTIN AND JU STEPPED OFF the black stone ring and into the bowl. They were examining every detail, anything that might help with the upcoming fight. Ju had fought professionally. Quentin needed his counsel.

John, Kimberlin and Becca remained on the spectator ring, Doc Patah floating nearby. They stared down, grim and resigned, knowing their friend might not live through the hour. Becca, in particular, was clearly struggling to keep her composure.

Quentin was also struggling to keep his: he was just doing a better job of hiding the effort.

Hulsey stood on the opposite side, hands tucked away in the sleeves of her red robe. Jeanine and Fred had been taken elsewhere. Bumberpuff had returned to Rosalind to prep for departure. George had gone with him.

Ju slid the toe of his shoe against the bowl’s yellow-flecked red stone, leaving a spotty streak of black rubber sole behind.

“Rough texture,” he said. “The bowl shape is hard to manage, but the traction is excellent.”

Quentin slid his foot forward, gradually increasing the downward pressure. He made it only a few inches before the stone bit into his shoe sole and the foot scuffed to a stop.

“Yep,” he said. “Good traction.”

Was this stone pit where he’d kill another living creature? Or, was this where he would die himself, doom his sister to a lifetime of slavery? Not that she’d live long — that look in her eye, her promise that she wouldn’t serve another, that was as definitive and unquestionable as Quentin’s own will to win.

Ju kept walking, his left foot higher up on the bowl’s concave slope. He rushed forward, stopped suddenly. He leaned left, right, acclimating himself to the change in balance required by being on a nonflat surface.

“The slope, it really pulls at you,” he said. “When the fighting starts you might forget that, and it will take you where you don’t want to go. Be careful.”

“Sure thing, Ju,” Quentin said.

They kept walking, pointing out divots and small cracks in the red rock. It was no different from the pre-kickoff ritual of examining the host field on away games. That familiarity both comforted and disturbed Quentin.

He moved to the bottom of the bowl, then saw a detail he hadn’t noticed before — a drain.

“High One,” he said.

Ju bent forward, peered down at it.

“Booger-blood removal,” he said. “Efficient. Kind of gross, though.”

Ju didn’t seem fazed by the fact that it might soon be Quentin’s blood coursing down that very drain.

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “Kind of gross.”

Ju crossed his arms over his wide chest, squinting thoughtfully.

“Q, you’ll do fine. You know how to fight. Hell, you beat me. Know how many sentients in the whole galaxy can say that? Four. Including you. You’re badass, brother. You’ll carve that booger-bag into littler booger-bags.”

Quentin nodded. Yes, he had beaten Ju, but that hadn’t been a fight to the death. And there was the small fact that Quentin had cheated.

He looked up to Hulsey, who stood on the edge of the bowl, watching him.

“Why is this thing stone? Everything else on this whole ship is steel.”

“Platinum-iridium, actually,” she said. “The bowl is ancient. All ark-ships have one for the settling of disputes and for trial by combat. The stone is from the Portath homeworld. I am told this pit was carved from the side of a mountain some five thousand years ago.”

Five thousand years old? The Portath had been killing each other on this very surface back when Earth was still in pre-history.

Quentin saw a little flake of something stuck to the bowl’s rough stone. He poked at it with his toe. The bit came free, and he realized what it was: a dried piece of Portath skin.

It finally hit home, made every ounce of his being shiver with a metallic chill — this wasn’t a gridiron, a basketball court or a baseball diamond. This wasn’t even the Prawatt arena. Sentients died in those games, but death wasn’t the specific objective.

This, however, wasn’t a game at all.

He felt sick. Maybe he should have let John fight. No ... John had his own life to live. He had to provide for Ma Tweedy. No matter what happened to Quentin, John and Ju would return to Ionath and to their careers with the Krakens. Jeanine was family: the responsibility for this fight fell to Quentin and no one else.

Hulsey called down. “Barnes, it’s almost time. I’ll take you to the room where you will prepare yourself and say your final prayers.”

Ju gripped Quentin’s shoulder.

“Q, you sure you’re okay to do this?”

Quentin was not okay. His stomach felt sour. His skin tingled.

“You bet,” he said. “Ma Tweedy’s third son will whip that ass.”

Ju smiled. “That’s the spirit. And remember, Q, when you kill this thing? Don’t feel bad, because it was eventually going to die anyway — you just speeded up the process. Keep that in your head and everything will be fine.”

They stepped out of the bowl and followed Hulsey into the ship’s steel — no, platinum-iridium — corridors. Ju sounded so at ease; Quentin was anything but. The “process” was going to be speeded up for someone, all right, but would it be for the Portath foe?

Or would it be for him?

22

Prelims

THE SMALL PREP CHAMBER’S CURVED CEILING flowed into curved walls, which themselves melded into the floor without a single hard line or seam. The oval door opened to a corridor, where Kimberlin, John and Doc Patah waited. Ju had stayed at the pit in case the Gouger showed up early. Ju would analyze anything he could, look for any strategic advantage he could call out to Quentin once the fight began.

In the center of the room, the floor extended up into a small, round, flat table. On that surface, a double-sickle knife. Quentin had tested the edge, found it to be sharper than anything he’d ever handled. It would slice through his skin as easily as air. If the Gouger was strong enough, it would also probably cut through bone.

Quentin put his hands against the curved wall, rested his forehead against the cool metal. He was about to fight to the death. No rules. No refs.

“That’s not a game face, Q.”

He turned. Becca stood in the oval doorway, hands awkwardly at her sides as if she didn’t know where they were supposed to go.

“I’m working up to it,” he said. He faked a smile. “It’s going to be okay, Becca.”

She stared at him. Stared hard. Her mouth tightened. She seemed to realize she was doing that, pressed her lips into a thin line instead.

“It better be okay,” she said. “I didn’t follow you across the universe so I could go home without you.”

He shook his head. “You won’t...”

You won’t have to were the words he wanted, but he choked on them, because those same lips she’d fought to control started to quiver — she was fighting back tears, and seeing that ground him up inside.

Becca sniffed once, a short, sharp intake of air.

“I know that — someday — I’ll have to say goodbye to you,” she said. “But it won’t be today. You’re the best there is, Quentin. Do what you have to do. Do what you always do — win.”

She sniffed again, then turned quickly and was gone.

Quentin stared at the empty doorway. She believed in him, in a way that went beyond football, beyond titles. As scared as he was, her belief mattered.

If only he believed as much as she did.

She was right about one thing, though — it was time to get his game face on. He walked to the table and picked up the weapon. The center was a polished metal ring: no handhold, no finger-notches, no texture ... the thing might as well have been greased for all the grip it provided.

He bent at the knees, held the weapon out in front of him, feeling the weight. He tried a slash, getting a sense for the inertia. How would he attack? Was it better to jab or to slice?

John entered the chamber.

“Hey, Q. Becca give you a pep talk?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “Sort of.”

“Good. You feel peppy, then?”

Quentin shrugged, tried a forehand slash followed by an immediate backhand. “Peppy-er than I was before, at least.”

“Good,” John said, nodding. “Good. Becca knows words. That’s helpful right now, seeing as you’re in a duel to the death and all.”

PUT SOME PEP IN THAT STEP, SOLDIER scrolled across his forehead in bright blue letters.

Quentin stopped slashing. He looked at John. This might very well be the last time he spoke to the man.

“Look, John ... just in case I don’t make it, I’m sorry about you and Becca. I didn’t mean for ... you know.”

John smiled, shook his head. “Q, your timing is awful. Right now you might want to pay attention to the job at hand.

“I know, but I—”

“It’s done,” John said. “I’ve moved on.”

Apparently he had. He’d lost that air of constant animosity. Quentin wasn’t sure when that had happened, but it had happened, and he felt immense relief.

John pointed at the knife.

“Let me see what you can do with that.”

Quentin again squatted into a fighting stance. He focused on his motions — thrust, slash, spin, slash.

John frowned. “Hell but that’s an ugly weapon. How’s the balance?”

“Awkward. This ring-handle thing...I’m afraid it’s going to slip.”

He tried palming the ring, thumb wrapped around the bottom, his fingers curling over the top. That was a little better. When he held it that way, it looked like he had eight-inch curved blades coming out the sides of his fist.

“Thing is so damn sharp,” he said. “If my grip slips at all, it could spin in my hand — I might cut myself before the Gouger does.”

FIGHTS TO THE DEATH ... AIN’T THEY GRAND? played across John’s face.

“Q, you sure you want to do this?”

Here it came again, John trying to talk him out of it.

“Don’t start,” Quentin said. “If they had Ju instead of Jeanine, you know damn well you’d be the one in that pit, and no one would be able to tell you otherwise.”

John’s jaw muscles twitched. For once, nothing scrolled across his face. He was just a normal man who didn’t want his friend to die.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I’d do just about anything for my brother.”

Quentin tried another thrust, basically throwing a punch with one of the platinum points leading the way. That felt good.

“You’ll have to watch out for their reach,” John said. “Looks like those booger-bags can stretch their licorice arms a long way. You need to close in fast. If you stay at a distance, that thing will cut you to pieces.”

John was right. Those boneless extrusions gave the Portath a reach advantage of several feet. With blades this sharp, the Gouger could keep Quentin at bay with little nicks and cuts, then just wait for blood loss to take its toll.

“But what if I keep my distance and make the Gouger really reach for me? I could dodge and cut behind the blade, try to slice the arm off like Bloodletter did to Taker of Souls.”

“Sure, sure,” John said, nodding. “If you’re faster than it is.”

“I’m plenty fast,” Quentin said. “And if it attacks at a distance, I have more reaction time. When it strikes, I can spin out of the way—” he held the blade close to his chest as he planted his left foot and spun his right shoulder in a reverse arc, a move he had made countless times on the football field, his whole body whipping around so quickly he might as well have teleported a foot to the left “—then close in fast—” he landed on his right foot, his spin momentum moving him forward, lunging ahead with his left foot, blade extended “—and then ...”

He stopped, a sickle-point thrust out in front of him. His hand was shaking. The polished metal blade wavered in the small room’s light. After the spin move, he would ... what? Jam that blade into another sentient being?

“Then you cut,” John said. “Make sure you don’t go too deep, you don’t want your hand or wrist to hang up on his innards. Let the blade do the work.” He mimicked a short right jab, starting from his right hip, as if he were punching an imaginary Human foe in the stomach. “Thrust the blade in, then slice up—” he raised his fist as if he were doing a fast bicep curl “—and you get away quick.” John stepped back, his hips low, knees bent, his weight on the tips of his toes, a move of pure grace. “Then all you have to do is stay alive long enough for his innards to become outards.”

Quentin’s stomach churned. John had it perfect — get in, make that one strong, brutal slice, get out fast and wait for the Portath to die. Whatever internal organs existed inside that squishy body, the blade would slice through them with ease. It wouldn’t be like the movies, with a long clanging exchange of blade-on-blade. This was real life: one pass, two at the most, and either he or his opponent would be bleeding to death.

“Q? You okay?”

He realized he was staring at his blade. His own dumbfounded, horrified expression stared back at him from the polished surface.

“Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”

John stepped closer. “Q, you ever kill something before?”

“Of course I have. Back on Micovi, I set a camp record for killing roundbugs.”

“Sentients, Q,” John said. “I mean something that can think, something with culture and whatnot?”

Quentin nodded, remembering the ship battle that had almost sucked his body into the ice-cold void. “When those pirates attacked us, I blew one of them up.”

John nodded. “Yeah, that was really intense. But that’s still not what I mean.”

He took another step closer. John’s face was only inches from Quentin’s. He spoke in little more than a whisper.

“I mean up close and personal, where you get your hands on them. Where you know it’s your fists or your gun or—” he tapped the double-sickle blade “—or your knife that ends them, that makes them go bye-bye forever. I mean where you watch something intelligent die, where you watch it change from a thinking, caring, living being with emotions and dreams into a hunk of meat that doesn’t move until someone drags it away.”

Quentin couldn’t breathe. He stared at the trembling, double-crescent knife.

“You ever done that, Q? Because it ain’t pretty, and you can’t let yourself think about it. You hesitate in that pit, even for a fraction of a second, and it’s the difference between living and dying. You have to pull that trigger.”

Those words ripped free a memory: Rick “Sarge” Vinje, the man who had pretended to be Quentin’s father. Quentin had pressed the barrel of a gun into Sarge’s eye, had started to squeeze that trigger because he wanted to kill the man. Wanted to ... but could not.

Quentin realized John had chosen the words pull the trigger on purpose, because John also remembered how Quentin had let Sarge live.

“This is different,” Quentin said. “This isn’t some helpless actor. That thing out there is going to try and kill me. It’s different.”

John nodded. “You said that. Twice. So have you, Q? Have you ever killed a sentient being all up close and personal?”

The roiling in Quentin’s stomach increased. Back on Micovi, he’d been in more fistfights than he could remember. He’d even been in a few knife fights, but those were only about drawing first blood, where even a tiny nick would win. He’d fought, but he hadn’t killed.

“No,” Quentin said through dry lips. “I haven’t.”

John gestured to the small table. “Put the knife down for a second, my brother. I know how to get you ready. Let me help you get your mind right.”

Quentin set the double-sickle blade on the metal surface, where it clanked slightly.

“Good,” John said. He squeezed Quentin’s shoulder. “Q, I’ll tell you exactly how you’ll get through this. Remember when you fought my brother?”

Quentin nodded. A fistfight with Ju had determined who would run the team, who would be “the man” of the Krakens franchise. But there would be no secret needle from Doc Patah today, no way for Quentin to cheat.

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”

“Good, good. And remember what you said to me right before that fight?”

John had asked Quentin not to square off against Ju. Quentin hadn’t said much in response, because instead of trying to reason with John, he’d sucker-punched the man to get him out of the way ...

Quentin had an instant of realization — that he’d let John in too close — just before a crushing uppercut caught him under the chin. Quentin’s legs turned to water; he sagged, flopped limply on his back.

The room swam and blurred. Quentin tried to rise, but John knelt down next to him and put a hand on Quentin’s chest.

PAYBACKS ARE A BITCH scrolled across John’s forehead.

“I got this,” he said. “On the gridiron you’re a dreamy dream-machine, but you’re not cut out for the messy stuff. I said I’d do anything for my brother — that’s what you are, Q, my brother, just as much as Ju is.”

Quentin started to answer but found that his mouth wouldn’t work. The dull, overpowering pain tried to squeeze his eyes shut.

John smiled. “And come on, Q-Dawg — did you really think I wasn’t going to light you up for what you did to me before Ju’s fight?”

The eldest Tweedy brother stood. He reached out to the table and picked up the double-sickle knife.

No, no-no-no ... John was going to get killed, and it would be Quentin’s fault.

John wiggled the blade; the curved edges sparkled in the room’s light.

“Time to go to work,” he said, then walked out the door.

23

Broken

QUENTIN STUMBLED OUT of the prep room, his legs still wobbly. Kimberlin caught him, steadied him, leaned him against the curved wall as Doc Patah fluttered close.

“My goodness,” Doc said. “Your mandible looks fractured.”

Quentin started down the hall, tried to push past Kimberlin, but the HeavyG held up a hand to stop him.

“Easy,” Kimberlin said. “You’re in no condition to fight.”

“We didn’t know John was going to do that, Quentin,” Doc said. “And really, Michael, why didn’t you stop John from going to the pit?”

“Because he was carrying a blade,” Kimberlin said. “And he didn’t look like he was in the mood for a debate.”

Quentin’s head pulsated with echoing pain. It felt like someone had jammed a point of that sickle blade into the hinge of his jaw. All this from just one punch?

Harrah mouth-flaps reached out, pressed something against the side of Quentin’s face. There was a brief burst of even more pain, then a cooling, numbing feeling. It still hurt, badly, but now it didn’t make his eyes scrunch tight with agony.

“That should help,” Doc Patah said. “I’ve seen injuries like yours before, many times. I will start repairing right away — although if John is going to fight, I assume you want to watch that first?”

A few minutes ago, Quentin had trembled with fear — now he shook with fury. John had sucker-punched him, broken his jaw. If that alone didn’t make it impossible to win a fight against a knife-wielding alien, Doc had just injected painkillers — Quentin felt that same coolness in his jaw spreading through his body. He could already sense the effect on his reaction time, on his movement.

John Tweedy had tricked him. John Tweedy had gotten the better of him. And now, John Tweedy — his brother — would fight to the death for him.

Quentin spoke quietly, just two words, tried to use only his lips.

“Fight. Watch.”

Kimberlin put an arm around Quentin’s waist, helping him stay upright as they walked down the corridor.

24

Uncle Johnny

THEY WALKED THROUGH AN OVAL DOOR and onto the black stone ring. It must have been the area designated for John’s supporters, because Becca and Ju were already there. Ju yelled down at his brother, who was standing in the pit, calmly waiting, curved knife in his hands.

“You the man, Johnny,” Ju screamed. “Gonna mess that booger-bag up!”

Portath filled the rest of the spectator ring, except for the area directly across from Quentin. There stood Hulsey, Jeanine on her left, Fred on her right.

Jeanine’s head hung low. Her hands hugged her own shoulders. Quentin wanted to go to her, tell her everything would be okay, but if John lost, everything would not. Fred gazed into the pit with the air of someone resigned to his fate — or, maybe, someone who had lived through things far worse than being a “trainee.”

Most of the Portath looked no different than the last time Quentin had been at the pit, their skin wavering in soft patterns of yellow and green. One, however, stood out; the biggest Portath Quentin had yet seen, perhaps twice the size of the others. It flashed in maddening swirls of red and orange, blue and green, yellow and white, colors sliding across skin dotted with dark-blue eyespots. One stubby extrusion held a double-sickle knife identical to John’s.

Quentin felt strong enough to stand on his own. He brushed Kimberlin away, moved next to Becca at the black ring’s front edge. Kimberlin stood behind them both. Doc Patah floated overhead.

Hulsey raised her hands and spoke with a formal air, her robe flashing colors in time with her words.

“A challenge has been issued,” she said. She pointed at John. “This Human, John Tweedy, challenges the Gouger.” She pointed at the oversized Portath. “Gouger, do you accept the challenge?”

Flashes of color cascaded across the Gouger’s skin. Those patterns might have been an eloquent speech, a sharp insult or even outright cursing, Quentin didn’t know, but the Portath didn’t have to speak — the real answer came when it rolled off the black circle and into the stone pit.

Hulsey lowered her arms, looked right at Quentin and the others.

“The challenge has been accepted. The only way to leave the pit is to win, surrender or die. If any of you interfere, if you enter the pit or touch the fighters, if you try to help in any way, you will be executed immediately.”

John laughed, thumped a fist against his chest. “You think I need any help against this walking pile of diarrhea?” He pointed at his opponent, sneered, then drew his thumb slowly across his throat.

“Ridiculous,” Doc Patah said. “Portath don’t even have necks.”

John set his weapon on the pit’s edge, then stripped off his shirt and tossed it away. Thick muscles fluttered beneath his skin. He grabbed his blade and strode around the bowl’s slope, bouncing on his toes, twisting at the waist. He snorted. He spit. He growled. He looked much like he did on the football field just before every snap, only without the heavy protection offered by pads and jersey.

COME PLAY WITH UNCLE JOHNNY scrolled around his chest and back in a constant circle of orange and black letters. As if that wasn’t enough of a message, EQUAL-OPPORTUNITY ASS-KICKER flashed repeatedly across his forehead.

Quentin’s jaw felt numb; his heart did not. His heart hurt. John was trying to do what he thought was the right thing, and for that effort he was going to die. Quentin wanted to stop it, but it was either let John fight or leave Jeanine and Fred in the Portath Cloud forever. Quentin didn’t want to see John die, but the man had made his choice.

Ju leaned over the edge, out so far Quentin thought he might fall in.

“Johnny, you ... are ... the ... MAN! He ain’t got nothing on you, brother!”

The Gouger extended stubby pseudopods. Colors flashed as the extrusions thickened, lengthened, raising the roundish body high into the air. New limbs budded up and out, stretching to show a waving wingspan at least ten feet across.

That Portath had to weigh at least five hundred pounds, maybe even six hundred. It carried as much mass as the GFL’s biggest lineman. The Gouger had a huge advantage in both size and reach — there was no way John could win. Broken jaw or not, Quentin had to stop this. He put one foot over the edge, then a giant hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Don’t,” Kimberlin hissed in his ear. “It’s too late. John is one of the best athletes in the galaxy, Quentin — he can do this.”

John walked to the very bottom of the stone bowl. He smiled up at the Gouger. U. G. L. Y. YOU AIN’T GOT NO ALIBI scrolled across his chest.

John then looked over at Jeanine. He winked.

“Piece of cake, beautiful,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”

Jeanine stared at John like she didn’t know what species he was. She nodded, slowly.

“Good luck,” she said.

John held the knife to his chest, then bowed deeply. He stood, smiled at Fred.

“Don’t get jealous, Freddy,” John said. “You’re beautiful, too, just not like Jeanine is — but probably only ‘cause I like girls. I’ll do me some carving and get you out of here, buddy.”

Fred’s eyes narrowed. Quentin wondered how long he’d known John, wondered if Fred feared for John’s life as much as Quentin did.

“You’re a brave man, Uncle Johnny,” Fred said. “Kill it dead.”

John nodded. The letters faded from his skin. He stared at his wiggling, wavering, glowing opponent.

“All right, Mister Gouger,” he said. “Know that this ain’t personal. Let’s get this party started — these ducks aren’t going to cook in a row all by themselves.”

John backpedaled up the bowl, almost to the edge, then started shuffling to his right. He swept the double-sickle in front of him, back and forth, testing the weight. His hate-filled eyes never left his new enemy.

The Portath started rolling in the same direction, remaining directly opposite John. Its boneless limp protrusion waved the curved knife, a hypnotizing dance of mad color and white light reflecting from the blade’s sharp edges.

Quentin couldn’t breathe. His pain forgotten, he watched the combatants complete one circle, then pick up speed as they rotated around a second time.

Ju screamed nonsense so loud his face turned red and spit flew from his mouth to dangle from his chin. Maybe it was supposed to be encouragement, maybe advice, Quentin couldn’t tell.

The fighters circled a third time, and then it was on.

The Portath rolled down the slope, protrusions forming and shrinking back, flashing colors rippling across its skin. John continued to side-step along the rim — he wanted his opponent to come to him.

The Gouger obliged.

It rolled up the bowl, angling to cut off John’s circling path. The Gouger’s knife shot out, a long chameleon tongue extending and extending, blade streaking toward John’s face. John brought his own blade up fast. The two weapons clanged; the Gouger’s strike shot past John’s head, knocked slightly high from the Human’s block.

Ju shook a fist in defiance, but the Gouger’s pseudopod snapped back as fast as it had shot out. John sensed the attack and tucked into a forward roll just before the blade took his head off. The Gouger smoothly slid clear as John tumbled past.

John came up on his feet at the bottom of the bowl, legs bent, feet planted on either side of the drain.

In the pause that followed, Quentin saw that the Gouger’s attack hadn’t missed completely.

Blood oozed down John’s left cheek, spilling from a deep cut running from ear to eye. He wiped at it, blood smearing down his cheek, coating his palm and fingers. He flicked his hand, splattering red droplets that instantly soaked into the yellow-flecked red stone.

The Gouger stayed high on the bowl’s slope, waiting for John to make the next move.

Jeanine took a step forward and leaned over the edge. She didn’t look nervous anymore, or afraid — she looked pissed.

“Jonathan! If you’re going to save me, then quit messing around and do it already!”

He glanced at her, nodded.

“Yes ma’am. Just watch this.”

He pointed at the Gouger, curled his finger inward.

“You, ugly ... come get some.”

The Gouger rolled down the slope, flashing a horrid, bright neon blue.

John spread his arms. One moment he looked normal, the next, his skin blazed, every inch of him raging with colored light. Rings of Krakens orange started at his neck and coursed down his body, alternating with rings of pitch black. His right arm glowed yellow, pulsed with thumping spots of blue-rimmed purple. His left arm strobe-flashed between emerald green and a sickly pink.

The Gouger slowed, stopped, then seemed to stumble away from John. The bright neon blue faded, replaced by sputtering spots of color that matched the lightshow coming off John’s animated skin. The Portath seemed suddenly confused, almost drunk.

“How brilliant,” Doc said. “The Portath talk with color — John’s display must be overwhelming it. It would be like you trying to fight while someone screams gibberish in your ear. Come on, Uncle Johnny!”

John bellowed and rushed forward, eyes, teeth and hair the only source of constant color on his body.

The Gouger jabbed out with the blade, trying the same move that had cut John earlier. John ducked under the sickle point and slashed upward — the Portath’s blade spun away, as did a flaccid, severed tentacle that trailed streams of yellow fluid.

John lowered his shoulder and slammed into the Portath. Impact waves coursed through the creature’s skin. Thick yellow fluid jetted from the freshly cut stump. The Gouger rolled backward, stumbling on protrusions that wobbled with weakness, just as Quentin’s legs had wobbled after John’s sucker-punch.

John planted on his left foot and snap-kicked with his right. His shoe plunged into the Portath, so deep Quentin thought the alien might burst open.

The Gouger’s skin rapid-pulsed a sickly green. It slumped, boneless body slapping against the pit’s slope like gelatin dropped from a table.

John leapt high. He came down hard, driving both feet into his enemy, gushing another splurt of yellow from the waving stump. The Gouger’s skin lost all color, leaving it a flat pale yellow dotted with eyespots of blue.

Ju leaned forward to scream again, then his foot slipped on the edge. His arms whirled madly as he tried to keep his balance — Becca grabbed him around the waist before he fell, pulled him back even as he kept shouting.

“Come on, big brother, finish him!”

John raised his double-sickle blade into the air. There was hate in his eyes, hate and hunger.

“Jonathan, no!”

Jeanine’s scream stopped John cold. He glanced at her, as did Quentin. Tears wetted Jeanine’s cheeks — she met John’s gaze, and she shook her head.

John looked down at his fallen foe. The Portath quivered, twitched, tried to move. It was a pathetic mockery of the massive, frightening thing that had rolled into the pit just minutes before.

John knelt. He pressed the flat of one curved blade against the Gouger’s fading flesh. The Portath fell still. Quentin imagined that every one of the blue eyespots focused on John’s knife.

“Normally, I’d kill you,” John said. “But Jeanine said no. Maybe you don’t speak English, booger-bag, but something tells me you know exactly what color I need to see.”

A shiver vibrated across the Portath’s body. Then, starting in spots that spread, expanded, met and merged, the Gouger’s skin turned black.

“The Gouger surrenders,” Hulsey called out. “John Tweedy is the champion.”

25

Free to Go

THE
HYPATIA’S
MEDBAY was little more than a closet that held a holotank, an upright rejuve tank (there wasn’t enough room for a proper horizontal one) and some other basic equipment. Just enough to do first aid, really — but in the control of Doc Patah, it was sufficient for the minor surgery required to fix Quentin’s jaw.

Doc finished applying nanostrips to the two-inch incision below Quentin’s cheek.

“You will have no scarring, young Quentin, but considering my skill, that really goes without saying.”

Quentin laughed and immediately regretted it. His head was killing him. His jaw still hurt as well, but that was a distant echo of what he’d felt when John had broken it.

The Hypatia had left the Portath Cloud behind. While Quentin saw little difference inside the yacht — the engineers either didn’t care about the interior or hadn’t yet made any changes — the outside had changed completely. She now looked like a lethal war machine, not a rich man’s flying bauble.

Smooth armor coated her hull. Perhaps the armor was similar to the platinum-iridium compound that made up the Portath ships, but the Hypatia’s blue sheen told Quentin that it was something different, something better.

Her impulse engines had been replaced. Fred said the Hypatia could now maneuver like a small fighter — the only real barrier being the physical limitation of G-forces on anyone aboard — and could accelerate five times faster than before. All that from new engines that took up half the volume of the originals.

That resulting empty space had been converted to a cargo area. Small, but enough space for three or four GFL-sized individuals to fit snugly. Portath engineers had also shielded the compartment against most scanners. If need be, the Hypatia could operate efficiently as a smuggling ship.

The cannons, though, had been removed on Quentin’s orders. He didn’t know the law, but he was pretty sure having ship-killing weapons onboard would not make him popular with system police or customs officials. The empty cannon mounts remained; he hoped there would never be a need to fill them.

Doc Patah pressed his mouth-flaps against the outside of Quentin’s jaw.

“Open wide,” he said.

Quentin did.

“Excellent,” Patah said. “Now close, squeeze gently.”

Quentin did that as well.

Patah let go.

“The fracture is fused,” he said. “I inserted bone-growth nanocytes at the break, which will continue to improve the area. It will be stronger than your original bone. You will never have a break there again, I assure you. That is the good news. The bad news is that John’s punch gave you another concussion.”

Quentin sighed. He’d suspected as much. “How long will my brain feel like mush?”

“A few days. Possibly more. Each successive concussion, in effect, builds on the damage of the one before it, and you’ve had several.”

The Harrah stopped working and fell still. He floated in place, only the tips of his wings undulating slightly.

“Quentin, you are still young for your species, but you have played four seasons of Upper Tier ball. You have had injuries. The hits you’ve taken ... not all of the effects will go away. Some pain you will carry for the rest of your life. Are you truly aware of that?”

Between the regular season and the playoffs, Quentin had pretty much been in constant pain for the last four months. He even had a few bruises left over from the Galaxy Bowl. Would those various scrapes and boo-boos still be there after a few weeks of off-season rest? Probably, but some of his pains felt different, like they were going to be with him for a long time.

Maybe he wasn’t healing as fast as he used to. Maybe he wasn’t a kid anymore. Or, maybe, his body just couldn’t keep up with the constant punishment.

Don Pine had talked about it from time to time, how his body wore down as he put more seasons behind him. Sometimes Don would wince for no reason. Sometimes he would have to sit out for a few practice snaps, when some old injury flared up. That was the price of being a GFL quarterback — Don Pine was willing to pay that price, and so was Quentin Barnes.

“It’s the life I’ve chosen, Doc. I understand.”

The Harrah made a hmmmm noise, insinuating that Quentin didn’t really understand at all.

“Pain I can handle, Doc. What I’m worried about is if this concussion affects my ability to play. Is this one bad?”

“A concussion is never good,” Patah said. “I will need to take a closer look when we return to Ionath. You Humans are susceptible to chronic traumatic encephalopathy, a degenerative brain condition associated with repeated head traumas. For all the injuries we see in football, CTE ends more careers than anything else.”

Ends careers. The phrase put a coppery taste of fear at the back of Quentin’s mouth. All his life he had hungered for one thing: to be a quarterback. He didn’t know how to do anything else, didn’t want to do anything else. To stay on the field, he’d sewn up his arm with Kevlar thread and a knitting needle made to repair jerseys. He’d cut off his own finger. He’d played through broken ribs, leg injuries, arm injuries, and he knew that more damage awaited him as the seasons rolled on. But to think it would be a basic element of football — hits to the head — that might take him off the field for good?

The concept terrified him.

And one of those big hits hadn’t come while playing football: it had come from his best friend.

“Why did John have to hit me so hard?”

“Hmmmmm,” Doc Patah said.

“I want to kill him.”

“It is because he hit you in the head so hard that you have the option of killing him. If you had fought for your sister, Quentin, instead of John, I suspect you would be dead.”

Quentin huffed. “I could have beaten the Gouger.”

“Hardly,” Doc Patah said. “Do you have a full-body tattoo that you could use to confuse your Portath opponent?”

“I’m fast. I could have won without that trick.”

“I’ve tested the reaction time of every player on the team. I assure you, John Tweedy is your equal in speed. And what you call a trick, young Quentin, I call strategy. I have noticed that sentients — yourself included — tend to think that John is all fury and no intellect. You are obviously wrong. His idea was brilliant. It saved your life, and it freed Jeanine and Fred.”

Possibly, but had it trimmed a year or two off Quentin’s career?

“Whatever, Doc. John could have just punched me in the stomach.”

“You exhaust me, young Quentin. I imagine it’s a good thing John is with Bumberpuff, then. Has Rosalind departed yet?”

“Not yet,” Quentin said. “They’re finishing up their prep now, should be leaving any minute.”

Ju, Fred, Doc Patah and Becca had come with Quentin on the Hypatia. George, John, Kimberlin and Jeanine had instead gone with Bumberpuff and Rosalind to deliver the data to Petra. Quentin wasn’t crazy about being separated from his sister almost as soon as he’d found her, but she wanted to see Prawatt space, and Quentin had had his fill of traveling.

Doc Patah reached into his pack and withdrew a vial of pills. “Simple painkillers. Take two, call me in the morning.”

Quentin took the vial. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re welcome.”

Quentin walked into the salon, where Becca and Ju sat next to each other on a couch.

“Hey,” Ju said. “Did Doc wire your mouth shut? Do you want me to do sign language for you?”

“No, I can talk.”

“Oh,” Ju said. “That’s too bad.” His laugh was a snort.

Becca shoved Ju’s shoulder. “Hey, be nice!”

Ju’s chest shook with laughter.

Becca stood. The corner of her mouth twisted up in that small smile Quentin loved so much.

“Clean bill of health, Q?”

He shrugged. “Nothing that will stop me from playing football. Does anything else really matter?”

She sighed. “Lots of things, Q. Lots of things.”

He took in her dark eyes, her darker hair, the shape of her face. They’d faced danger in the Cloud, but that was over. They were safe. Six days remained before they reached Ionath. Plenty of time to tell her how he felt, and with only three other sentients aboard, he could finally get her alone.

“After we talk to Bumberpuff, I need to talk to you,” he said. “Privately.”

Her smile faded. “About football?”

He shook his head. “About one of the other things that really matters.”

Her eyes widened a little. She started to say something, but stopped when Fred entered the parlor.

“Q, you look fine,” Fred said. “Doc patch you all up?”

Quentin nodded.

“Excellent. I know you want to get to Ionath fast and check on Messal, so I plotted the fastest course. I doubt we’ll be stopped, but if we are, you, Becca, Ju and Doc hide in the storage area. That way no one recognizes your famous faces. We’ll have you back at Ionath, then you can make up whatever story you want for Gredok.”

Quentin would figure out that story on the way. It wouldn’t take much, just an excuse why he bailed from the goodwill mission to Prawatt space. The important thing was to get back to Messal before Gredok discovered the Worker’s lies.

“Thank you, Fred.”

Fred smiled, bowed with a flourish. “No, thank you. It’s the least I can do for my rescuing heroes. And speaking of heroes, the rest of them want to say goodbye — Rosalind just hailed us.”

Fred activated the room’s holotank. The image flared to life, showing Bumberpuff, Kimberlin, George, John and Jeanine standing on Rosalind’s bridge. Everyone looked bright-eyed and ready to depart. Even John, who wore a nanocyte patch on the side of his face, held there by a blood-spotted white bandage wrapped around his forehead.

Jeanine waved excitedly.

“Hey, brother!”

“Hey,” Quentin said, so happy to hear her say that word, so sad she wasn’t with him on the Hypatia. “Ready for your big adventure?”

“Totally. Look at us — two dirt-poor kids from Micovi, and we’ll both have seen the Portath Cloud and Prawatt space. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

Quentin nodded, wondered if he looked as tired as he felt.

“I’m sure. You’ll see amazing things. Hey, Rosalind, are you listening?”

“I am,” the ship said. As always, there was nothing specific to look at, but the sound of her voice was now familiar and comforting.

“I don’t know if I’ll see you again,” Quentin said. “I want to say thank you and goodbye.”

“Oh, such a nice young man,” Rosalind said. “Maybe someday we’ll have that chat about religion. I don’t mind if you have more important things to do than talk to me.”

Quentin smiled. Her passive-aggressive complaints didn’t bother him anymore. Maybe that was because she’d helped him so much, or maybe it was because he wouldn’t be spending the next few months with her.

“You know, Rosalind, George has some very interesting religious beliefs. If you were to make sure he takes his medicine every day, I bet the two of you could have a nice, long kibitz.”

George’s face lit up. He always wanted to talk about his “old ones,” and no one ever wanted to listen.

“How interesting,” Rosalind said. “I’ll definitely take care of George for you.”

“Take care of all of them,” Quentin said. He looked at Kimberlin. “They’re my family.”

Kimberlin smiled, gave Quentin a single, knowing nod.

“And all of you, keep my sister safe,” Quentin said. “She seems to have a knack for finding trouble.”

Jeanine blew him a kiss. “Don’t worry, baby brother. If trouble does come up, I’ve got my champion—” she gave John a playful elbow in the ribs “—here to take care of me.”

Something scrolled across John’s forehead, but Quentin couldn’t read it due to the bandage wrapped around his head.

“I got it covered, Q,” John said. He put his hand on Jeanine’s shoulder. “I’m pretty sure everything is going to work fine. Juuuuuust fine.”

Jeanine reached up and squeezed John’s hand.

John smiled wide. There was something off about that smile ...

“Time to go,” Fred said. “We’re punching out in sixty seconds. John, take care of my girl Jeanine. Jeanine, take care of my boy John. And Rosalind, safe travels.”

“Same to you,” Rosalind said, and the image blinked out. Quentin stared at the holotank for a second.

Juuuuuust fine? What did John mean by that? Nothing, probably, just John being John.

“Quentin, we punch in thirty seconds,” Fred said. “Might want to get somewhere with a bucket. Just in case.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

Quentin stood and quickly walked to his cabin. He almost never threw up on punch-in, but the Hypatia’s carpet was expensive and he didn’t want it smelling like vomit.

26

Courage

QUENTIN BARNES HAD KILLED ROUNDBUGS with his bare hands. He’d spent days below ground in heat so intense it sometimes killed people. He’d cracked rocks and survived cave-ins. He’d fought older men to keep what was his.

He had also faced down the meanest, deadliest defenders the game of football had ever seen, met them head-on, taken the worst they had to offer and come back for more.

He had stood his ground against gangsters that killed sentients on a whim.

He had argued with a living god.

He had stopped wars, for High One’s sake.

If he had done all that, why was it so hard, so stomach-punching impossible to tell a girl that he loved her?

“Quentin, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just the ... uh ... it’s my belly is all.”

Becca gave a sympathetic smile. “Poor thing.” She reached across the small table and patted his hand. “Is it from the punch-in?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah, must be that.”

They sat alone at the galley’s small wooden table. The Hypatia had a fancy dining room with a table that sat eight, but Quentin had yet to use it — he just didn’t feel comfortable there. The galley felt more like home, like sitting at the small table in Mister Sam’s kitchen back on Micovi.

Becca’s long black hair hung free. Her eyes looked bright and alive, and that little smile haunted the corners of her mouth.

“You usually don’t get queasy on punch-in, don’t ya know,” she said. “Only punch-out. Maybe you ate something bad. You look like you accidentally snorted a goldfish.”

Quentin’s mind seized on that comment, grabbed it as a welcome distraction from what he’d asked her here to say.

“Is that something people do on Earth? Snort goldfish?”

Becca laughed. “No, they don’t, which is why it’s funny.”

“Oh,” Quentin said. “Okay. I didn’t snort a goldfish.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s good. If you had, I was thinking we might have to have a serious talk about your substance abuse issues.”

“I don’t have any substance ...”

She’d made another joke, but he was too stressed to see it. He let out a big puff of air. He’d wanted to speak to her one-on-one. Now it was just the two of them, and he didn’t know how to move forward. What if he told her how he felt, and she didn’t feel the same way?

If you don’t do it now, you’ll never do it... stand in the pocket and get this done.

“I love you,” he said in a rush. It came out so fast it sounded like one word, iloveyou, like something Denver or Milford would say.

He’d done it, he’d said the words. He didn’t feel any better. She would shoot him down, tell him they were just having fun. He knew that’s what she would say.

But Becca didn’t say anything. She stared at the floor, her eyes wide, her mouth so tight she might never have smiled in her entire life.

Quentin felt like he would die. She was supposed to say something, anything. Why was she just sitting there?

She started to speak, then stopped. She licked her lips and tried again.

“I thought that’s why you wanted to talk alone. At least I hoped that was why. And I ... I was so excited to hear you say it, I thought I wanted to hear you say it, and ...”

He waited for her to finish, to say more, but she kept her eyes low. A lock of black hair swung down to half cover her face.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to work. In the movies, person X declared love for person Y, and person Y declared it right back. Quentin’s anxiety grew, as did his confusion.

“You thought you wanted to hear it? What does that mean?”

Finally, Becca looked him in the eyes.

“Quentin, are you sure you love me? And you don’t mean as a friend?”

His face burned — she was playing some kind of a game with him and he didn’t understand the rules or the objective.

Last chance to bail out, Quentin old boy, last chance to say, “Oh, yes, as friends, that’s all I wanted to tell you.”

No. He wasn’t going to back down now, even if that meant getting humiliated.

“I’m sure, Becca. I’m absolutely sure.”

She brushed the hair out of her face, took a ragged breath.

“Okay,” she said. “How long have you felt like this?”

Was she just going to keep asking questions?

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know how I feel now. Ever since you arrived from the Combine, you’ve been there for me. I didn’t see it at first, I know that. I only saw you as competition. I’m a different person now. You’re everything I could want in a partner, Becca.”

Her face didn’t change, save for eyelids that blinked away sudden tears.

“You were with Somalia,” she said, spitting out the last word. “Somalia Midori. She’s a rock star. She’s beautiful. She’s a movie star now. She bought you that bike, and she’s beautiful.”

“You already said she’s beautiful.”

Becca slapped the table. “So what if I did? It’s true. She’s one of the most beautiful Human women in the galaxy. When I was there for you, blocking and bleeding for you, when I was fighting to protect you, you were with her. Why did you do that to me?”

Becca was acting like Quentin had done that on purpose. What was she talking about?

“I... I don’t know.” He shrugged, felt ridiculous even as he did it. “We just kind of ... started going out, I guess.”

Becca’s eyes narrowed.

“She used you, Quentin. You knew that, and you didn’t care because you got to be with the girl that everyone wanted.”

“Used me? What are you talking about? We went out a few times, that’s all.”

Becca wiped away tears. She crossed her arms, leaned back in her chair.

“Are you kidding me, Quentin? She was in the news because of you, because she was the arm candy of the hottest young quarterback in the GFL. Why do you think she got that movie deal?”

He started to answer, then stopped. He remembered going to dinner with Somalia, remembered stepping out of grav-cabs to an assault of camera lights. Somalia, looking amazing in one outfit after another, always smiling for reporters, always taking a few moments here and there to answer questions — and always clinging to Quentin’s arm as she did. Her band was big across much of the galaxy, sure, but compared to the media’s desperate hunger for the GFL, Trench Warfare might as well have not even existed. And when the Krakens were building, becoming a winning team, a playoff contender, that’s when the media coverage on Quentin had grown to insane levels.

Which was exactly the time he and Somalia were dating.

Becca was right.

Quentin felt like an idiot. How could he not have seen it? Somalia Midori had used him. Granted, there were far worse ways to be used, something Quentin knew all too well. Somalia had been nice, she’d been fun, but she had used him all the same.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

Becca pointed her finger at Quentin’s face.

“Don’t lie to me! How could you not know?”

He shrugged again, felt even dumber the second time he did it.

“I don’t know how I didn’t know, okay? Maybe I’m just dumb. And why are you yelling at me? I went out on a few dates with her, it’s no big deal.”

“Why am I yelling? Because you were with her when I was the one who had your back! You were with her when I am the one that really loves you, the real you, not the pretty image on the highlights and the sports sites.”

Her chest heaved like she had just run a dozen sprints. Her fists were clenched. Quentin couldn’t tell if her heart was broken or if she was about to punch him in the mouth. Knowing Becca, it might be both.

Then it hit him, his brain registered her words: I am the one that really loves you.

“So, wait ... you’re saying you love me, too?”

Becca glared at him. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

Stupid? What the hell was happening? Was she hearing something completely different from what he was saying?

“I’m lost here, Becca. How am I treating you like you’re stupid?”

She leaned on the table. Her wet eyes narrowed. Her expression hardened.

“You think I’m stupid enough to believe you didn’t know that I loved you? You’ve known for years.”

Quentin’s head felt empty, like he was supposed to have the right words but the right words refused to show up. But now he understood her anger — she thought he’d played with her heart, maybe even used her in a way not so different from how Somalia had used him.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“Liar. I made it so obvious.”

“Obvious? Becca, you were with John. You were engaged to him up until only a few weeks ago. How is that obvious?”

Her hard expression held for a moment, then melted away. She stared out blankly. Quentin recognized that puzzled look on her face, that feeling of finally seeing something you’ve missed all along, something that was right there but never quite registered.

“I was so sure you knew,” she said quietly. “But how could you, when I was dating your best friend?” She put her face in her hands. “I guess I really am stupid after all.”

Declaring his love for her hadn’t gone like he’d hoped, or even like he’d feared. Girls were ... complicated.

Quentin reached out, slowly, took her hands, pulled them away from her face. She let him.

“Maybe we both missed the obvious things,” he said. “But I never did anything to intentionally hurt you. I never will.”

She squeezed his hands. She looked at him with longing, and also with fear. The combined expression made one thing clear — he had the power to crush this woman’s heart, either intentionally or by accident.

Just as she had the power to crush his.

But he didn’t care.

If it ends badly, it ends badly. She’s worth the risk. My Valkyrie is worth everything.

“Becca, I love you.”

She sniffed. “I love you, too. Quentin, are you scared?”

“Terrified. I’ve never been in love before.”

He’d done it. He’d told her. And she loved him. It didn’t matter how they had reached this point, what mattered was the now of it. Now, and the future.

“I need to get away from Ionath for awhile,” he said. “I’ll see Gredok, make sure Messal is safe, then I just need to get away.”

Becca nodded. She understood, felt the same. The season had been so long, as had the playoffs, and the few days traveling to the Cloud had seemed like an eternity unto themselves.

“Come to Earth with me,” she said. “We could tour all the old football stadiums, archaeological sites and ... and maybe you could meet my parents?”

She said that last bit like she was afraid it might scare him away. If she thought that, she was wrong.

“I’d love it,” he said. “Let’s spend the off-season together.”

Becca leaned over the table, reached up to his face and pulled him in for a long, soft kiss.

It was their first kiss. It wouldn’t be their last.

27

Gredok the Splithead

QUENTIN STROLLED into the Krakens Building, which served as the franchise headquarters, housing for many of the players, and the home of one Gredok the Splithead. Dozens of ground-floor security guards smiled at him, communicating the simple message that he could go wherever he liked and no one would stop him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw contractors working on the Ionath Krakens championship display. It had once held only the Galaxy Bowl trophy from the 2665 championship, but, obviously, the 2685 trophy had to be added. Quentin wondered what artifacts would join Bobby “Orbital Assault” Adrojnik’s Galaxy Bowl MVP trophy and GFL championship ring. The ever-playing holos of Adrojnik were now blank — undoubtedly, holos of Quentin would soon play side by side with the man known as “The Saint of Ionath.”

As he headed for the elevators, Quentin looked up to the ceiling: a black dome dotted with lights representing stars with inhabited planets or stations. The stars of systems that had a Tier One franchise burned brighter than the rest, and were accompanied by the glowing logo of that team.

It seemed impossible, but the logos of the Hittoni Hullwalkers and the New Rodina Astronauts were gone. Two of the most storied franchises in history, and they had both fallen to Tier Two. The Hullwalkers’ trophy room held three Galaxy Bowl titles, the franchise had spent all twenty-seven years of its existence in Tier One, but there was no credit given for past successes.

In the GFL, nothing was guaranteed. No matter who you were, if you lost, you fell. At the end of the Tier Two tournament, a pair of teams would earn promotion, and their home stars would glow brightly above.

The burly HeavyG guard at the elevator opened it as Quentin approached, then stepped aside with a smile and a nod.

“Congratulations, Mister Barnes,” the guard said. “I’ve been a Krakens fan since I was born.”

“Thanks,” Quentin said as he stepped into the elevator. “What’s your name again?”

“Harold.”

“Thank you, Harold.”

The guard smiled wider. The doors closed, and Quentin went up.

When the Hypatia had reached orbit above Ionath, Messal had contacted Quentin — Gredok demanded a meeting. The message had been all business: Messal hadn’t mentioned if things were good or bad, if Gredok had any idea of what had happened or if the team owner remained oblivious. The Worker seemed to be alive and well, which was a good sign, but it didn’t guarantee anything. Gredok liked to play things close to the vest. Did he know about the trip to the Cloud? Was Messal busted? If so, what could Quentin do to help the Worker? At the very least, what was the fallout of Quentin’s brawl with Virak?

It was hard to think of anything going bad, though — he was the quarterback of the Ionath Krakens, a Galaxy Bowl champ, and Becca Montagne loved him. The baddest fullback in the league was his and he was hers, and everything was going to work out.

At the top of the Krakens Building, the elevator doors opened. Messal the Efficient stood there, waiting, along with Bobby Brobst, a Human bodyguard of Gredok’s

“Elder Barnes, I do so appreciate you being on time,” Messal said. “Gredok is ready to see you.”

Messal’s uniform was neat as a pin, as always. No color in his cornea. Bobby didn’t seem aggressive in the least: like everyone else, he was all smiles.

“Way to go, Quentin,” Bobby said. No anger there, it seemed — just another happy fan.

As always, several well-dressed guards from all species loitered in the top floor’s spacious lobby, and all of them beamed at Quentin.

Messal led Quentin to Gredok’s large, round, mostly dark office. Priceless works of art lined the walls, each lit up by discreet spotlights. Statues, paintings ... Quentin noticed three pieces of pottery had been added to the collection.

In the center of the room, on a throne mounted on a ten-foot-high white marble pillar, sat Gredok the Splithead. His fur and excessive jewelry gleamed under spotlights of their own, sending a clear message: for all the treasures in this room, nothing was as valuable as the owner himself.

Standing at the base of the pillar, baseball-sized eye swirling with black, stood Virak the Mean.

Uh-oh ... now we’ll find out how much trouble I’m in.

“Welcome home, Barnes,” Gredok said. “Your absence was annoying. Did you represent us well in Prawatt space?”

Quentin nodded. “Of course. I imagine the sales of official Krakens merchandise will go up due to the visit.”

“One can only hope,” Gredok said. “When Bumberpuff returns, I will have him work on facilitating that trade. Seeing as the Prawatt do not use Creterakian currency, it will take some negotiating, but I’m sure that race has other resources to exchange.”

The Leader’s voice rang with optimism, if not outright glee. He either didn’t realize the emotion he was showing or — more likely — was showing it on purpose.

“I assumed you would all come back together,” Gredok said. “It isn’t like you to leave early. Aren’t you always the first one to practice and the last one to leave?”

The game began. Quentin had become the quintessential team player. Not staying with Bumberpuff and the others wasn’t like him, a discrepancy Gredok would not leave unexamined.

“I am the last to leave practice, but this wasn’t practice,” Quentin said. “To tell you the truth, Gredok, the whole thing was kind of boring.”

“Boring,” Gredok echoed. “By that, do you mean you weren’t the center of attention?”

Quentin focused on his fake father for a moment, calling up enough anger at those lies to bring some color to his face, to let his heart rate kick up a touch. Just as quickly, he pushed those thoughts away — Gredok knew of Quentin’s control, so anything other than a quick burst of emotion might oversell the ruse.

Gredok’s pedipalp hands absently played with his bracelets. “You were in Prawatt space, after all, and we do have four Prawatt on the team, Barnes. It’s no surprise that species lavished praise upon its own. A shame if that came at the expense of giving proper homage to the Galaxy Bowl MVP, no?”

“Oh, please,” Quentin said. “The championship game was a team effort, Gredok — I don’t care who gets the attention.”

Quentin could sense Gredok’s delight. The Leader loved the idea that Quentin had been outshined, that such a slight might hurt Quentin’s pride. Quentin had learned that tactic from Gredok himself: the juicy detail often sells the lie.

“At any rate, Barnes, you are back. Are you now ready to fulfill your media obligations? Messal has many interview requests lined up for you.”

Quentin shook his head. “We won the Galaxy Bowl. That’s my only obligation. After this meeting, I’m leaving for a vacation on Earth. I’ll be back for the Tier Three tournament.”

Gredok’s single softball-sized eye stared down. In years past, the crime lord would have ordered Quentin to stay, but their relationship had obviously changed. Quentin had delivered the ultimate prize. For now, at least, he clearly had Gredok’s respect.

“The interviews can wait,” Gredok said. “Enjoy your trip to Earth, Barnes.”

“Thank you.”

“Before you depart, however, there is something I’d like to discuss. I understand that, at times, your sister is living in Ionath City?”

Quentin stayed calm. Gredok had nothing to do with Jeanine’s ordeal in the Portath Cloud. That didn’t change the fact that she was still a potential target for Villani, for the Creterakians, for Kirani Kollok — and for Gredok the Splithead.

“Couldn’t say where she lives,” Quentin said. “She’s a grown sentient. She goes where she wants to go.”

“Then she should choose better company for her travels. I’m told she still associates with that criminal Frederico Gonzaga. It would be a shame if violence directed at him were to impact her.”

Was Gredok still out for revenge on Fred? Quentin had hoped that might blow over. More likely, Gredok wanted to let Quentin know that Jeanine wasn’t safe.

“If anything were to happen to my sister, I’d have to find out who was responsible. Who knows, I might even have to miss part of the season to track them down.”

Quentin saw a flash of color in Gredok’s eye, there and then gone: the green of stress, mixed with a few curls of black. Perhaps the fear of Quentin missing games was greater than Gredok’s need to control his every move.

“Should it come to that, Barnes — and I hope it does not — I employ sentients who will do that for you. Professionals, I might add, professionals who are experienced with such matters.”

Quentin glanced to the base of the column, where Virak stood like one of Gredok’s statues — a statue with an eye of swirling black. Sentients like Virak worked for Gredok. Quentin could only imagine who Gredok had on retainer. Thugs, hit men, police, probably even a few sentients in the military. The bad side of Gredok was a bad place to be.

“I deeply appreciate that offer,” Quentin said. “If anything happens to Jeanine, I’ll use whatever resources you provide in addition to searching for the culprit myself.”

Quentin hoped that made things clear. Even if Gredok threw his entire organization behind such a search, Quentin still wouldn’t play football. If Gredok tried to use Jeanine, he’d lose his All-Pro quarterback in the process.

The Leader eased back in his throne.

“There are open apartments in the Krakens Building, similar to yours. If she lives here, she will be protected night and day.”

Oh, that was just too much.

“Gredok, do you really think I’m dumb enough to deliver my sister to you?”

“You just told me that if anything happens to her, you will not play football. Do you mean what you say?”

Quentin sought the trick in the question but couldn’t find one.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I mean it.”

“Next season’s Galaxy Bowl is in the Jupiter Net Colony,” Gredok said. “If I want to be on the podium in Red Storm City, raising my second-straight championship trophy, don’t you think it is in my best interest for my best player to be on the field all season long?”

Again, basic logic. Quentin nodded.

“I admit that I manipulated you with your father,” Gredok said. “However, that was to achieve the goal of signing you to a long-term contract. Now my goal is to help you focus on football, so you can bring me another title. If keeping your sister safe accomplishes that goal, than it is logical for me to have her live here, in the most secure building in Ionath City.”

The Krakens Building, where Quentin lived, protected by Gredok’s guards, by the police on Gredok’s payroll. His sister would be safe, just a few doors or an elevator ride away. But Gredok also lived here, and Gredok was, well, he was Gredok: a liar, a conman, a killer.

“Barnes, I know you doubt my intentions, but I have extended this offer to many others in my organization. Samuel Darkeye and his wife live here. Jason Procknow and his five children are one floor below my own.”

“Procknow has five kids? He’s only twenty.”

“You’re surprised that someone from your system bred early and rapidly?”

“Good point.” Most people from Purist worlds were married by thirteen or fourteen, and if girls weren’t pregnant by the time they were fifteen, it was thought that something was wrong with them. Quentin hadn’t even known Procknow had children at all, let alone five.

“Too many Human larvae in this building, truth be told, but that is the cost of doing business,” Gredok said. “Yitzhak Goldman lives here with his wife and two sons, and they rarely leave. My servants cater to their every need, just as they will your sister’s.”

Yitzhak ... Quentin never saw that man anywhere outside the stadium or the Touchback. Every minute Zak wasn’t playing football, he was in this very building. Granted, he wasn’t a starting quarterback and therefore his family wasn’t as much of a target, but he had little kids — if it was safe enough for families, maybe it was safe enough for Jeanine.

“It’s a compelling offer,” Quentin said. “But after what you’ve done in the past, Gredok, I doubt I can trust you.”

“I have invested a great deal of money in you, Barnes. Protecting your sister maximizes that investment. Don’t let your lack of trust wind up making her an easy target.”

Quentin wanted to say no, didn’t want to believe anything that Gredok said, but the arrangement just plain made sense. While Quentin could hire guards for Jeanine, he couldn’t offer anything close to the security she would have here.

And, she would be his neighbor.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” he said. “If she agrees, I’ll move her in immediately. But there’s one catch.”

“There always is with you, Barnes.”

“Frederico is her best friend. He needs access to the building, to come and go as he pleases. I need to know your feud with him is history.”

Quentin still didn’t know the cause of Gredok’s beef with Fred, but if the Leader let it go, everyone got what they wanted.

“Acceptable,” Gredok said finally. “I will have Messal prepare an apartment for your sister.”

“Thank you, Gredok.”

“You are surprised at my generosity, Barnes, but I am well known for taking care of that which is mine. One more thing before you leave. I understand you had a physical altercation with Virak after the Galaxy Bowl. Is this true?”

Quentin concentrated on keeping his breathing and heart rate normal. He and Messal weren’t out of the woods yet.

“It is,” he said and left it at that. No need to give Gredok extra words to play with.

“It seems Virak took my orders too literally,” the Leader said. “He should have used better judgment. Virak, you have something to say to our star player?”

The Warrior’s eye went from swirling black to a sheer sheen of onyx. When he spoke, the words came out forced, with barely veiled hate.

“I apologize,” he said. “I should not have touched you. I ... I ...”

Gredok slapped a middle hand down on his throne’s armrest.

“The rest of it, Virak!”

Quentin wondered if it was possible for a Quyth Warrior to explode from bottled-up rage.

“I beg your forgiveness,” Virak said.

Gredok spread his pedipalps. “There, you see, Barnes? Sometimes it is hard to control the lower castes, but with constant correction, you can make them behave. Beings like you and me understand such things. Do you accept his apology, or would you prefer I have him punished?”

Quentin felt stunned. Beings like you and me — Gredok considered Quentin to be the Human equivalent of a Quyth Leader. For all the sentients who said Quentin emulated Gredok, this was, perhaps, the worst comparison of all.

None of this had anything to do with football. Quentin didn’t want any animosity with Virak. He just wanted all of this to go away. A few months with Becca, then, maybe, when he came back, he could patch things up with the linebacker. They could all focus on defending the GFL title ... together.

“I accept the apology,” Quentin said. “No punishment necessary.”

Virak’s eye remained black as coal.

“One last thing,” Gredok said. “Catch.”

The Leader tossed something, something metallic that flashed in and out of spotlight beams as it fell. Quentin held out a hand: the small solid object landed in his palm.

It was a ring.

A GFL championship ring.

“Congratulations,” Gredok said. “Since you are vacationing, you’ll miss the ring presentation ceremony, so you may have it now.”

With a trembling hand, Quentin slid it onto his left ring finger. So heavy. Smooth metal, silvery, flawless and cold against his skin. The face was a rectangle with rounded sides. A deep-orange football-shaped gemstone sat in the middle. Curving above it, the word GALACTIC, and below it, the word CHAMPIONS. On the ring’s right side, carved into the metal, the GFL logo and the words “GFL Champions” with the date of the Galaxy Bowl victory. On the left, a helmet with the name BARNES.

A ring. The ring, the talisman that Quentin had dreamed of since he’d been a little boy. Only a champion could wear one of these, only the best.

And it was his.

“Touch the top,” Gredok said.

Quentin did, lightly tapping the top with a fingertip. The orange gem suddenly flared to life: a hologram of the Krakens logo hovered just above it.

“You earned that,” Gredok said. “Enjoy your vacation. You are dismissed.”

From UBS Sports

Teams Set for T3 Tourney
by
PIKOR THE ASSUMING

LEAGUE OF PLANETS — Are you ready for Two Weeks of Hell?

The Tier Three tournament is about to take over the League of Planets. Once again, the best lower-tier franchises are set to do battle in this grueling 13-day single-elimination tournament, with teams playing every three days until a winner is crowned.

Larger conferences, like the 51-team National Football League (NFL) of the Planetary Union, put multiple teams into the T3 Tourney. The NFL places the top four teams, the most of any T3 league. The Ki Gridiron League (KGL) places three teams (the champion, the runner-up and the winner of the third-place game). The Chachanna Football Collective and Tri-Alliance Gridiron Association (TAGA) each place two, their champion and their runner-up. The rest of the T3 conferences only place their champion into the tourney.

If a team doesn’t place high enough to make the T3 tournament, the GFL commissioner has the prerogative to appoint teams that excelled but fell short of their respective championships. These “Commissioner’s Choice” selections fill out the 32-team tournament field.

Unlike Upper Tier tournaments, where bracket positions are based on win/loss records, all first-round match-ups in the T3 tournament are based on random draw.

The T3 Tourney is known as a breeding ground for future Upper Tier stars. Scouts have flocked to League space to evaluate the talent that will be playing at various venues across the system’s five worlds and two colonies. Without a doubt, many players will leap from T3 squads and join the rosters of T2 and T1 teams.

National Football League (Planetary Union)

Champion: Jakarta Jaxxons

Runner-up: Colorado Bulldogs

Third place: Quantico Leathernecks

Fourth place: Kellyville Gangsters

Ki Gridiron League (Ki Empire)

Champion: Ru Dragoons

Runner-up: Market District Eagles

Third place: South New Castle Borough White Knights

Chachanna Football Collective (Sklorno Dynasty)

Champion: Chachanna Einharjar

Runner-up: Bellatrix Battlers

Tri-Alliance Gridiron Association (Tri-Alliance)

Champion: Kipplebas Frenzy

Runner-up: Barnard Star Badgers

Satirli 6 Gridiron League (League of Planets)

Champion: Miles Mastodons

Gridiron Accord of Tribes (Harrah Tribal Accord)

Champion: Satah Flayers

Runner-up: Wapashana Skyjackers (Commissioner’s Choice)

Whitok Gridiron (Quyth Concordia):

Champion: Jobu Junkies

Chillich Football League (Sklorno Dynasty)

Champion: Hallacha Hungries

Tower Football League (Tower Republic)

Champion: New Madeline Manglers

Runner-up: Citadel Blue Angels (Commissioner’s Choice)

Yall Football League (Sklorno Dynasty):

Champion: Samlan Slayers

Ki Rebel Establishment Football League (Ki Rebel Establishment)

Champion: Trent River Rats

Quyth Gridiron Association (Quyth Concordia)

Champion: OS3 Raiders

Thomas 3 Gridiron League (Planetary Union)

Champion: Steinmetz Stallions

Wilson 4 Gridiron League (League of Planets)

Champion: Harvey Generals

Withrit Gridiron League (Sklorno Dynasty)

Champion: Troip Olla Maulers

Jupiter, Neptune, Saturn & Venus League (Planetary Union)

Champion: Jennings Brotherhood

Capizzi Gridiron Association (League of Planets)

Champion: Antonville Archaeologists

Wilson 6 Gridiron League (League of Planets)

Champion: Dark Matter Destroyers

Vosor 3 Gridiron League (League of Planets)

Champion: Vosor 7 Ebony Wolves

Runner-up: Vosor Horrors (Commissioner’s Choice)

Reiger 2 Football League (Planetary Union)

Champion: CenTex Centurions

Whitok Kingdom Football League (Whitok Kingdom)

Champion: D’Koda Bears

Rodina Planetary League (League of Planets)

Champion: Kyndal Talleies

Purist Nation Football League (Purist Nation)

The PNFL does not compete in the T3 Tourney.

Champion: St. Addison Wheelmen

Runner-up: Purist All-Saints

Third place: Jacobstown Railroaders

Fourth place: Allah Ascendants

Teams in the Running for Advancement to T2

Commissioner Froese has released his short list of teams he is considering for advancement to Tier Two. He has based his selections on fan support, facilities and proximity to existing T2 conferences.

• Denton Creepers (Satirli 6, League of Planets)

• Zachary Attack (Satirli 6, League of Planets)

• Bo Bristlebacks (Fa, Ki Empire)

28

The Tier Three Tournament

THE LAST TIME QUENTIN HAD BEEN in this stadium, confetti had been falling, lights had been glaring, his teammates had been celebrating, and he’d stood on a podium lifting the Galaxy Bowl MVP trophy high into the air.

And what better way to add even more memories to the Shipyard — home of the relegated Hittoni Hullwalkers — than by hanging out with Becca, Choto and Fred, watching the T3 Tourney and scouting for potential new Krakens?

They sat in a luxury box designed to hold about twenty sentients comfortably. Seeing as there were only four of them, they had plenty of room, although Becca sat in the seat to his right, leaning against him slightly.

Hokor was in another luxury box. Quentin had heard Gredok was in the stadium as well, but he hadn’t seen either of them.

Quentin could finally relax and appreciate what he and his team had accomplished. No need to worry about Jeanine, Petra’s crazy doomsday prophecy, Gredok’s next move, his contract or anything else — for once, Quentin was happy in all phases of his life, and he reveled in the moment.

He angled his bowl of chili-cheese fries toward Becca.

“Sure you don’t want some?”

She looked longingly at the messy food, then sighed and shook her head.

“Suit yourself,” Quentin said. He lifted a bunch of fries to his mouth, dripping some chili on his pants as he did.

Quentin reached down to the next row and offered the bowl to Fred, who grabbed a handful of fries. Somehow his fingers didn’t touch any chili in the process. He didn’t even look up from his messageboard as he ate.

“Fred, are you reading a book?”

“Very observant, Quentin,” Fred said. “Can’t put one past you. Choto recommended it.”

“Why are you reading? This is the championship game.”

Fred looked up. “This is the sixteenth game we’ve watched in the last two weeks, and football is boring to begin with.”

“Boring? You think football is boring?”

Fred shrugged. “Oopsie. My little secret is out.”

“Then why did you come with us?”

He lowered the messageboard. “You won the Galaxy Bowl. You’re a higher-profile individual now, even higher than before, and that’s saying something. You never know when you’ll need protection. And I like piloting the Hypatia.

“Fred is right,” Choto said. The Warrior sat a row back, making sure he was between the door and his shamakath. “You should be protected at all times, Quentin. That is my responsibility, but I am happy to have Fred’s help whenever possible. Fred is far more dangerous than he looks.”

Fred bowed his head. “Why thank you, Choto the Bright. I will take that as a compliment.”

“You are most welcome, Fred. Are you enjoying Hot Midnight?”

“More than this game, I’ll tell you that for free,” Fred said, and returned to his reading.

Quentin shook his head. Some people just didn’t understand football, it seemed. He turned around in his seat and offered the chili fries to Choto.

Choto’s eye swirled with blues and violets — the Warrior couldn’t hide his disgust.

“No, thank you,” he said. Choto offered his own half-full bowl to Quentin. “Spider snacks?”

Quentin’s lip curled at the site of deep-fried tarantulas.

“I’m good,” he said and focused on his chili.

Becca eased back into the luxury box’s cushioned seats. She looked past the half-empty stands to the field below. The T3 Tourney was important, sure, but mostly to people whose business was football. For fans in general, there wasn’t that much interest in the Vosor 7 Ebony Wolves going up against the underdog Kyndal Talleies for the T3 championship. Unless those were your home teams, why spend the money to travel when you could watch the championship game on holo — especially when Chick McGee and Masara the Observant were announcing.

Becca liked fries — loved them, actually — but she was already in training for the upcoming T1 season. She was on a strict diet to facilitate lean muscle development. She also ran every morning, lifted every afternoon, did coordination development drills and just about anything she could do while away from the Krakens’ training facilities.

Quentin wasn’t that worried about his own conditioning, even though he’d gained a few pounds during the trip to Earth. So much good food there, and the two weeks he’d spent at Becca’s parents hadn’t helped. Becca’s mother cooked nonstop, serving up kielbasa, sauerkraut, fried cheese curds and a dozen other dishes that Quentin’s mind couldn’t remember but his tongue would never forget. Soon, he’d have to start training hard to shed that extra fat and get back into playing shape.

But not today, Mr. Chili-Cheese Fries ... not today.

He might as well eat; it wasn’t like he needed to pay attention to the game. He was supposed to be scoping for new talent, but the Krakens were stacked at almost every position. There was little chance any new players could make it on the final roster.

Becca, on the other hand, was watching intently. She called up the holocard of a bulky HeavyG female dressed in the Talleies’ yellow and brown uniform.

“Nancy Wolf,” she said. “An excellent fullback. She’s the reason the Talleies’ running back is having such a great game.”

“She’s an ass-kicker, all right,” Quentin said. “But with you and Kopor, we don’t have room for another fullback. What do you think of Rodriguez, the Talleies’ QB? Better than Yitzhak?”

Becca’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Word is the Ichiban Immovables are already in negotiations to sign Rodriguez.”

Quentin grunted, then ate more fries. Ichiban was Tier Two, in the Tower Conference. A big step up for Rodriguez: was he good enough to compete for a Tier Two starting position? Quentin set his bowl on the floor. He activated his palm-up display, made a note to talk to Gredok about Rodriguez. With Pine gone, the Krakens needed a solid backup QB — maybe someone behind Yitzhak or, more likely, someone young who would take the number-two spot on the depth chart while Zak stayed at third string.

“Rodriguez’s center is good, too,” Quentin said. “Maybe I’ll have Gredok look into him. I kind of have my heart set on Josh Athanas, though, that HeavyG from Kaparna. We need to find our center of the future before Bud-O retires.”

Bud-O-Shwek, the starting center, was heading into his twenty-ninth GFL season. Most Ki linemen were lucky to make it past twenty before retirement. Bud-O was solid as a rock, but he couldn’t last forever.

Becca leaned away from Quentin, glared at him.

“Get a future replacement for Bud-O and just kick Gan-Ta-Kapil to the curb? Is that what you mean, Q?”

What the hell was she mad about all of a sudden? Gan-Ta was the backup center. Twenty-two seasons in the league and his skill was fading fast.

“Gan-Ta’s had a great run, Becca, but we’re only as good as our backups. We have to increase our depth at center.”

Her face clouded over. “We’re only as good as our backups, right, Q?”

She’d practically yelled that. Fred lowered his messageboard to watch the exchange. Choto dutifully looked in another direction.

“That’s right,” Quentin said, careful to keep his voice neutral. Sometimes Becca got mad and he didn’t understand why — this was one of those times. “That’s how our business works. Is there something about Gan-Ta you want me to know?”

She held the glare for a moment, then looked back down to the field. She sighed and wiped away Nancy Wolf’s holocard.

“It is what it is,” Becca said. “Let’s just enjoy the game.”

Her voice had returned to normal volume, but it was cold, distant. She was furious with him. He hadn’t said anything wrong, at least as far as he knew.

He hated it when she was mad at him. It hadn’t happened often in the last few months they’d been together, but when it had, he’d found himself searching for a way to make her forget about it — even when he hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

He wasn’t going to let this ruin the day. He’d held an idea in reserve for weeks for an occasion just like this, and now seemed the best time to spring it.

“Becca, your contract is up for renegotiation, right?”

She nodded, but kept her eyes on the field.

“Gredok is paying you peanuts,” he said. “I know you don’t really care about money, but you should at least get what you’re worth. When we get back to Ionath, how about I introduce you to my agent?”

She looked at him again, maybe a bit surprised. Some of her anger faded away.

“You want Danny Lundy to represent me?”

He nodded. “Sure. You’re the best fullback in the game. You deserve an agent that will get you what you’re worth. You could meet with him, then you could decide for yourself.”

Becca stared for a few moments, as if evaluating what he had said. Then, she pursed her lips and nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “That sounds great.”

She turned to watch the game, but leaned lightly against his right shoulder. Whatever she’d been mad about, offering up Danny Lundy seemed to have made her feel better. He put his arm around her; she snuggled a bit closer.

Maybe the timing of Quentin’s offer had been a bit placating, but the intent was genuine. Becca really was the best fullback in the game — Danny Lundy would make sure she was paid as such.

29

The Blessing

THE LIMO SLID to the edge of Seventh Ring Road and stopped near the curb. Quentin sat in the back, with Becca and Choto.

Choto got out first to make sure the way was clear of danger, or at least any overzealous Krakens fans.

Quentin glanced at Becca. She looked nervous, and he couldn’t blame her.

“It’ll be fine,” he said.

Choto signaled the coast was clear. Becca and Quentin quickly walked inside. A Quyth Worker — probably the building manager — hovered in the lobby, at-the-ready just in case anyone needed anything. Choto’s glare kept the Worker at a distance.

The building was older than John’s but still very nice. Maybe three decades earlier, this had been one of Ionath City’s fanciest addresses. The place had aged well; it seemed the ideal address for a woman with three boys earning Tier One paychecks.

“Ma Tweedy’s building seems secure,” Choto said. “I will escort you up.”

Quentin turned to Becca. “Ready?”

Becca stared at the floor. “She has to hate me, Q. I’m sure of it.”

“She doesn’t,” he said. “That’s not like Ma.”

In truth, Quentin had no idea what Ma Tweedy felt. Becca had been engaged to one of the woman’s sons, had broken that off and was now seriously dating another.

Just last night, Quentin, Becca, Fred and Choto had returned from the T3 tournament. Quentin had delivered his scouting report to Gredok and Hokor. It looked like the Krakens would try to sign Josh Athanas or another backup center, as well as Rodriguez as the new backup QB.

With that bit of business done, it was time to tell Ma Tweedy that he was dating Becca. Becca had introduced him to her parents, now it was his turn to do the same. Of course, one of Ma Tweedy’s sons had already introduced her to Becca, which made this rather nerve-wracking.

Would Ma take it in stride? Would she support Quentin’s decisions, as she always seemed to do, or would she disown Quentin and side with her biological son? If she did the latter, he couldn’t blame her — he hadn’t meant to do it, but he’d stolen John’s girl.

“Becca, if you don’t want to go up, I’ll tell her myself. It’s okay.”

Becca thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I won’t hang you out to dry. We’ll do it together.”

She took his hand and they walked to the elevator.

THE ELEVATOR OPENED to the eighth floor — and to a massive Ki. Choto stepped out first. Everyone had known the Ki would be waiting there — Lil-A-Kewitt had once played for the Orbiting Death when Ju was on the OS1 roster, but Lil-A’s career had vanished thanks to serving served two years in prison for assault. When he got out of jail, Ma had found various excuses to hire the Ki. Ma made sure Lil-A had money and didn’t need to turn to crime. When Ma had moved from Madderch to Ionath City, she’d brought Lil-A along.

The Ki led them past empty apartments. Quentin knew they were empty, because he, John and Ju had bought Ma the entire eighth floor.

Quentin had been to Ma’s place at least a hundred times before. As with most visits, he smelled chocolate chip cookies before he even reached the door. This time, however, coming to Ma’s didn’t feel like coming home — it felt like he was about to see a judge who could sentence him to a lifetime of pain.

He knocked: the door opened immediately.

Ma was dressed in Krakens orange and black, the only colors she wore since Ju had joined the team three seasons back. Her shoulders were persistently shrugged up near her ears, and her eyes squinted so tight one might have thought the woman blind.

“Hello, honey,” Ma said. She held out her arms. “It’s been so long. Give me a hug.”

Quentin knelt on one knee. Ma was five feet tall, if that, which meant kneeling was the only way he could hug her without bending awkwardly at the waist. Ma Tweedy kissed his cheek, then held him tightly.

“Julius told me what happened in the Portath Cloud,” she said. “I’m so proud of you and your brothers, rescuing Jeanine like that.”

Quentin’s heart surged with love. No matter how much time he spent with her, he would never grow accustomed to her unconditional love and support.

“Thanks, Ma. I—oww!”

“Shush it,” Ma said. She had grabbed Quentin’s ear and now twisted it so sharply that to pull away might mean leaving it behind.

“You listen good, Quentin Barnes. If you ever try a stunt like that again without telling me first, then you might as well not come home, because if the spooky aliens don’t kill you, I will. You never go somewhere dangerous without talking to your mother first. Do you understand me?”

“I ... but Ma—”

She twisted the ear harder.

“Yes! I understand!”

She eased off on the twist, but didn’t let go. “Good. And what do you have to say for going off without telling me?”

“Sorry, Ma,” Quentin said. “We didn’t want to upset you.”

She released his ear. Still kneeling, he rubbed at it, wondered if he’d have to see Doc Patah to make sure everything remained properly attached.

“I already lectured your brothers,” Ma said. “You don’t get to decide for me if I worry about you, Quentin. That’s my decision to make, understand?”

He stood. “Yes, Ma, I understand. You talked to John? He’s back?”

She nodded with both head and shoulders. “He got in just last night.”

If John was back, that probably meant Jeanine and the others were back. Quentin hoped he could see her after this visit. He wanted to hear all about her trip to Prawatt space.

Ma looked up at Becca. “Well, girlie, you’ve got a lot of brass showing up here.”

Becca stared at the hallway floor. “I’m sorry to bother you. I should go.”

Ma held up a hand. “I like brass, girlie. Both of you get inside before the cookies get cold. You too, Choto — don’t think I forgot how much you like my baked centipede pie.”

QUENTIN FOUND HIMSELF on Ma’s living room couch, sitting next to Becca, each of them holding an oversized chocolate chip cookie and a glass of milk. The walls, tables and shelves strained under the weight of holoframes showing the three boys in action on the football field, along with lumpy sculptures, simple drawings, homemade “I love my Ma” cards and other mementos of the Tweedy brothers’ childhoods.

Cookie in hand, Quentin told Ma the story of how he’d come to love Becca. The knot in his chest hung large and painful, anxiety building as he waited for Ma’s reaction.

“So, that’s it,” he said. “Me and Becca are together.”

Ma nodded her wrinkled head.

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” she said. “Stranger things have happened.”

The knot started to ease. “So, you’re not mad?”

Ma waved her hand dismissively. “You kids and your hormones, who can keep track of what the hell is going on? It’s not like you kicked a puppy, Quentin. You’re obviously treating this girl right. Seems like you’re not tomcatting around on her — and if you do, I’ll tell you right now you can kiss that ear goodbye, because I’ll twist it right off your thick skull. You didn’t intentionally try to hurt your brother, and that’s what matters.”

Becca lowered her cookie. “You’re not mad at me, either?”

Ma walked to her. With the six-foot-six Becca seated on the couch, Ma was able to give her a proper hug.

“No, I’m not mad.” She held Becca at arm’s length. “But, I will tell you right now that if you wind up dating Julius next, that will be a pattern, not an accident, and I don’t give a damn how big you are, that will piss me off. Do you think you want to piss me off, Rebecca?”

A wide-eyed Becca shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

“Good girl,” Ma said.

They heard a knock at the apartment door. A heavy knock, the kind made by someone who doesn’t know his own strength.

“Ah, on time for once in his life,” Ma said. “Like my Nana Richardson used to say, if something’s got to break, the sooner you break it, the sooner you pick up the pieces.”

Quentin had a sudden sinking feeling.

Ma Tweedy opened the apartment door — there stood her son John.

Quentin stood up quickly, accidentally sloshing a bit of milk onto Ma’s carpet. Becca started to stand, then sat, not sure what to do. The situation couldn’t have been more awkward.

John stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He smiled wide. “Hey, Q, hey, Becca, good to ... are those cookies?”

“In a minute, Jonathan,” Ma said. “First, your brother has something to tell you.”

“But Ma, cookies. Q got one and I didn’t and that’s not—”

“Shushit!”

John winced. “Sorry, Ma. Okay, Q, I’m listening.”

Quentin didn’t know what to say. Ma had set this up. Better to break it so you can start picking up the pieces? What kind of logic was that?

She pointed at Quentin. “Out with it, boy. You tell your brother what you did and where things stand.”

Quentin swallowed hard.

“John, I ... I ...”

A hundred false stories flashed through Quentin’s head, anything to avoid telling John the hard truth. But it was too late for that. And, that was the kind of thing Gredok would do.

“Me and Becca are dating.”

John nodded. “I know, but what is it you need to tell me?”

“Tell you ... no, John, that’s it. Becca and I are dating.”

John’s face wrinkled. “That’s it?”

Quentin nodded.

John shrugged. “Okay.”

He seemed fine with it. More than fine, he seemed like it wasn’t even news to him.

“But you were so mad before,” Quentin said. “In the Portath Cloud, before you hit me, you told me everything was okay, but... are you sure you’re okay with this?”

John rolled his eyes. “Jeez, Q, I was mad but it’s not like I could stay mad forever. You’re my brother, right?”

John smiled, waiting.

Quentin had dreaded this moment for months, yet it was going so smoothly. Maybe the ties of family were really as strong as people said.

“Right,” he said. “I’m your brother.”

“Exactly,” John said. “And I know Becca didn’t dump me to be mean or anything, she’s not like that.” He looked at her. “You’re not like that, Becca.”

“Uh, no, I’m not,” she said. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

“I was hurt and all, but things happen,” John said. “What’s important here is that brothers forgive brothers. Forgiveness, Q, and tolerance, and understanding and stuff like that, and—”

Ma tapped John on the arm.

“You’ve got diarrhea of the mouth again,” she said. “Quentin did what he had to do, now it’s your turn.”

“Jeez, Ma, I’m getting to it, okay? Anyway, Q, I was mad, but I ain’t anymore because I got another girlfriend. That’s what I came here to tell you. You know what Ma says about if something has to break?”

He walked to the apartment door and opened it: there stood Jeanine. John took her hand and led her inside.

“Q, you’re dating my ex-fiancée, and I’m dating your sister.”

Quentin stared. The image wouldn’t process in his brain.

John is a killer. I’ve seen him kill sentients with his bare hands.

“Dating my ... wait, what?” He looked at Jeanine.

She smiled, slid her arms around John’s big bicep. “Dating your sister,” she said.

John held up both hands in a placating gesture. The words DON’T WORRY, I DID THE MATHS scrolled across his forehead.

“Now Q, I know you’re thinking that I’m your brother and Jeanine is your sister so therefore ergo proctology hoc I am Jeanine’s brother and therefore it’s incest, but I checked with a scientist and it turns out things don’t work that way. Who would have known, right? And also I don’t like the smell of incest — I don’t know why people burn those little sticks, they kind of stink.”

“You can’t date her,” Quentin said in a monotone. “You can’t.”

Becca stood. “Of course he can, Quentin. Anyone can tell they’re in love.”

Quentin remembered his conversation with Becca in the Hypatia’s galley; how she had laughed when Quentin said he dreaded giving John the news.

“You knew,” he said to Becca. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“I guessed,” she said. “Just because I knock the crap out of people on the football field doesn’t mean I’m not a girl, Quentin. I could see the way Jeanine looked at John and the way John looked at her.”

John tapped his temple. “See that, Q? I told you Becca was smart.”

Quentin looked at them, at Jeanine wrapped around John’s arm, but he only saw John punching a fist through a Quyth Warrior’s eye in a nightclub, or John in a bar fight, or John on the football field hitting other players so hard be broke armor and bone, so hard he killed.

“You can’t,” Quentin said. He looked at Jeanine. “John’s so ... violent. And you wouldn’t come see me because you thought I was violent.”

Jeanine’s smile faded. Once again, Quentin saw the same eyes that looked back at him from the mirror, saw the same intensity.

“John saved my life,” she said. “Not just mine, Quentin — by fighting the Gouger, I think he also saved yours.”

“He broke my jaw! He gave me another concussion.”

“I said I was sorry about that,” John said. “Look, Q, maybe this will take some getting used to. I get that.” He put his arm around Jeanine, hugged her close. “I really want you to be okay with this ... but if you’re not, well, it won’t change anything.”

Quentin looked at Jeanine. She stared back, didn’t say a word to the contrary.

He looked at Ma, hoping someone could help him make sense of this.

“The heart wants what the heart wants, Quentin,” Ma said. “Now stop being a dumbass and tell them you’re happy for them.”

Jeanine, his only family ... and John had saved her. John Tweedy, the nightmare of a linebacker — who apparently couldn’t tell the difference between incest and incense — had defeated the Gouger not because of size or strength or speed, but because of a brilliant strategy. Quentin wanted to think he would have won that duel, but in his heart he knew that wasn’t the truth. He would have fought, he would have died, and Jeanine would have lived out her years as a slave.

Quentin’s anger and confusion faded away. He loved John. He loved Jeanine. John was violent, sure, but so was Quentin. So was Becca, for that matter. Being violent helped make them the athletes they were. John was genuine, caring and loyal. Who better to date his sister?

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said. “I just... yeah, it takes some getting used to is all. You don’t need my blessing, but you have it anyway.”

John raised his fists in victory. “Sweet! Boy, am I glad that’s taken care of, but man, I really want some cookies. Ma, can I have some cookies before Quentin eats them all?”

Ma shook her head in exasperation. “You’d think you never had a cookie in your entire life.”

“I’ve never had these cookies, Ma. And they smell way better than incest.”

Jeanine started laughing. She walked to Quentin, put her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to kiss his cheek.

“I love you, little brother,” she said. “This will turn out great, you’ll see.”

He hugged her, lifted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all.

“I hope so,” he said. “But it’s a little weird that my brother is dating my sister.”

He set her down.

Jeanine nodded. “That is weird. Good thing John talked to a scientist, right. Although, I am a little worried — preseason is almost here, and if word gets out I’m dating John, someone might get the bright idea that they can use me to control both the Ionath offense and the defense.”

She was right. She was exactly right. This would get out, eventually, and when it did, Jeanine would be more of a target than ever.

“Turns out I have a solution to that,” Quentin said. “Let’s talk about your living arrangements.”

BOOK THREE

The Preseason

30

Preseason Week One

THE KRAKENS HAD SEEN EACH OTHER here and there, sometimes out on the streets of Ionath City, sometimes at dinner or at birthday parties, but this was different. The first day of preseason, the first trip to the locker room.

Their first official day as defending GFL champions.

Quentin arrived a full two hours before practice began. He no longer had to worry if Becca would beat him there, because this time they’d come together. She had gone off to the HeavyG locker room, he to the Human, where he prepped his gear and waited for his teammates, waited for the annual ritual of welcoming in the season.

Yassoud Murphy entered, braided beard bound with thin silver rope. He greeted Quentin with a laugh and a hug. Quentin held him at arm’s length, looked the man up and down. Yassoud had always been a specimen of Human biology, as were most GFL players, but now he looked bigger. Bigger and stronger.

“High One, ’Soud ... how much weight did you put on during the off-season?”

“Almost ten kilos,” he said. “I’m at one fifty-two.”

One hundred and fifty-two kilos: 335 pounds. Yassoud packed all of that onto a six-foot, six-inch frame.

“You look great,” Quentin said.

Yassoud pounded his left fist against his chest three times, bam-bam-bam.

“I trained all off-season. Mark my words, Q — you and I are going to be spending a lot more time on the field together this year, oh yep.”

Yassoud backed up Ju Tweedy, the league’s most dominant running back. Despite a few injuries, Ju had been named All-Pro last year; Yassoud was and always would be in Ju’s shadow.

But still ... a motivated second-stringer could put pressure on a starter, force that starter to work a little bit harder to keep his job, making both players better in the process. And Ju didn’t play every down; with the punishment he took running up the middle, he had to spend some time on the sidelines. Having Yassoud as a top-notch “third-down back” would make Quentin’s job easier.

“This is our year, ’Soud.”

Yassoud nodded. “This is our year.” He walked to his locker.

Last year had belonged to the Krakens, obviously, but that was in the past. As soon as the last piece of confetti hit the ground, the 2685 season was over and the title meant nothing. The twenty-two Tier One franchises were back to zero wins, zero losses, and it all began again.

Quentin would make sure the Krakens worked even harder than the season before. Only two teams in GFL history had won back-to-back titles. One was the Hittoni Hullwalkers. The other was the Jupiter Jacks, when Don Pine had been at the helm. Quentin would not rest until he had eclipsed each and every one of Don’s accomplishments.

The rest of the Human players filtered in, everyone excited, happy to see each other. Crazy George Starcher with his face painted a flat blue. Yotaro Kobayasho, the team’s number-two tight end with the bleach-white skin of a Tower Republic native. Kobayasho’s visual opposite, the pitch-black-skinned backup linebacker Samuel Darkeye. Last year’s rookie fullback Pete Marval, still third string but in good shape.

The squat form of Jay Martinez entered next. Third on the running back depth chart behind Ju and Yassoud, Jay was just six-foot-two and 305 pounds: tiny for the position, but when he ran, he ran with everything he had. Quentin hoped to target him more this year with screen passes in third-down situations.

Then came Arioch Morningstar, the kicker. As always, he looked calm and somewhat oblivious to his surroundings. He greeted everyone with a simple nod, as if they had finished the ‘85 season only yesterday.

John and Ju came in next, arguing as always. Some kind of disagreement about how to properly chew gum, it seemed. They were so into their argument that they barely gave Quentin a second glance.

Yassoud’s improved physical stature made Quentin take a new look at Ju. Did Ju look a little ... smaller? Muscles not quite so defined, maybe? Quentin wondered if Ju was even aware that Yassoud was going all-out to get more carries. There were four weeks of preseason, though — plenty of time for Ju to regain his All-Pro physique.

Last in was Yitzhak Goldman. Quentin moved to greet him.

“Zak, good to see you.”

The backup quarterback stopped walking. He stared at Quentin, stared with a look that could only be described as hatred.

“I wish I could say the same,” the Tower Republic native said. His normally all-white skin looked a touch gray. Grayish bags hung under his eyes.

“Listen, Zak,” Quentin said quietly, “if this is about what happened in the playoffs, then—”

“What else would it be about?” The two men stood face-to-face, the seven-foot-tall Quentin towering over the six-four Yitzhak, both of them talking so quietly no one else in the locker room could hear.

“You got something to say, Zak?”

The backup nodded. “Your fictitious High One didn’t just make you the best quarterback in the league. He also apparently made you the coach. He made you the owner, the commissioner ... High One made you High One, did he?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh, well, I must have been dreaming,” Yitzhak said. “Because I could have sworn that I had a chance to help my team win the Galaxy Bowl. I busted my ass my whole life, worked as hard as I could even though I didn’t see much playing time, all to be ready when the team needed me, and when that time came, you decided to put your girlfriend in the game instead of me.”

“Come on, Zak. Becca wasn’t my girlfriend then.”

An unhealthy smile slowly broke across Yitzhak’s face.

“But she’s your girlfriend now, isn’t she?”

Quentin felt uncomfortable. He wondered if other players were watching the exchange, but he wasn’t going to break the stare-down.

“It wasn’t about you,” Quentin said. “It was about winning that game. You’re a good quarterback, but she gave us the best chance at the time. I’m not going to apologize for it. We can talk about this, Zak. You and I can work this out.”

“You had the off-season to talk to me. Seven months of it and you didn’t bother.”

Seven months. Zak was right — Quentin hadn’t reached out during all that time. Neither had Zak, but that wasn’t the way things worked: Quentin was the team leader, and he had made the call to go with Becca instead of Zak. If Zak had reached out first, that would have been a whiny why didn’t you put me in I feel bad so make me feel better kind of groveling. No, Quentin should have started that conversation, yet he’d failed to do that.

Could he tell Zak about Jeanine’s kidnapping and all they had gone through? But even if he did, that whole thing had been resolved in the first couple of weeks following the Galaxy Bowl. That left six months plus where Quentin could have done the right thing — but he’d been too busy hanging out with Becca.

“Zak, you’re right. I’m sorry, man.”

Yitzhak sneered. “I look like a fool in front of the entire galaxy and you’re sorry. Save your sympathy, High One, because I don’t want to hear it. I’ll do my job this season. You do yours. Other than that, just stay the hell out of my way.”

The backup walked to his locker.

Quentin felt awful. He would just have to find a way to make things right. But that would have to wait, because the season was about to begin.

“Let’s get out there, guys,” he said. “Time to start our title defense.”

The Human players gave a few quick hoots and hollers. Quentin left the locker room and headed to the field.

THE GRAND VISAGE OF IONATH STADIUM. Twenty-two pillars rose up from the top edge of the empty upper decks, each pillar draped with a long hanging banner representing one of the GFL’s Tier One teams.

Quentin stood at the mouth of the tunnel, staring out at this football cathedral. The pillars carried the familiar logos of the GFL’s dominant, enduring franchises: the To Pirates, the Jupiter Jacks, the Yall Criminals.

And there were banners that hadn’t been there when Quentin had first led the Krakens to Tier One: the black and metalflake-red of the OS1 Orbiting Death; the red, white and blue of the Texas Earthlings; the black and emerald green of the Buddha City Elite; the green and gray of the Sheb Stalkers.

He could add two more teams to that list. A shimmering iridescent banner represented the D’Oni Coelacanths, champs of the Whitok Conference. D’Oni was a city on New Whitok, also the home planet of the D’Kow War Dogs. The other team to join the T1 ranks, the McMurdo Murderers, had the strangest logo of any team in the GFL: a pink banner showing a white cartoon bunny with a pink belly, smiling an evil smile and holding a butcher’s knife behind its back. McMurdo was on Earth, football’s mother planet.

The Coelacanths and the Murderers: two more teams for the meat grinder, two more squads packed with players that would scrap and claw, that would fight all season long. Some of those players might die. The survivors would hit and be hit, hurt and be hurt, would bear the burden of lifelong pain as they chased the ultimate goal of a GFL title.

New teams, old teams ... Quentin didn’t care about them. Only one banner mattered; it was black, orange and white. On it, the six-tentacled logo of the Ionath Krakens. Champs now, and champs they would remain when the upcoming season ended.

But if Petra’s wasps come, will any of this be left?

Quentin shook away the thought. That wasn’t his business. He was a football player, not a soldier, not an admiral and not a politician. He had one job: lead his team to a second straight title.

“Hey, Q. Ready to begin?”

He turned, saw a smiling Becca standing at his side. They had agreed there would be no public displays of affection, especially not on the field or in front of their teammates. But Becca didn’t have to touch him to show how she felt — her eyes told the story.

His woman, here, ready to fight, ready to work. Becca was no delicate flower, and Quentin wouldn’t want her if she were. Becca was a warrior on a team full of warriors.

He was. He was at the top of his game, at the pinnacle of his sport. His dream had come true — now it was time for a new dream.

Two-time Galaxy Bowl champion.

That had a nice ring to it.

The rest of the Krakens started coming out of the tunnel. Quentin jogged to midfield, Becca Montagne at his side.

“HELLO, MISS MONTAGNE,” the HeavyG man said. “How are you this afternoon?”

“Uh ...” Becca said. “I ... uh ...”

Quentin remembered his own first visit to Danny Lundy’s office. The woman sitting behind that same desk had quite possibly been the best-looking Human he’d ever laid eyes on, so drop-dead hot she had made Somalia look like a street bum. Now, for Becca’s visit, Danny had a stylishly dressed HeavyG man that could have been a movie star, or a model, or probably both. Quentin had to wonder if that woman had been placed there just for his benefit and if this HeavyG man had been placed here for Becca. If so, where did Danny find such good-looking people?

The HeavyG man smiled his perfect smile.

Becca stared, mouth open.

Quentin nudged her.

“Oh,” Becca said. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“And Mister Barnes,” the man said, “we’re so glad to see you here again.”

Quentin nodded.

The receptionist gestured to the waiting room’s chairs. “Mister Lundy is on a call,” he said. “Would you both mind waiting? He won’t be but a moment.”

He nodded. “I’m ready.”

Quentin started toward the chairs, realized that Becca was still looking at the receptionist, then gently pulled her arm. She blinked rapidly, shook her head and came along.

“Wow, Becca, stare much?”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Of course not,” Quentin said. “Not even a little.”

She laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. “Okay, I don’t normally stare,” she said quietly. “I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone that good-looking in person before. It’s weird.”

They walked to the chairs, passing by the holos of Danny’s clients that lined the walls. Stars like John Tweedy, the sled-racer Fas Arenald, Dinolition star Poughkeepsie Pete, Yitzhak Goldman, Vu-Ko-Will and — of course — Quentin Barnes.

“Nice,” Becca said as they sat. She nudged Quentin. “Look at you, all fancy with your fancy-pants holo. You look all heroic, don’t ya know.”

He hated being highlighted, being shown in a non-team light, and she knew it. She was teasing him, but she should have looked all around the office before she did. He nudged her with his shoulder and pointed to his left.

“I think you missed one,” he said.

Becca looked, then said nothing. She stared at a holo of herself, all geared up in the Orange and the Black, knocking a Jupiter Jacks Quyth Warrior on his ass.

Quentin nudged her again. “Now that looks heroic. I might even say legendary.”

She laughed, embarrassed, and punched his arm playfully. It still hurt, though — the girl bench-pressed around 380.

“Shut up,” she said. “It’s only funny when you’re embarrassed, don’t ya know.”

“My bad, I’ll try to remember that.”

Sitting there with Becca, Quentin was reminded of when he had sat in these very seats with Yitzhak. Pine had shown Quentin what needed to be done on the field, but off of it, it was Yitzhak who showed Quentin the ropes. The man had helped Quentin see the bigger picture, that getting angry over every little thing stopped you from being happy at the big things.

And you repay him by embarrassing him in front of billions, and not bothering once to see how he handled that.

But that meeting, in this very office two seasons ago ... what was it Zak had said to him? You given any thought to what you’ll do after football?

It had seemed like a stupid question at the time. What was there besides football? Nothing. Other than finding his family, Quentin hadn’t wanted anything but football. So much had changed since then, and Quentin had a bigger perspective on his life, on his place in the universe — enough to now realize that Yitzhak wasn’t talking about Quentin hanging up the cleats and then getting a job or starting a business.

The backup quarterback had been talking about something else altogether. Quentin still wasn’t sure what, but Zak’s question had carried a sense of importance, something larger than Quentin, larger than the Krakens, larger than anything. Quentin didn’t know what that was, and probably wouldn’t, because Zak sure wasn’t interested in talking to him about anything — ironically — other than football.

“Hey, Q,” Becca said. “Anyone home?”

He forced a smile. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

Becca nodded toward the holo of Yitzhak. “About him?”

How did she always seem to know what was on his mind?

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “He hasn’t spoken to me since the first day of practice.”

Becca shrugged. “That’s on him, not you. You run the offense. You made a call. We’re in the business of winning, not in the business of making people feel good about themselves.”

Would she have felt the same way if he’d sent her to the sidelines and brought in Kopor the Climber to play fullback? If that had happened in a game with the highest of stakes, without warning, and in front of a watching galaxy and a packed stadium? Probably not. It was easy for her to support his decision: she been the one he’d chosen.

Quentin silently wished for the imaginary Yitzhak to shut the hell up.

“Miss Montagne?” the HeavyG model/receptionist said. “Mister Lundy will see you now. Go right in.”

The circular wall to the left of his desk rose up. The holo of Fas Arenald and one of golfer Declan Murphy faded out, revealing a meeting room.

Out strode a gleaming rainbow-colored Dolphin, his body resting in a mechanical chassis supported by four silvery legs. Jewels studded his dorsal and tail fins as well as the metal cable that ran from the chassis up to an input jack just behind his blowhole.

“Becca the Wrecka Montagne! Welcome!”

Danny Lundy spoke in squeaks and chitters that his chassis instantly transformed into a voice one would expect from a fast-talking super agent. Danny strode forward and offered the smooth hands of one of his two streamlined mechanical arms.

A smiling Becca shook the offered hand. “Hello, Mister Lundy.”

“A pleasure to meet you, buddy,” he said. “I can’t begin to say how excited I am about this meeting.”

“Thank you, sir,” Becca said. “Quentin has told me a lot about you.”

“All lies, I’m sure,” the Dolphin said. “I’m much nicer than sentients let on, pal. And call me Danny. Come on, let’s talk about getting you the representation an athlete of your caliber deserves. An All-Pro with your contract, guy? It’s a shame, a crime, a travesty. If you sign with me, Gredok will fear you more than he fears someone with really big feet. Ha! But I’m not saying Gredok is a shrimp, because that would be an insult to one of my favorite foods, buddy. Follow me.”

Danny walked into the meeting room and sat behind a long glass table.

Becca looked at Quentin. She mostly suppressed a laugh of amazement.

“Wow,” she said quietly. “Is he always this intense?”

Quentin shook his head. “Not always. You should see him when he gets really fired up. And a little advice — if he pulls out a fish at any point, just duck.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” Quentin said. “Let’s just hear what he has to say.”

SHE’S YOUR GIRLFRIEND NOW, isn’t she, Quentin?

The end of the first week of preseason brought with it one of Quentin’s least favorite things: the dreaded Media Day.

In his rookie season, he’d been a train wreck, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, letting reporters lead him by the nose into comments that would create controversy and help get them page views. But since then, he’d become skilled at managing the press.

“No, Jonathan, we are not a lock — your word, not mine — to repeat as champs,” Quentin said, answering a question from reporter Jonathan Sandoval. “And we’re not thinking of anything right now but our opening game against Isis.” Quentin flashed a practiced grin. “But I appreciate your confidence in us, and I’ll send you a Krakens hat so you look like the overly optimistic fan that you clearly are.”

The black-skinned Human reporter laughed, as did the other reporters surrounding Quentin. They stood on the 50-yard line, right on top of the sprawling orange, black and white Krakens logo painted there. His teammates were spread across the field, each of them surrounded by a few reporters, but his teammates weren’t facing the feeding frenzy that circled the Galaxy Bowl MVP.

Previous media days had been crazy affairs, sure, but nothing like this. When a team won a Galaxy Bowl, the media paid attention. So many reporters, lined up three deep, all reaching at him with microphones and cameras.

At Quentin’s side, practically connected to his right hip, stood the comforting presence of Messal the Efficient. Messal would know when the interview session had run its course and gracefully move Quentin back to the locker-room area for private one-on-one talks with reporters. Hopefully there wouldn’t be too many of those talks, because none of this contributed to winning ballgames.

Quentin! Quentin! The multi-headed monster demanded to be fed.

He pointed to a sentient at knee-level.

“Well, if it isn’t Kelp Bringer, my old buddy,” Quentin said. “And what trick question do you have for me today?”

The Leekee reporter had been a thorn in Quentin’s side for years, always asking seemingly harmless questions, the answers to which could be taken out of context to make Quentin look like an arrogant jerk. Quentin actually had been an arrogant jerk most of that time, but still, Kelp Bringer had found ways to twist simple answers into something Quentin did not mean.

Save for a body-belt that held his reporting gear, the Leekee was naked, as was the custom of his amphibious species. His black-striped blue skin sparkled in the afternoon sun, showing the defined muscles along his streamlined flat sides. A hunched-over biped, Kelp Bringer looked like he would have toppled forward were it not for his long, flat tail. A ridgeline of small spikes rode up that tail, across his back, and ended at the crown of his pointy head. His small yellow eyes watched Quentin.

Kelp Bringer’s symbiotes — small insectile things that kept his skin clean — crawled across his sides. Years ago the sight of those things had freaked Quentin out, but like so many other wonders of the universe, he’d grown accustomed to them.

“You lost Don Pine last year,” Kelp Bringer said.

“We know where he is,” Quentin said. “So I wouldn’t say we lost him.”

It was a bad joke, an easy one, but the reporters laughed politely anyway.

Kelp Bringer’s laugh sounded like a horse coughing up a cat that was coughing up a hairball.

“Pine is gone,” the Leekee said. “You have Yitzhak Goldman as your backup. Will Ionath move Rebecca Montagne to second string quarterback and drop Goldman to third string?”

Quentin should have known that question was coming. Of course Kelp Bringer would ask it, because the answer might spark a mini quarterback controversy (there was no controversy as to the starter, so reporters had to get page views somehow). It was also an honest story angle: a championship-level Tier Three quarterback returning to her original position.

But Quentin would not take the bait.

He rubbed at his jaw, put on his best That’s a good question! expression and stalled so he could think.

A pause actually makes you look smarter, more introspective, Don Pine had told him on this very field three years ago. Think before you speak.

“Coach Hokor is evaluating the depth chart at every position,” Quentin finally said. “In the Krakens franchise, all positions are up for grabs. Even mine.”

The reporters laughed again.

Messal spoke up in his ever-so-polite-yet-completely-insistent voice.

“I am afraid that is all the time Elder Barnes has right now. Those of you who properly scheduled private interviews may report to Room 13 at your appointed time. Please, do not be late.”

The feeding-frenzy circle parted. Quentin followed Messal off the field. All those questions, and he’d handled them well, hadn’t given one thing that could blow up into a controversy, or be used to motivate the Ice Storm players.

On top of that, Jeanine was safely moved in to the Krakens Building. Becca was the best girlfriend a man could want. The team looked strong, ready to fight for another title.

Everything had worked out, and Quentin had what he had always wanted — he could truly focus on football, and football alone.

31

Preseason Week Two

QUENTIN BARNES SCRAMBLED out of the pocket, and Quentin Barnes gave chase.

The first Quentin Barnes was the hologame version, the stat-maxed cover boy star of the just-released Madden 2686. When it had come out, Quentin had been shocked to see a bloody, snarling, nine-fingered version of himself featured as the game’s main image. The cover of Madden? Him? He’d barely been able to believe his own eyes. It was an honor comparable only to that of league MVP, because it meant that sentients all over the galaxy thought that you were the best player in existence.

Like every young quarterback, Quentin had once dreamed of being so good and so popular that he’d grace the Madden cover, but now that it had come true, it felt surreal and more than a little wrong. He was part of a team — being on the cover put all the attention on him. It was almost... embarrassing.

“Too slow,” Becca said. She leaned right, urging her hologame Quentin Barnes to avoid the pursuing linebacker. That linebacker, John Tweedy, was the real Quentin Barnes, or at least controlled by him.

“Dammit,” Quentin said. “Dammit!”

Last play of the game, Krakens versus Krakens, and Quentin had a four-point lead. All he had to do was get a sack or force an incomplete pass and he’d win.

“Uh-oh,” Becca said, “Crazy George looks open!”

Quentin — the real version — saw George open near the goal line, the area John Tweedy would have been playing if Quentin hadn’t blitzed.

Real Quentin wiggled his fingers to make his holo Tweedy dive for holo Quentin’s feet, but Becca made the holo Quentin effortlessly avoid the tackle.

Is this what it’s like when people try to catch me in real life? No wonder they want to hurt me ...I want to hurt MYSELF right now.

Holo Quentin’s pass ripped downfield and smacked into holo Starcher’s oversized hands. George tucked the ball tight as Bumberpuff rolled into him hard, wrapped four tentacle limbs around him. George managed one more stumbling step, then fell across the goal line for a touchdown.

Becca stood up and raised her hands in victory. “That’s game, baby!”

Quentin slumped back in his couch. He wanted to put his foot right through the holotank.

Becca did a shuffle-step dance to the left, then to the right. She started singing.

“You said I couldn’t beeeeat you, I couldn’t beeeeat you.”

Quentin crossed his arms. “You don’t have to be a dink about it.”

She laughed and puffed out her lower lip.

“Awwwww, after all that smack you talked, are you sad you lost?”

He gritted his teeth. He hadn’t expected Becca’s mind for football strategy. In the world of Madden, at least, she was every bit his equal.

She laughed again, then sat in his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Awww, Q ... would it help if I kissed it and made it better?”

She put her lips to his. He felt her warmth, felt her body ease against him. Quentin’s thoughts faded away into a blissful nothingness — for that moment, her kiss was all that existed in the universe.

She pulled away, smiling at him.

“Yeah,” he said. “That definitely makes it better.”

[CORMORANT Bumberpuff AT YOUR DOOR] the apartment computer called out.

Quentin sighed, as did Becca.

“I’ll head home,” Becca said. “I’m beat from practice anyway.”

“We could just ignore him.”

On the practice field, Quentin treated Bumberpuff like any other teammate, but the truth was he still didn’t fully trust the guy.

Becca stood. “You know you won’t ignore him, so don’t pretend that you would. He wouldn’t be here this late if it wasn’t important.”

She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll let him in on my way out.”

Bumberpuff strode in, standing upright, long tentacle legs moving with fluid grace.

“Thank you for seeing me, Quentin.”

“Captain, what brings you around at this time of night? If you want to go over the Ice Storm passing attack again, we can do that tomorrow before practice.”

“I am not here to talk football.”

Of course he wasn’t.

“I was afraid of that,” Quentin said. “Out with it, what’s up?”

“I’ve had contact with the Old Ones. They have a message for you.”

The confusing nouns of the Prawatt: Old Ones was plural — all the Prawatt that had lived long enough to be added to the mountain-sized sentient that was Petra Prawatt’s true physical form — but they acted as a single entity: Petra, and only Petra.

“Sorry, Captain, I don’t want to talk to her.”

Bumberpuff’s metallic body rattled lightly. “She is the leader of an entire race of sentient beings — you can’t just decide to not talk to her.”

“Oh, can’t I? She’s not my leader, Bumberpuff. I want nothing to do with that psycho. If you channel her in, I’ll just walk out.”

The body rattled again, then stilled.

“Quentin, I acquired Rosalind for you,” the Prawatt said. “Without Rosalind, you would have never found Jeanine. You owe me.”

Quentin’s anger spun up fast, but he didn’t argue. He did owe Bumberpuff. What was more, Bumberpuff had never asked Quentin for anything. The captain played hard, practiced hard, was loyal and selfless. For Bumberpuff to have to use that simple but powerful phrase, you owe me, meant Quentin had no choice but to honor the request.

“All right, go ahead. I’ll listen to what she has to say.”

“Thank you,” Bumberpuff said. “I hope it doesn’t hurt me as much this—”

The Prawatt’s arms and legs stiffened, and just like before, the X-body tipped backward and clonged against the apartment’s carpet.

The blue-tinged hologram of Petra Prawatt formed above Bumberpuff’s prone body.

“Quentin Barnes,” the hologram said. “I must talk to you.”

He had obliged Bumberpuff by speaking with Petra, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take the opportunity to tell a living god exactly what he thought of her.

“What you must do is apologize to me,” Quentin said. “Then, you must apologize to my sister, to Fred, to all my teammates and — especially — to Bumberpuff for using him like this.”

A pause.

“The others do not matter,” she said. “And I will not apologize to an explorer who is barely old enough to form independent thoughts.”

Quentin crossed his arms. “You’re not here to make small talk. You’re here because you want something, and before I’ll even listen to you, you have to do what I say. You won’t apologize to Bumberpuff? You should start with him. All you do is take, Petra — you could stand to learn a lesson from a member of your own race who gives without question, who became a better person in just a few decades of life than you could ever hope to be in all your millennia.”

Petra’s little face clouded with anger.

“I am here to discuss the Abernessia, not accommodate your disrespect and arrogance.”

“Here to discuss, or to use me again? I’m not one of your little robot toys, Petra. I’m a free sentient and I will not be used for your political games!”

“This is no game,” Petra said. “The Abernessia are coming.”

Quentin looked into the hologram’s eyes. His anger faded away, replaced by that sense of dread he’d felt when he saw her image of the spider-wasp ships. Petra had the body and voice of a teenage girl, but her eyes were older than anything he knew, eyes that seemed as old as the universe itself.

She had used him, sure, but she had an entire system to run — she wouldn’t bother with this unless she thought it really mattered. This was just talk, after all ... would it hurt him to hear her out?

“All right,” he said. “When will they get here?”

“Maybe two standard years. Three at most. Centuries ago, we launched probes to protect us from another coming of the Collectors. Those same probes detected the Abernessia — millions of ships, all coming to destroy.”

He thought of the Portath and their advanced technology. They had the ability to effortlessly defeat the Milky Way’s most powerful warships, yet they had fled across the void to escape extinction. The Abernessia seemed like a plague out of the Holy Book.

Quentin’s mind could deny it all he wanted: his heart knew Petra spoke the truth.

“So do something about it,” he said. “Make warships. That’s what your kind is good at, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “We are making them, but that won’t be enough. Everyone has to make warships.”

He flung up his hands in annoyance. “So go talk to everyone, then. Why are you talking to we?”

“Because we need more than just numbers” she said. “To survive, all races have to fight as one. We have to fight together.”

The hologram stared at him, waiting, so real save for the tinge of shimmering blue.

Fight together? What the hell did that have to do with him? He wasn’t a general or a soldier or a ...

Finally, he understood. A numb sensation blossomed in his chest.

“You’re insane,” he said. “You think I’m one of the people that can help bring all the races together or something?”

Petra shook her head. “Not one of the people, the person. Only you can unify our galaxy, Quentin. You and you alone.”

The numbness wormed and wiggled, spread through his guts.

“I’m just a football player.”

“You are more than that,” Petra said. “You have already done things that no one else could do, things that I could not do. You brought my people into your world, peacefully, for the first time ever. You left the Portath Cloud, something that only a handful of sentients have ever done, and that no one has done in a century.”

“I only went there because you tricked me,” he said, his voice rising. He was losing control. He wanted to hit something, hit her, but the only real target was a prone Bumberpuff.

“I tricked you because I knew you were the one,” Petra said. “I knew you could make it happen. I could have manipulated any number of sentients into that mission, but I chose you, and I chose well. If you doubt your destiny, what about the war between the Prawatt and the Sklorno? You stopped that, all on your own.”

“All I did was tell everyone to calm the hell down. There was no reason to fight in the first place. It was all a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstandings have started more wars than history can ever count,” Petra said.

If she was mad, if she was frustrated, she wasn’t showing it. She was calm, yet focused, her image brimming with the intensity of someone who knows they are doing the right thing.

“You told everyone to calm down, and everyone listened. What you’re too young to understand is that each minute of each day, sentients in every corner of our galaxy tell other sentients what to do. Very rarely does anyone really listen — but everyone seems to listen to you”

Petra thought he was some kind of savior, someone who could unify races and governments that had been slaughtering each other for centuries, that had only stopped because the Creterakians had conquered most of them in a bloody war and made them stop.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “No one can unify the races. The smartest sentients in the galaxy have been trying to do that for as long as races have known other races exist. Politicians, scholars, philosophers, peacemakers, generals, people ten times smarter than me, a hundred times smarter ... they all failed. And you think some quarterback can do it?”

“A quarterback already has. Remember what you thought of the Prawatt before you came to Sanctuary?”

Quentin remembered. He, like everyone else, had thought of the Prawatt as the galaxy’s boogeymen, a lethal ax dangling over the head of every sentient in every system. He’d found that wasn’t true, and with Bumberpuff, Luciano Cretzlefinger, Katzembaum Weasley and Tommyboy Snuffalupagus, he’d given the rest of the galaxy hope that the boogeymen were, at heart, far more similar than they were different, regardless of their horrifying appearance and ridiculous names. The battle to overcome centuries of anti-Prawatt racism had only just started, but it had started, because Quentin had made it happen.

But that was just football, that was just finding a way to win — if it impacted race relations or politics, that was nothing more than an accidental benefit.

“So I recruited some good players that just happened to be from a different species,” he said. “It worked out. So what? I play a game for a living. Why aren’t you taking your message to the leaders, the sentients who can actually do something about this?”

“Because we can’t trust the leaders,” Petra said. “This isn’t just about military might. The million ships are coming, but Abernessia agents are already here. They want to corrupt from within, start wars between the systems, make all of us fight each other so everyone is weak when their armada arrives.”

It sounded like something out of a spy movie: evil alien advance agents trying to infiltrate governments, weaken them.

“How do you know this?”

“A few years ago, they found some of our outlying explorers,” Petra said. “They tried to buy my people off with gems, precious metals, other materials that are probably rare and valuable no matter where you are in the universe. But the Abernessia didn’t understand that the Prawatt are connected. The ultimate goal for a Prawatt is to gain enough knowledge and wisdom to merge with the Old Ones and thereby become immortal. So money doesn’t matter that much to us, but for Humans, Ki, Sklorno, Quyth, Harrah and others, that is not the case.”

It certainly wasn’t. Creterakians ruled much of the galaxy, true, but money ruled everything else. Billions of sentients wanted more, wanted better, and would do just about anything to get it. Quentin could easily imagine how effective such bribes would be with the downtrodden people of the Purist Nation — and just about everywhere else, for that matter.

“So the Abernessia are already here,” he said. “You’ve known for years and you haven’t said anything. Why?”

“Because the Prawatt might not have been their first attempt. If their influence has already infiltrated other cultures, who knows how high up that influence goes? That’s why you’re the one, Quentin — there has to be a massive groundswell of support before the governments get involved, so that leaders who object to unified action can be seen for what they are instead of having time to shape the message that people hear. We can use your fame to our advantage. When the time is right, you will tell everyone what we face. You will present the evidence. It’s one thing to call some unknown mechanical alien a liar — saying the same thing about the galaxy’s most popular individual is quite another.”

Quentin suddenly thought of Manny Sayed, of Manny’s claim that Purist mullahs would fight to be seen by Quentin’s side. He was an orphan, something despised in the Nation, yet fame and popularity had changed everything. But if the message was dire enough, the messenger didn’t matter.

“Just show your evidence,” he said. “Sentients will see. They will understand.”

“Evidence can be faked,” Petra said. She smiled softly, like she was a friend trying to give guidance and wisdom. “If leaders are already compromised, they will say I am a liar, that I am just out to start another war. That’s why it has to be you. Who could get the Sklorno Dynasty to cooperate? Someone with a hundred million Sklorno followers. Who could get the Purist Nation to cooperate? One of their own, a rags-to-riches folk hero who brought that system a glory everyone else claimed was impossible. Who could get the Portath to listen when the time comes? Someone who has already met them and lived to tell about it. Who could convince the Ki, both the Empire and the Rebel Establishment, how important this is? Someone who has proven himself as a warrior, who has bled with their kind on the field of battle. And who could get the galactic media to instantly pay attention, to instantly repeat what needed to be said before any government could filter or stifle that message? Someone the media can’t get enough of to begin with.”

She ran fingers through her short purple hair and let the heavy strands drop back into place. Centuries had passed since that hair had been real, yet the habit remained.

“There are other sentients who have done some of those things,” she said. “But there is only one who has done all of them. You. You will be the trumpet that sounds the alarm, Quentin. You.”

He stared at her but didn’t really see her. He’d been ready to be a team leader. He’d fought for that. But leading a franchise was nothing like this. She wanted him to lead the whole damn galaxy.

He shook his head. “You say I’m all those things. You’re wrong. You want to know who I really am? I’m the quarterback of the Ionath Krakens. I’m a brother to Jeanine Carbonaro. I’m a brother to John and Ju Tweedy. I am a son to Ma Tweedy, and that is all I am. I’ve never asked for anything else.”

Petra’s patient smile faded. Those old eyes blazed with impatience — she was a supreme being whose word was accepted as divine.

“You don’t have a choice, Barnes.”

His anger flared up, a welcome sensation that chased away the overwhelming responsibility she had thrust upon him. Anger was familiar. Anger, he knew.

“My life is my own,” he said. “If you wanted my help, you should have asked for it, not chased my sister into the most dangerous place in the galaxy.” He stepped closer, staring down at the hologram like he would stare down at a real person he wanted to intimidate.

“I don’t trust you, Petra, and because of that, I won’t help you. You say I don’t have a choice? You’re wrong. There is always a choice, and I am free to make mine.”

Petra floated up until she was nose to nose with him. So much for intimidation. She stared at him, narrow-eyed and hateful.

“Is your precious freedom worth more than the trillions who will die when the Abernessia arrive? You better spend as much time as you can with Jeanine, John, Ju and Ma, Quentin, because when the horde gets here, all of you will die. You will understand that eventually, you will change your mind, and you will help me. To put it in words that a simple football player can understand, the only variable is time. I just hope you don’t wait so long that it kills us all.”

And with that, her hologram blinked out.

Bumberpuff’s prone form twitched, a dead spider slowly coming back to life. Quentin watched, transfixed, a part of his brain latching onto the visual distraction so he didn’t have to think about what had just gone down.

The Prawatt captain slowly got his limbs under him and rose to all fours. He tried to stand on wobbly, boneless legs. Quentin reached in and lifted a long arm.

“Cap, you okay?”

“No,” Bumberpuff said. “That experience is awful. But to serve Petra in that fashion, it is a small price to pay. Did you talk to her?”

Quentin nodded.

“And? Did you discuss grand things? Does she have your destiny picked out for you?”

His destiny. That was something he would make for himself.

“We talked about the weather,” Quentin said.

Bumberpuff looked so weak; the visitation had really done a number on him. None of this was his fault. He just wanted to do the right thing — and as with many sentients throughout history, that made him susceptible to those who would use that desire to manipulate him.

“Listen, Cap, I don’t want anyone to know about this. Keep it between us, okay?”

“You don’t want people to know the livings god came to your room?” Bumberpuff couldn’t have sounded more astonished if Quentin had suddenly turned into a little bird and flown away. “The living god, Quentin. Do you have any idea of how important this makes you?”

Maybe Quentin did, but it was an importance he didn’t want. He wanted this to go away. He wasn’t going to tell anyone about it, not even Becca.

“If you don’t mind, Cap, I want to get some sleep. Think you can make it to your apartment on your own?”

“Yes, it is only a few floors down. Good night, Quentin — and thank you.”

Quentin saw Bumberpuff out, then returned to the couch. He was tired but knew sleep would evade him. Perhaps another game of Madden would help tune out Petra’s message — mostly. One thing she had said stuck in his head and wouldn’t fully leave his thoughts.

The only variable is time ...

IT JUST DIDN’T FEEL RIGHT without John.

“Hey, ’Soud, know where Uncle Johnny is?”

Yassoud looked around the landing bay, surprised.

“No, I don’t. It isn’t like him to miss his favorite joke about rookie stank.”

As they had for the three seasons before, Quentin and Yassoud stood together in the Touchback’s landing bay. The entire team had gathered to welcome the shuttle back from the Combine. The orange and black vehicle clinked and plinged as the hull warmed up from its time in the void’s absolute cold: inside were the rookies who would have a shot at joining the Ionath roster.

Quentin heard a voice shouting from the corridor outside the landing bay’s internal airlock.

“Wait for me! Wait for me!”

“Ah,” Yassoud said. “There he is.”

John ran through the door, chest heaving and arms swinging in a dead sprint. He stumble-slowed as he approached Quentin and Yassoud.

“Did I ... did I ...”

MISS IT? scrolled across his forehead.

Quentin tipped his head toward the shuttle. “They’re still in there.”

“Oh ... good,” John said. He bent at the waist, put his hands on his knees. “Hey ... Q ... you ... smell that?”

Quentin smiled at the annual joke.

“No, John, what is it?”

“Smells like ... rookie ... stank,” John said.

Yassoud rolled his eyes. “It’s not even a joke, Uncle Johnny. It’s a statement. You really need some new material.”

Quentin didn’t mind. He hoped he heard the same joke for another ten years in a row, hoped that he and John would be Krakens until the day they retired. A pipe dream, sure, but hopefully the inevitable was many years away.

But the Abernessia will get here first, won’t they? You better spend time with John and Ju and Becca now, because when the horde gets here, all of you will die ...

Quentin shook off the thought. That was at least two years away, if it was going to happen at all, which he doubted. Petra would do something, so would the Creterakians and the other governments. He was safe, as was John and Ju and Becca and everyone else. More football, less Petra, that’s what Quentin needed.

“John, you’re never late to see what rookies we got. Where were you?”

Hands still on knees, John jerked a thumb back to the airlock door, then put his hand back on his knee.

“Was in the VR room,” he said, his breathing starting to return to normal. “Stupid aft lift doors got stuck. I had to force the doors open, then run down the emergency stairs.”

Yassoud nodded. “Same thing happened to me yesterday. Captain Kate had a crew out to fix it. I guess they’ll have to come out again. If the outer doors jam, on any floor, the lift freezes.”

Quentin used that lift all the time to get from Deck One, the practice field, or Deck Zero, the locker room and training room, up to Deck Eighteen, which held the VR practice room and the administrative offices.

“You said Captain Kate sent a crew? Why didn’t they fix it the first time?”

Yassoud shrugged. “The Touchback is an old ship. Things break down. Sometimes I think they fix things with spit and duct tape.”

The Touchback didn’t seem old to Quentin — it was newer than anything he’d experienced back on Micovi, that was for sure.

John stood. He was still breathing heavily, but not as bad.

SURE AM GLAD I’M IN GREAT SHAPE danced on his forehead.

He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted across the landing bay.

“Hey, Procknow!”

Jason Procknow looked over. The long-armed HeavyG stood with the team’s other defensive tackles: fellow backups Cliff Frost, also a HeavyG, and Ki Chat-E-Riret as well as Ki starters Mum-O-Killowe and Mai-An-Ihkole.

“What do you want, Tweedy?” Procknow yelled back.

“I can smell you from over here,” John shouted. “Weird how you still stink like a rookie.”

Frost pinched his nose and took a step away from Procknow.

Procknow glared at Frost, then gave John an obscene gesture.

A second-year player, Procknow was the only other Nationalite on the team, and the only one with an infinity symbol tattooed on his forehead. At seven feet, eight inches tall and over six hundred pounds, Procknow had the size to be a great tackle — but his ability was another thing altogether.

Procknow had barely made last year’s cut. Depending on what rookies stepped out of that shuttle — and what free agents were invited to try out in the third week of the preseason — he might not make this year’s. His cousin, Becky Procknow, had been killed on the field by OS1 linebacker Yalla the Biter in the second week of last year’s regular season. Some on the team — Coach Hokor included — thought that had messed with Jason’s head, affected his performance.

If Procknow didn’t make the final roster, though, Quentin wouldn’t be that sad to see him go; the man still believed what he’d been taught by the Purist Church, and was easily the most racist sentient in the Krakens organization.

The side of the shuttle let out a hiss of compressed air, then lowered on a bottom hinge, turning into a ramp that led down to the shuttle bay deck.

The first rookie out was a HeavyG man. He wore a black Krakens jersey, number 74. He was a big kid, just a hair shorter and a few pounds lighter than Procknow. Quentin had wanted this player, and Gredok had landed him.

“Josh Athanas,” Quentin said. “Center from the Kaparna Collision in the Rodina Planetary League.”

Yassoud read data from his palm-up display.

“He’s only eighteen years old,” Yassoud said. “Same age you were as a rookie, Q, oh yep.”

That caught Quentin off-guard. He’d known Athanas’s age but hadn’t thought about the comparison. Quentin’s own eighteenth birthday was already four years past. He was only twenty-two, yet seeing an eighteen-year-old rookie made him feel like an old man.

John sighed. “A rookie center. Doesn’t look good for Gan-Ta.”

Quentin remembered how mad Becca had been when he’d talked of getting a new center, of grooming Bud-O’s future replacement. Getting that replacement meant that Gan-Ta-Kapil, Bud-O’s backup, was probably expendable. There were only fifty-three roster slots available, not enough to carry three centers. Come the end of the fourth week of preseason, either Gan-Ta or Athanas would be cut from the squad.

Michael Kimberlin was first to greet Athanas. He walked the rookie back to the gathered offensive linemen, all of whom — except for Kimberlin — were Ki. Quentin saw Gan-Ta in the press of long bodies. Hard to see emotions in the Ki’s five black eyes, but he didn’t seem agitated. Maybe he thought he could still win his roster spot. Time would tell.

“Well, I’ll be,” Yassoud said. “Gredok seems to like those HeavyG girls.”

Quentin turned his attention back to the ramp. There stood a chiseled HeavyG woman wearing number 24. He recognized her chocolate skin, dirty-blond hair and blue eyes from a game he’d watched not that long ago — Nancy Wolf, from the T3 championship game.

A fullback? Gredok had signed a fullback?

Nancy walked down the ramp, which started to close behind her.

No one else was coming out?

“Rodriguez,” Quentin said. “Where’s Rodriguez? Where the hell is our third quarterback?”

Yassoud shrugged. “Just Athanas and Wolf, it seems. Hey, Q, you going to date this one as well?”

“Shuck you, Murphy.”

“Because if you’re a big spender, I’m your teammate, too,” Yassoud said. “I like Italian food and long walks on the beach. Bring me flowers, who knows where the night might end.”

John tried to hold back a laugh: he failed.

Quentin glared at them. “You can both jump into the Void.”

He would welcome her as a potential teammate, regardless of the real reason she’d been on that shuttle: Gredok wanted Nancy to replace Becca at fullback, so Becca could become the backup quarterback.

Over my dead body. That’s not going to happen no matter what head games Gredok wants to play — we’re not putting the best fullback in football on the damn bench.

Becca, Kopor the Climber and Pete Marval walked out to greet Wolf. At six feet and 415 pounds, Kopor was the second-largest Warrior on the team, behind only Shayat the Thick. Kopor had almost a hundred pounds on Becca, but couldn’t touch her speed and athleticism. His dark-gray-striped light-gray carapace was unique among all the team’s Quyth Warriors. While Kopor was a clear second-string to Becca’s first, he was also significantly better than third-string Marval.

Quentin felt bad for Wolf. She was obviously older than he was by a few years and had scars that spoke of a life in lower-tier football. She probably thought this was her dream come true, her shot at the big time.

I hope you enjoy your three weeks of preseason, because Becca is staying right where she is — come the final cut, you’re out of here.

The team would practice on the Touchback, part of the welcome-to-the-club process for the rookies. The team would also sleep on the Touchback that night, the rooks settling into their new on-ship quarters. Tomorrow morning, everyone would head back to Ionath City for practice at the stadium. After that, Quentin could take his concerns directly to one Gredok the Splithead.

And oh, what fun that conversation would be.

QUENTIN STORMED INTO THE LOBBY of the Krakens Building. A thick-chested Quyth Warrior guard held up a pedipalp hand as if doing that alone would make any sentient stop and listen. Quentin ignored him, just walked on by. The Warrior seemed confused, even looked at his hand for a moment like it was some magical talisman that had suddenly and inexplicably lost its power.

The almost-completed championship display didn’t catch Quentin’s eye, nor did the glowing stars in the black ceiling above. Those things didn’t concern him.

Quentin reached the elevator. The ever-present security guard — Harold — was there, the last barrier between Gredok’s high-rise office and the world beneath.

Harold stepped in front of the elevator doors, blocking Quentin’s path.

“I’m sorry, Mister Barnes, but you can’t go up. Gredok doesn’t want any visitors.”

Harold was a big man. Huge, even, at least by normal standards. But at six-foot-four and three hundred pounds, he looked like a child compared to Quentin, who was eight inches taller and eighty-five pounds heavier.

“I’ve got nothing against you,” Quentin said. “That’s why I’ll give you four seconds to get out of my way. You’ll have to hurt me to stop me, and if you succeed, you’ll have to explain to Gredok why you injured his starting quarterback. But what will probably happen is that you won’t succeed. Instead, you’ll be searching through puddles of your own blood trying to find your missing teeth.”

Harold put on his best I will hurt you scowl and glared up. “Mister Barnes, there’s no need to—”

“One,” Quentin said.

Harold didn’t even wait for “two.” He stepped aside, held up his wrist and spoke into it. The elevator door opened.

“Go on up, Mister Barnes,” Harold said.

Quentin stepped inside.

“GREDOK, JUST WHAT THE HELL do you think you’re doing?”

The black-furred Quyth Leader stared down from his high throne.

“I am building a team that will defend my title,” the Leader said, as calm as ever.

His title? The words infuriated Quentin. Had Gredok bled across the galaxy’s football fields?

The Leader’s clear eye stared down without a trace of color. Seeing such composure made Quentin realize he’d lost control. He shoved down his feelings of anger and frustration: emotions were what Gredok wanted, so he could use them to manipulate.

Quentin took a slow breath.

“We talked about this,” he said. “I told you we needed a quarterback.”

Gredok’s left pedipalp hand casually fondled a pendant made of platinum and a deep green stone.

“We can talk all you like, Barnes, but personnel decisions are mine to make. You have proven to be quite durable — I have every faith that you will make it through the season in one piece. If you do not, we have Goldman ... and we have Montagne.”

“Becca is a fullback,” Quentin said. “Or are you completely unaware of your players’ positions? If you need to be tutored on the basics of football, Gredok, I’d be happy to give you a lesson.”

Gredok ignored the jibe. “Goldman can’t lead us to victories. But you already know that, Barnes, because in the Galaxy Bowl, you are the one that put Montagne in over him. And tell me honestly — do you think Rodriguez is better than she is?”

Quentin started to say yes, but stopped. Becca’s size, strength, toughness, knowledge of the Krakens offense and players, her accuracy in the short passing game ... Rodriguez was good, but she was better. Gredok knew that. Quentin would have known it, too, if he’d ever stopped to really think about it.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I need her in the backfield with me, not on the sidelines holding a clipboard,” Quentin said. “She’s the best blocker at her position in all of football.”

“I would never waste her talents,” Gredok said. “She is our starting fullback and a backup quarterback, which gives me excellent value for my money. So you see, I do not need Rodriguez after all — I need a fullback capable of filling in for her in case you get hurt and Montagne takes over your starting spot.”

This whole charade was about one thing: showing Quentin that despite the Galaxy Bowl MVP, despite the GFL championship, this was Gredok’s team — Quentin was just an employee.

He pointed a finger up at the Leader.

“None of this will matter, Gredok. As long as I’m healthy, I’ll take every snap at quarterback, and I will stay healthy.”

“I should hope so,” Gredok said as he leaned back in his throne. “Because if you can’t play football, you’ll be of no use to me.”

It wasn’t enough for Gredok to be the boss and make the decisions; he also wanted to remind Quentin that when football was over, there were still markers to be paid.

About that point, at least, Quentin couldn’t agree more.

“That’s true,” he said. “And if I can’t play football, then by the same token you would no longer be of use to me.”

Gredok sat forward again, sharply this time, his fur instantly puffing out.

“Did you just threaten me? Me? You worthless Human, do you have any idea who you are talking to?”

Quentin concentrated on not smiling — his last comment had taken Gredok out of his game. Quentin ran his left hand over his hair, from forehead back, mimicking the Quyth gesture of subservience.

“I would never threaten you.”

A promise isn’t a threat, you little pip-squeak.

“Gredok, I understand you wanting to get maximum value for your money, but you’re missing something. Becca is better than Rodriguez and Yitzhak, but she’s not better than me. If she’s getting reps at quarterback, she’s not focusing on her job of protecting me — that means she could miss something, and I could get hurt. Can Becca win you a couple of games? Maybe. If I go down, can she bring you another Galaxy Bowl? No way.”

The Leader’s fur fluffed one more time, then lay smooth.

“You have a point,” he said. “Fine, Barnes — if you want a quarterback, I do have a trade offer on the table. Trevor Haney, backup for the New Rodina Astronauts. It seems Haney doesn’t want to drop to Tier Two and is willing to restructure his contract to league minimum in order to avoid that.”

GK Parish was the Astronauts starting QB. Quentin hadn’t seen Haney play. Parish was a serviceable quarterback, at best — the Astronauts had won just one game all season, which was why they had been relegated.

“If Haney is behind Parish on the depth chart, that doesn’t say much for his skill.”

“You want a backup,” Gredok said. “Haney has four years of Tier One experience in that role. And he’s only twenty-three. Hokor thinks he’s a good fit. I’ll have our breakdown footage sent to your room.”

“Who do the Astronauts want for him?”

“If they don’t trade Haney, he has a Tier Two opt-out clause, so they either move him or he sits out the season and they get nothing for him,” Gredok said. “So for a solid backup quarterback, all they are asking is a kick returner — they want Mezquitic.”

Mezquitic was the last of seven receivers on the Krakens roster. She had returned kickoffs and punts for Ionath before the rookie Niami took over the job. That put Mezquitic on the practice squad; she didn’t even dress for games. She was a good teammate, a hard worker and an eight-year veteran — and none of that mattered, because depth at quarterback was more important than anything she brought to the table.

But if you let Gredok move Becca to quarterback, keep Nancy Wolf at fullback, Mezquitic could stay on one more year, maybe two.

No. That was a consideration based on emotion, on loyalty. In Tier One, the margin for error was horribly small. Any improvement to the roster could mean the difference between winning and losing — that outweighed emotion and loyalty.

“I’ll check Haney’s footage immediately,” Quentin said. “But Hokor knows his players. Start the trade process, Gredok. I’ll yell if I see any problem.”

“Very well, Barnes,” Gredok said. “Shall I inform Mezquitic of her demotion to Tier Two?”

Gredok and his damn rhetorical questions. The crime lord already knew Quentin’s answer.

“I’ll tell her,” Quentin said.

He turned and walked out, leaving the tiny Leader to stare at his back.

You’re right, Gredok — someday my football career will end. When that happens, you and I are going to settle up.

Quentin had no doubt that day of reckoning would leave one of them dead. But for now, he’d said his piece and got what he wanted — time to put the power battle behind him.

Two weeks of preseason remained before the opening game against the Isis Ice Storm. Quentin would be ready. His Krakens would be ready.

Gredok’s little games could do nothing to derail that.

QUENTIN ALL BUT DRAGGED HIMSELF into his apartment. He’d just come from the Sklorno section of the Krakens Building, where he’d given the bad news to Mezquitic. As a member of not only the Krakens, but also the Church of Quentin Barnes, she hadn’t taken it well. He’d left her a quivering, vibrating mess lying on the floor, with Hawick, Denver and Milford to see her through the initial round of grief.

He fell more than sat on his couch. He needed a few minutes’ rest, a few minutes to himself. Watching Mezquitic’s reaction had been the kind of thing that drained one’s soul.

His doorbell chimed.

[REBECCA MONTAGNE, AT YOUR DOOR] his room computer said.

Even better than a few minutes to himself ... a few minutes with Becca.

“Enter,” he said.

He slid to his right to make room for her. Maybe a movie or a show — he wasn’t up for Madden just then — or some basic couch cuddling where they both put their heads back and fell asleep together. That would be just the thing.

Becca walked in, but she didn’t sit down. She stood there, hands on hips, staring at him.

“I just heard the news,” she said. “Nice of you to tell me first.”

“Tell you what?”

“About the trade, Quentin. About you blocking me from playing quarterback.”

Quentin groaned. “Oh, come on, Becca. Not now, okay? I’m not in the mood for this.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not in the mood to talk about my goals and dreams? How am I going to get reps at quarterback with both Yitzhak and Haney here?”

Was she putting him on? He was exhausted from a day of practice, then position meetings, then arguing with Gredok, then watching footage on Haney, then seeing Mezquitic destroyed by the news of the trade ... he really didn’t have the patience for this crap right now.

“Becca, you’re our fullback. You need to focus on that.”

She jutted her chin out defiantly. “All my life I dreamed of being a Tier One quarterback — that’s still my dream.”

“Being an All-Pro fullback and getting a Galaxy Bowl ring aren’t enough for you? Your team isn’t enough for you?”

She looked away, embarrassed. “It’s not like that. Of course those things matter, but I did my job. I was the best fullback I could be.”

“What do you mean was? You’ve got five, maybe even ten seasons ahead of you if you stay healthy. Don’t you get it? You could be a Hall of Famer.”

He saw her lower lip quivering in frustration. She hated to cry. Like him, she hated having any part of her she couldn’t control.

“I don’t want to be a Hall of Fame fullback,” she said, her voice thin and tight. “You of all people should understand that. You of all people should understand me — I want to be a quarterback.”

“So we’re back to that again? You want my job?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. Any athlete worth her salt wants to be the starter, but I know I’m not good enough to take the job away from you. You’re the best in the league, maybe the best that’s ever been. I don’t know if I’m good enough to start for a Tier One team, but I am good enough to be a backup, and that’s what I want — I’ve earned my shot.”

Quentin huffed. “Don’t be so sure. There’s more to the position than you think.”

She glared at him, rage twisting her features.

He felt stupid, wished he could take those words back — he had completely belittled her accomplishments as a Tier Three quarterback, where she had led her team to a title.

“I see,” she said. “I’m smart enough to block for you but not smart enough to actually run the offense?”

“Becca, come on, that’s not what I—”

“I know what you meant, Quentin. Maybe better than you do. You don’t want me to achieve my dreams. You want to keep me right where I am.”

He blinked. What the hell was she talking about? She’d won a Galaxy Bowl; how was that stopping her from achieving her dreams?

“I don’t want to keep you from anything.”

She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand, then walked to the door. Becca was a warrior, as on-the-field tough as anyone Quentin had ever met, yet at that moment it was clearly all she could do to keep herself together.

Becca tapped her sternum.

“When it really mattered, when the title was on the line, you put the ball in my hands, not Yitzhak’s. Since you know I’m better than he is, I have to assume the reason you’re stopping me from playing where I want to play has nothing to do with football skill at all.”

She left without another word.

Quentin stared at the door, unsure of what had just happened. What mattered was where the team needed her, not where she wanted to be. The team needed her at fullback — run-blocking for Ju, protecting Quentin, and catching the ball as a constant threat on screen passes. Becca was as big a piece of the championship puzzle as he was.

Almost as big, anyway.

The bottom line was that everyone had a role to play, and Becca was selfishly putting her needs above the team’s. Had it been anyone else, he would have said as much, would have given her a serious verbal ass-kicking, but how could he do that when he was dating her?

Being romantically involved with a teammate complicated things.

She would calm down. Together, they had won a championship. If she didn’t rock the boat, they had a great chance at a second — maybe even a third.

Quentin nodded. Becca would wise up. She was tough, she was smart, and she was usually selfless. The Krakens offense wouldn’t be the same without their All-Pro fullback kicking ass and taking names.

Becca would realize that soon enough, and then things would go back to normal.

32

Preseason Week Three

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

DAN: And we’re back! Now, I know you might be a little disconcerted with the advertisement you just heard, but we love our sponsors.

TARAT: I do not share that sentiment, Dan.

AKBAR: Yeah, Dan, for once I agree with Tarat. I mean, the Church of Quentin Barnes, advertising on our show? Isn’t that some kind of conflict of interest?

DAN: Akbar, is it a conflict of interest when you get paid for this job?

AKBAR: Well, no, but—

DAN: Then it’s not a conflict of interest — but if you want to complain about the sponsors who are the reason you get paid, little buddy, then it will become one. And fast.

AKBAR: Ah, I see. I guess don’t have a problem with it after all.

DAN: I thought so.

TARAT: Dan, I made a significant income during my days as a player, and I also generate revenue from my independent reporting. Therefore, I am not as dependent upon the relatively meager amount you pay Akbar and me.

DAN: Come on, Smasher — if someone pays our rates, we’ll probably bring them on as a sponsor. And if they pay triple our rates? Well then, I’m the kind of guy that likes to make that happen.

AKBAR: Triple our rates? Now I really don’t have a problem with it.

TARAT: Akbar, you lead a shallow existence. Dan, does it not strike you as concerning that the Church of Quentin Barnes has that much money? The CoQB didn’t even exist five years ago, and now it is the fastest-growing organization in the galaxy.

DAN: Smasher, we weren’t all born as six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound athletes.

AKBAR: With extra arms.

DAN: Exactly, with extra arms. What I’m saying, Tarat, is that it’s great you have some moolah stashed away, but this amazingly fantastic show we run is a business. Our job is to build a big audience that companies will pay to reach.

TARAT: You should stop to ask what message those companies want to deliver, Dan. The CoQB is trying to expand beyond just Sklorno and appeal to the other races. Is that good for the game of football?

DAN: Tarat, with all due respect, I’m moving on to a related topic. Speaking of Quentin Barnes, I think we need to discuss the brilliant roster management of Gredok the Splithead.

AKBAR: Brilliant? Seems a strong word, Dan, unless you think trading a washed-up kick returner for a second-string quarterback is brilliant.

DAN: I’m not talking about the Haney for Mezquitic trade, Akbar, you idiot. The Krakens won the Galaxy Bowl, and guess how many starters they lost to free agency?

AKBAR: Um ... none that I can think of.

DAN: Exactly! We’re talking about the defending GFL champs, here, and Gredok has the entire team locked up this season except for Becca Montagne. Mum-O-Killowe, Barnes, the Tweedy brothers ... everyone else is under contract. Because of this, the Krakens return an unprecedented twenty-one starters, and that’s not counting Montagne. If Gredok signs her? That’s twenty-two — every starter on offense and defense will be back.

TARAT: That is unheard of. Has that ever happened before?

AKBAR: No, it hasn’t. Every championship team has had to fill at least a few holes.

TARAT: My sources say signing Montagne shouldn’t be a problem.

AKBAR: I don’t know about that. She’s an All-Pro making league minimum, and she just picked up Danny Lundy as her agent. He’s going to grind Gredok into the ground.

DAN: Yeah, Tarat. This is free agent week, which means a lot of teams are going to try and sign her away from the Krakens.

TARAT: Normally you would be right, but my sources say that — unlike my Human co-hosts — Montagne is interested in something more than money.

DAN: Oh, I smell another Tarat scoop! Do tell, my linebacker legend, do tell.

TARAT: My sources say that Quentin Barnes is no longer courting actress and singer Somalia Midori. He is now courting Becca Montagne.

AKBAR:
What?

DAN: Holy moly! You heard it here first, sports fans.

AKBAR: Wait a minute. Wasn’t Montagne engaged to John Tweedy? They had that whole sappy proposal during a home game and everything.

TARAT: Now it seems that John Tweedy is dating Quentin’s sister, Jeanine Carbonaro.

DAN:
Woah! Tarat, how did you get this story?

TARAT: My sources are confidential, Dan. If I told you, then other reporters might find out and try to take those sources away. Other reporters like Yolanda Davenport, who did not break this story.

AKBAR: You can’t let a single scoop go without rubbing it in Yolanda’s face, can you, Tarat?

DAN: The Smasher, still competitive as ever.

TARAT: A good rivalry compels individuals to work harder and be better at their jobs. Today, I am better than Yolanda Davenport. This makes me happy.

DAN: Well now that the story is out, let’s go to the call-in lines and see what our listeners think about it. Caller one from Satah, you’re on the space, go!

CALLER 1: Longtime listener, first-time caller, Dan.

DAN: And we love ya for it. What’s your take on this?

CALLER 1: It’s ridiculous. It’s going to cause nothing but problems. I mean, if the Wrecka dates someone on the defense, that’s fine, but an offensive player that’s on the field the same time she is? What happens when the Wrecka accidentally-but-on-purpose misses a block so Barnes can get lit up?

TARAT: Montagne is a professional, caller. I doubt that she would do such a thing.

DAN: We’ll see how the kissy-face backfield works this year. If my wife could miss a block or two when she gets mad at me? I wouldn’t be alive to do this brilliant show, that’s for sure. Let’s get more feedback. Caller two from the freighter Mondo Gonzo, you’re on the space, go!

WHEN QUENTIN HAD STEPPED off the shuttle from the Combine back in his rookie season, he’d been greeted by Don Pine and Yitzhak Goldman. It was a Krakens tradition: the other people at your position welcomed you to the team and gave you the tour of the Touchback.

Now it was Quentin’s turn to welcome a new QB to the team.

“Obviously, this is the practice field,” he said. “Any questions?”

Maybe Quentin was a better quarterback than Don Pine, but the older man was clearly a better tour guide.

Trevor Haney shook his strange head. “Nope, I’ll be ready to go. What about a Kriegs-Ballok? Y’all got one of those brewbies?”

Quentin didn’t know what a “brewbie” was, but apparently it was some slang from Trevor’s home city. Or maybe it was something new from popular culture at large, which Quentin paid no attention to.

He glanced at Yitzhak, wondering if the word meant anything to the older man. Zak shrugged as if it had been a decade since he’d bothered to keep up with slang. So far, he hadn’t said anything other than “hello.” For this tour, Quentin was on his own.

“The VR field is on the eighteenth deck,” Quentin said. “I’ll show you the locker room and training room first, then we’ll take a look at it.”

The whole affair felt stiff and overly formal. Uncomfortable was the best word to describe it, which was no surprise — anything that involved Yitzhak felt uncomfortable.

Quentin led Trevor out of the orange end zone and into the Touchback’s central tunnel. Not far in, he descended the flight of stairs that led to Deck Zero. Trevor and Yitzhak followed.

Quentin wasn’t racist, but Trevor was hard to look at. His parents must have had serious bucks, because they had custom designed his skin pigmentation. Much of Trevor’s face was black. Not brown like Quentin’s skin, or a dark chocolate, like that reporter Sandoval, but rather the literal meaning of the word. The area around his eyes, though, running to and including his ears, was white. And not the pinkish-tan that some old people still called white, but a total lack of color, even whiter than Yitzhak or Yotaro Kobayasho. Maybe Haney’s parents were in a cetacean worship cult — at least that would explain why they’d made their son’s color pattern resemble a killer whale.

At six-foot-seven, Haney was three inches taller than Yitzhak, but almost six shorter than Quentin. He was an amphib, a genetically engineered Human native of New Leekee. His overly long fingers gave him a natural grip on the ball. His long feet, however, made for an awkward running gait. He was a decent pocket passer, but couldn’t scramble to save his life.

At the bottom of the stairs, Quentin turned aft and walked toward the locker room, which was directly under the practice field. The locker-room door slid open with a soft hiss. The three quarterbacks entered the central area, the round room where the team gathered to go over strategy on the holoboard that stood in the room’s center. Benches, lockers and equipment bins lined the walls. Open entryways led into the Human, Quyth Warrior and Sklorno areas on the port side, the Ki, Prawatt and HeavyG on the starboard.

“Coolaush,” Haney said.

Quentin glanced at Yitzhak, who continued to look disinterested in the whole thing.

“Coolaush,” Quentin said. “What does that mean?”

Trevor laughed. “It means good, old man.”

“Old man? I’m a year younger than you are.”

Haney shrugged. “So says the calendar. No offense, brewbie, but I get the feeling you don’t go out much.”

Well, that was true. Haney was chronologically older, but the black-and-white-skinned man seemed like... well ... he seemed like a kid.

“Old man” Yitzhak said. “Funny — that’s what you called Pine when you first got here, Barnes.”

Zak finally spoke, and that was all he had to say?

“Come on, Haney,” Quentin said. “We’ll show you how to work the VR room.”

They walked aft. At the end of the locker room, the door slid open — half left and half right — to another corridor. Quentin gestured to an entryway on the left, one much wider than those of the species-specific dressing rooms.

“This is the training room,” Quentin said. “You’ll meet Doc Patah soon enough.”

“He good?” Haney asked.

“If by good you mean will be keep you on the field when you get hurt, then he’s coolaush.”

Quentin smiled at Haney, waited for him to smile back.

Haney pursed his lips and shook his head. “You’re not using the word right, man.”

Yitzhak laughed, a derisive tone.

Quentin felt ridiculous.

“Come on, let’s get this done,” he said.

The long corridor ran another forty yards or so, taking them past the black end zone above. They took the lift up in silence.

“I’m surprised,” Haney said. “What with you guys winning the Galaxy Bowl and all.”

“Surprised,” Quentin said. “At what?”

Haney gestured around him. “This ship. Your team bus is bittlesore.”

Quentin stared at him, not understanding.

“Bittlesore,” Haney said again, as if the word would explain itself the second time. “It’s all old and beat up, a piece of crap. Look at this lift.”

Quentin did. He’d never noticed it before, but the lift walls were scratched, dented, painted over in several places.

“The Touchback works fine,” he said. “The Astronauts have something better?”

Haney nodded. “The Astros team bus was new three years ago. State of the art, man, all coolaush to the exponential.”

Fifteen minutes into this new relationship, and Quentin was already sick of the slang.

The lift reached the eighteenth deck, stopped and beeped, but the doors didn’t open. Quentin heard a grinding sound.

Yitzhak sighed. “This again. Computer?”

[YES, MISTER GOLDMAN] came the voice from the lift’s speakerfilm.

“Notify Captain Kate the aft lift is stuck. We need an override.” He looked at Haney and shrugged apologetically. “If something hits the outer door to the deck, it can jam, then the lift won’t work. Just be glad it happened when we got here so we didn’t have to use the stairs.”

Haney shook his head. “Bittlesore, man.”

The lift doors made that grinding sound again, then slid open.

“Not bad,” Yitzhak said. “Last time I was in here for ten minutes.”

Quentin stepped into the small landing area. He pointed to his left. “That’s the admin offices. Any payroll questions, anything you need, either ask Messal or just come up here.”

Haney nodded. “Got it.”

“VR room is this way,” Quentin said. “Come on.”

They walked right. Just past the elevator was the door to the emergency stairs. Quentin wondered if that would be the better way to go back down — he didn’t want to be stuck on an elevator with Yitzhak for even one minute, let alone ten.

The high-ceiling corridor’s orange walls matched the black and white carpet: matched as far as Krakens colors went, anyway. As he always did, Quentin glanced at the holoframes covering the walls, showing the Ionath greats from years past. He saw the familiar holoframe of Bobby Adrojnik. And on the other side of the hall, Quentin saw something new — a holoframe of him, smiling wide in his tattered orange jersey, holding up the Galaxy Bowl trophy in one hand and the MVP trophy in the other.

“Nice,” Haney said. “That’s definitely coolaush. Get it now?”

Quentin smiled. “Yeah. I think so.”

Maybe the new guy would fit in after all.

“Come on, Haney,” Quentin said. “Time to show you how we do things. Have you memorized every player on the Ice Storm’s defense?”

Haney huffed. “Yeah, right. Not falling for any of those pranks you play on rookies, old man, but nice try.”

Ah, this was going to be fun. Soon that sarcasm would be shoved right down Haney’s throat. He would wear the Orange and the Black, but only after he learned to do things the Ionath way.

STARTERS WERE BACK at every single position, or had been, until the news came earlier in the week — starting strong safety Davenport had gotten herself knocked up.

It happened from time to time across the league, had even happened to the Krakens two seasons ago with Standish, also a defensive back. When a Sklorno became pregnant, her body changed dramatically — like Standish, Davenport’s career was over.

John and Hokor didn’t seem too concerned, though. Second-year player Niami had been signed as a cornerback, but had been moved to backup strong safety last year. Hokor was confident in her abilities as the new starter.

With all starting positions locked up and the Krakens very close to the salary cap, Coach Hokor hadn’t invited any big names to try out on free agent day. Still, there was always a chance to improve backup talent, so the coach brought in a dozen unsigned players to see if any could make the Ionath roster.

There was no pressure on the starters, but it was a different story for the second- and third-stringers. Hokor had invited linebackers to compete for the backup spots against Shayat the Thick, Samuel Darkeye and last year’s rookie, Pishor the Fang. He’d also brought in defensive backs to possibly take backup positions away from Breedsville, a Sklorno, and Luciano Cretzlefinger, one of the strangely named Prawatt. Finally, he’d invited in a few receivers to compete with Richfield, who at twenty-two years old probably wasn’t going to make the final roster. A shame, really, after putting in fourteen seasons with the Krakens, but she just didn’t have the speed or the leaping ability anymore.

Quentin threw passes to test the prospective defensive backs. These players had been dropped from their Tier One or Tier Two rosters, or were Tier Three players hoping for a lucky break. Granted, sometimes you could find an undiscovered gem on free agent day — as the Krakens had done with George Starcher — but there didn’t seem to be a Starcher-level find in the current batch. Defending against high-caliber receivers Denver, Milford, Halawa, Tara the Freak, Cheboygan and Hawick, and against pass-catching running backs Yassoud Murphy and Becca, the hopeful free agents didn’t stand a chance.

Quentin only threw for about fifteen minutes. That was how long it took to see that none of the invited defensive backs could stop a good Tier One quarterback. Once that was established, Quentin turned the passing duties over to Yitzhak and Trevor Haney.

Throughout the preseason, Yitzhak had been playing well — for him, at least. He seemed more focused, delivering his passes much harder than he had in prior years. The man seemed perpetually angry; Quentin couldn’t blame him.

With Quentin nearby and Hokor above in his floating golf cart, Zak completed most of his passes but gave up two interceptions to a free agent named Dimitrovgrad. Throwing skeleton routes with no linebackers or defensive ends trying to take your head off was one thing: doing it for real was another. If Quentin went down and Yitzhak came in, the Krakens would have to rely on Ju Tweedy and the running game; Yitzhak just didn’t have the skills.

Unfortunately, Trevor Haney wasn’t any better. He was new to the offense, so it would take him some time to adjust, but at that moment Zak had firm control of the number-two spot on the QB depth chart.

Haney had solid arm strength, which was good, but questionable accuracy and poor decision-making abilities when it came to throwing into coverage. The main advantage Haney had over Yitzhak, though, didn’t involve football skills, it involved years. Zak was thirty-three years old, heading into the declining skill and speed that came to all Humans around that age. Haney was ten years younger, just a year older than Quentin. Once Haney learned the offense — and if Quentin and Hokor could help correct those other problems — he might provide several years of valuable service to the Krakens.

Quentin watched Haney throw; stopping him every few passes to give advice on how to best target the Krakens receivers. When Quentin did that, sometimes he noticed Yitzhak glaring hatefully. And Yitzhak wasn’t the only one — if Becca’s eyes had been lasers, Quentin would have been a smoldering stump.

She wanted reps at quarterback; she wasn’t going to get them. Not now, not when Quentin had to make sure Yitzhak was as ready as he could be, and at the same time bring Haney up to speed. Quentin wanted to talk to her about it, but she’d avoided him since their argument following the Mezquitic/Haney trade a week earlier.

Quentin watched Haney take a snap and drop back, black and white hands holding the ball high near his right ear. Haney tracked his receivers in their orange jerseys, who were shadowed by the white-uniformed free agents. Milford planted and came back on a hook route. She was open, but Haney waited a second too long, giving a free agent Sklorno DB time to step in front and pick off the ball.

Becca would, have made that pass.

The thought jumped unbidden into Quentin’s head. He glanced at her, saw her in her orange uniform, watching, a smirk on her face.

From the floating golf cart, Hokor screamed an obscenity about Haney’s heritage. Quentin walked over to Haney and started explaining to the man what he’d done wrong.

33

Preseason Week Four

THE PRESEASON ENDED, and with it came goodbyes.

Quentin and the Krakens gathered in the Touchback’s shuttle bay. Just as with the arrival of rookies from the Combine, the retirement ceremony took place on the Touchback — no media, no fans, just the players, the coach and the owner.

Free agent Dimitrovgrad had surprised everyone by making the final cut. The Sklorno strong safety from the Tier Three Barca Baccalaureates had been placed on the practice squad.

At fullback, Nancy Wolf easily beat out Pete Marval and was even threatening Kopor the Climber for second-string. Pete had joined the Krakens just last year, had seen limited action in his rookie season, and now he was gone. A hard call, but at least he’d seen playing time during last year’s title game and had a Galaxy Bowl ring to show for it. Quentin was confident Pete would catch on with a Tier Two team — the twenty-four-year-old would never be a star, but his football career was far from over.

Josh Athanas was everything Quentin had hoped he could be. The young HeavyG would backup Bud-O-Shwek this year, and possibly next, as Hokor groomed him to be the Krakens future starting center.

New rookies meant new blood, and meant some of the old guard had reached the end of the line. Gan-Ta-Kapil’s and Richfield’s careers were over. Instead of reaching out to other organizations, they chose to go out on top as Galaxy Bowl champions. Wearing the white jerseys given only to those who retired as Krakens, Gan-Ta and Richfield stood by the lowered shuttle door ramp.

Gredok, Coach Hokor and Virak the Mean stood nearby. Gredok walked up to Gan-Ta for a few private words. Standing before a quarter-ton Ki lineman, the Leader looked more like a well-groomed pet than the team owner.

Gredok turned to face the rest of the team.

“It is with a heavy soul I speak to you today,” he said. “We have two players who spent their entire careers with the Krakens. Gan-Ta-Kapil played twenty-three seasons in the Orange and the Black. He was here when I took over the team in 2664. He became the starting center in Ionath’s second season as a franchise. Gan-Ta is a walking monument to the history of modern professional football.”

Quentin glanced at Bud-O, who years ago had taken the starting spot from Gan-Ta. The timeless Bud-O was entering his twenty-ninth season of pro football. With Gan-Ta gone, the next closest in experience behind Bud-O was left guard Sho-Do-Thikit, entering his nineteenth campaign. Even for the Ki, the specter of age was always lurking, waiting to take you out of the game forever.

Gredok continued.

“Gan-Ta played in the anything goes days of the league’s early years. Many of you weren’t even born when he first suited up for Ionath. The exorbitant salaries, the luxurious team bus, the media attention ... none of that existed back then. In Gan-Ta’s first three seasons, the pay was so low he also had to work a full-time job. He played for the love of the game and nothing else.”

Gredok moved to Richfield. He reached out a pedipalp hand, lightly touched the black-trimmed orange 88 on Richfield’s jersey.

“I remember it well,” the Leader said. “It was fourteen seasons ago. At the Tier Three tournament, I saw a young wide receiver playing for the Wapashana Skyjackers.”

Purple — the color of sadness — swirled in Gredok’s eye. Quentin didn’t know if the emotion was genuine or an act, but that didn’t really matter, because it hit the team hard: he heard the sniffles of grown men trying to choke back tears.

“I signed her on the spot,” Gredok said. “She was with us for all that time, never going to another team. For a Sklorno to play fourteen seasons in our league is a testament to her skill, hard work and toughness. She will be missed.”

Richfield started to shake. The praise was too much for her, perhaps.

Gredok walked up the shuttle ramp, stopped at the top.

“Krakens, as you board, make sure you give Gan-Ta and Richfield your respect,” the leader said. “They have mine, and all of you know how hard that is to earn.”

Gredok entered the shuttle. Hokor and Virak went in with him.

As if on cue, Shizzle — the team’s Creterakian translator — flew out of the shuttle and landed on Gan-Ta’s upper right shoulder. For once, Shizzle had left his hideous clothing behind; a plain black outfit covered his tadpole-like body.

As team leader, Quentin was expected to be the first to bid farewell. He walked to Richfield. Her coarse black hair had a reddish tint to it unique among the team’s Sklorno players. For the first time, though, Quentin noticed that the transparent skin on her eyestalks looked a little cracked, a little scaly. Denver’s eyestalks didn’t look like that. Neither did Milford’s or Halawa’s. He realized that was because those three receivers were young, just ten or eleven years old, while Richfield was twenty-two — well into middle age for the Sklorno.

“Sorry to see you go,” Quentin said. “It’s been great to play football with you.”

Her little head bobbed up and down, making her coarse black hair move in time.

“Quentinbarnesquentinbarnes,” the receiver said. “No longer will I catch your holy blessings!”

He shook his head. “No longer, Richfield. I’m honored to have been your teammate. I hope you have a great life.”

“Oh, yes! I am to travel to Earth, Quentinbarnes! The CoQB has invited me to preach your holy word on the planet of your species!”

She was going to be a preacher? A preacher for his “church”? All he wanted to do was play football, yet he couldn’t escape this religion even when saying goodbye to retiring teammates.

“Good luck with that,” he said.

“Thank you, Godlingquentinbarnes. I will not be there long, you will see, I have magic to help me.”

He had no idea what that meant, nor did he care to find out. He smiled awkwardly at her, then stood in front of Gan-Ta-Kapil.

The Ki was just an inch shy of twelve feet long: six feet on the ground, supported by multi-jointed legs, six feet rising up and ending in the Ki’s head.

Quentin looked into the emotionless black eyes.

“I don’t know what to say. Not sure I’ve got any words of wisdom for a player that’s been with the Krakens longer than I’ve been alive.”

Shizzle translated, although Quentin suspected Gan-Ta understood English well enough.

The Ki grunted a string of syllables. Before Quentin could try and process the sentence, Shizzle spoke.

“The introspective and highly comical Gan-Ta-Kapil said, thank you for the glory, and take care of his team.”

Quentin gripped Gan-Ta’s left shoulder, then walked into the shuttle.

Becca still wasn’t talking to him anywhere outside of practice — for over a week now — but Quentin was so busy prepping for the season opener that he’d barely had time to think about the gnawing feeling her absence left in his soul.

He loved her, but right now his duty was to the Krakens. He would take care of Ga-Ta’s team, all right, and the best way to do that was with a Week One win over the Isis Ice Storm.

Ionath Krakens 2686 Roster

No.

Name

Pos

Ht / Ln

Wt

Age

Exp

74

Athanas, Josh (r)

C

7-6

600

18

0

10

Barnes, Quentin

QB

7-0

380

22

4

27

Breedsville

CB

8-3

282

13

4

79

Bud-O-Shwek

C

13-1

630

65

29

39

Bumberpuff, Cormorant

CB

8-1

270

66

1

65

Cay-O-Kiware

LG

12-0

625

36

10

67

Chat-E-Riret

DT

12-2

632

32

5

6

Cheboygan

WR

8-0

360

9

2

54

Choto the Bright

LB

6-0

400

31

7

69

Crawford, Tim

DT

7-10

565

21

2

27

Cretzlefinger, Luciano

FS

8-0

265

56

1

49

Darkeye, Samuel

LB

6-5

310

25

5

81

Denver

WR

8-10

318

12

4

22

Dimitrovgrad

SS

8-6

274

10

3

96

Frost, Cliff

DE

6-11

532

28

6

14

Goldman, Yitzhak

QB

6-4

265

33

9

13

Halawa

WR

9-6

320

11

3

9

Haney, Trevor

QB

6-7

275

23

3

80

Hawick

WR

8-8

282

16

8

95

Khomeni, Ibrahim

DE

6-10

525

27

6

76

Kill-O-Yowet

LT

12-2

513

38

12

71

Kimberlin, Michael

OG

8-0

615

32

12

85

Kobayasho, Yotaro

TE

7-1

380

37

8

28

Kopor the Climber

FB

6-0

415

25

5

92

Mai-An-Ihkole

DT

10-11

650

45

15

20

Martinez, Jay

RB

6-2

304

25

3

91

Michnik, Alexsandar

DE

6-11

525

33

12

82

Milford

WR

9-0

305

11

4

38

Montagne, Rebecca

FB

6-6

330

21

3

2

Morningstar, Arioch

P/K

5-10

185

29

10

93

Mum-O-Killowe

DT

12-6

600

19

4

26

Murphy, Yassoud

RB

6-6

335

28

4

21

Naimi

CB

7-9

285

10

1

72

Palmer, Rich

DE

8-1

425

20

2

64

Pishor the Fang

LB

6-4

400

20

1

66

Procknow, Jason

DT

7-8

612

20

1

33

Sandpoint

FS

8-6

295

11

1

57

Shayat the Thick

LB

5-11

439

36

6

62

Sho-Do-Thikit

LG

13-1

600

42

19

70

Shun-On-Won

RG

12-1

585

29

3

63

Shut-O-Dital

LT

12-8

580

24

5

25

Snuffalupagus, Tommyboy

FS

8-2

288

51

1

87

Starcher, George

TE

7-6

400

32

11

11

Tara the Freak

WR

6-3

360

23

2

50

Tweedy, John

LB

6-6

310

28

8

48

Tweedy, Ju

RB

6-6

345

26

7

23

Vacaville

CB

8-7

335

16

5

58

Virak the Mean

LB

6-2

375

44

4

75

Vu-Ko-Will

RT

11-11

579

51

10

31

Wahiawa

CB

9-6

320

11

3

40

Weasley, Katzembaum

FS

8-1

282

51

1

24

Wolf, Nancy (r)

FB

6-5

322

25

0

73

Zer-Eh-Detak

RT

12-8

690

21

4

BOOK FOUR

The Regular Season

34

Week One:
Isis Ice Storm at Ionath Krakens

A report from the Creterakian Ministry of Religion (CMR) to be delivered directly to the Emperor of the Creterakian Empire.

THE CHURCH OF QUENTIN BARNES

• URGENT UPDATE •

The Church of Quentin Barnes (CoQB) has continued to grow at an alarming rate. The CMR recommends that the CoQB be moved up to the level of Potential Major Threat. The Non-Creterakian Intelligence Agency (NCIA) has already listed Barnes as a Category One threat on the Chart of Potential Revolutionaries.

The CMR is struggling to keep accurate track of this religion’s explosive expansion. Three years ago, the CoQB was a small provincial religion on the planet Yall in the Sklorno Dynasty. Our comprehensive report of last year placed the CoQB membership at 22.5 million, with dioceses on all five Dynasty worlds.

Since that estimate, Barnes led the Ionath Krakens to victory in Galaxy Bowl XXVII, where he was named the game’s Most Valuable Player. The game was watched by an estimated 305 trillion sentient beings, a number that does not count potential viewers from the Prawatt Jihad, which could, conservatively, push the total viewership to over 500 trillion sentients.

In the months after the Galaxy Bowl, the CMR estimates that membership in the CoQB tripled to roughly 68.4 million sentients.

With donations coming in from such a large membership, the CoQB’s financial resources have grown exponentially. The organization is actively using these funds in an aggressive proselytizing campaign that includes missionary work, funding of nonprofit charities, corporate and political donations, and even broadcast advertising on sports-related entertainment programming.

Of even greater concern is something unprecedented in the history of Sklorno-based religions — the CMR has observed non-Sklorno species joining the CoQB. While the number of non-Sklorno members is currently statistically insignificant, if this trend persists there is no way to accurately predict just how large the church could become.

Fueled by the GFL’s exploding popularity and broad appeal to multiple species, our sociologists believe that Quentin Barnes is now the most recognized sentient in history. The CMR wants to emphasize that we are not saying Barnes is the most recognized sentient in football, or in sports, but in the history of all known existence.

NCIA continues to request pre-emptive approval for using any and all containment strategies on Barnes. Plans are being drafted to discredit him in the eyes of his Sklorno followers. In addition, the NCIA has prepared an undisclosed containment facility should the need arise to remove Barnes from public view for an as-yet-to-be-determined amount of time.

At this time, neither the CMR or NCIA recommend the assassination of Quentin Barnes. However, the NCIA maintains its previous stance that should the CoQB grow to a confirmed number of over 100 million followers, Barnes must be liquidated on the grounds that he is a threat to the Creterakian Empire.

The CMR awaits the Emperor’s response.

CONFLICTS.

Drama.

Pressure.

Expectations.

Those things drained away like rain-driven mud sliding off a rock to reveal the hard, unforgiving surface beneath. Because at their core, at the essence of who they were as sentient beings, the Krakens were athletes, born and bred for a few scant moments of game-time glory.

They were football players.

After four weeks of preseason and the week’s worth of practice leading up to this game, the time for football had finally arrived.

Quentin and his teammates prepared to take the field. Ionath Stadium buzzed with the visceral energy generated from 185,000 screaming sentients. He and his teammates had delivered the galaxy’s ultimate prize, the GFL trophy, and those fans were going insane waiting to welcome their champions home.

Wearing black armor and black jerseys with white-trimmed orange numbers and letters, the Krakens jostled back and forth, packed tight into a tunnel that was incapable of restraining their urgency, their desire for victory. Six species banded together as the best of the best, as champions.

The announcer’s booming voice finally echoed through the packed stadium.

“We now raise the championship banner celebrating the 2685 Galaxy Bowl victory!”

The crowd erupted anew. Quentin stared out of the tunnel at the final bit of ceremony; the last shred of the franchise patting itself on the back before the Krakens stepped onto the blue surface and went to work.

At the far end of the field, a dozen Harrah draped in streaming orange and black ribbons rose up from the end zone. Each of them held a glistening orange rope. Those ropes led into a wide black lacquer box decorated with the Krakens logo in the center.

The Harrah flew higher, the ropes pulled taut, and a black banner rose out of the box, rippling majestically. At the top of the banner, in white-trimmed orange letters, were the words IONATH KRAKENS. Below that, the logo of Galaxy Bowl XXVII, and at the bottom, the words Galactic Champions 2685.

The Harrah raised the banner high and hung it from a gleaming bar jutting out the scoreboard’s left side. All the while, the crowd roared. The Harrah then dove back down, grabbed a set of black ropes and raised an almost identical banner that read:

IONATH KRAKENS

Galaxy Bowl VII

Galactic Champions 2665.

The crowd noise grew even louder: the Krakens were one of only six franchises with more than one title, a rare honor indeed.

The Harrah hung the ’65 banner on the scoreboard’s right. Quentin stared out at the spectacle, taking it all in. He was now on par with franchise legend Bobby “Orbital Assault” Adrojnik. Quentin knew he was well on his way to becoming a legend in his own right, might already be there, but he wasn’t satisfied, wasn’t finished.

One more title to beat Adrojnik.

Two more to beat Don Pine.

And before any of that was even a consideration, Quentin had to beat the Isis Ice Storm.

The announcer’s voice rang through Ionath Stadium.

“Beings of all races, please rise and give a warm welcome for your DEFENDING GFL champions ... the Ionaaaaath ... KRAAAAAAAKENS!”

Quentin and his teammates sprinted onto the field. The stadium air rippled with pride, with happiness and joy. He angled for the sidelines, looking up into the stands at a sea of orange, black and white, of Krakens jerseys and jackets, shirts and hats, flags and banners and pom-poms — the tribal colors of the Ionath faithful.

Quentin looked left, across the field to the opposition’s sidelines. The Isis Ice Storm players stood stock still, Ki and Quyth Warrior and Human and HeavyG and Sklorno and — yes, it had come to pass — Prawatt, all watching him, all internally amping themselves up for a shot at the champs.

The Ice Storm’s helmets blazed white in the afternoon sun, chrome facemasks flashing and gleaming. The sword-snowflake logos on either side of their helmets sparkled a metallic blue. Blue-trimmed chrome numbers flashed on white-jerseyed shoulders. The jerseys’ white fabric blended to light blue where they tucked into chrome belts. Hip armor of that same light blue gradated to a darker blue at the thighs, to navy blue at the shins and shoes.

Soon, those jerseys would be blood-streaked and torn.

QUENTIN ROLLED RIGHT, Becca out in front of him. Bodies raged, flew in all directions. Quentin waited for Denver to finish her out-and-up route: forward fifteen yards, a hard right, then up the sideline toward the end zone.

Ice Storm defensive end Ryan Nossek tossed Ionath right tackle Vu-Ko-Will aside, then came in hard, galloping on all fours as he let out a primitive roar. Nossek had killed five players in his career, was probably the most dangerous defensive end in the game, and yet Quentin barely gave him a second thought — he knew Becca would do her job.

The long-armed Nossek reached out for Quentin, but his grasp fell short as Becca’s shoulder pads hammered into his waist, knocking the HeavyG man’s massive legs out from under him.

Untouched, Quentin kept rolling right. He threw a light, high-arcing pass just before Denver cut up the sidelines, leaving the Ice Storm cornerback a step and a half behind her. Santa Cruz, the Isis safety, came over to help, but it was already too late. Thirty yards downfield, Denver hauled in the pass without breaking stride, then stepped out of bounds at the 5-yard line just before Santa Cruz could deliver a crushing blow.

The home fans bellowed their approval, as they had already done so many times that afternoon. Quentin felt like he couldn’t miss. Three touchdown passes and over three hundred yards passing, driving the Krakens to a 21-7 lead — and it was only the third quarter.

The team gathered in the huddle. Denver was the last to join.

“Love-love-love that pass! Love-love-love! More please!”

“No talking in my huddle,” Quentin said. His voice was firm, but his smile showed he wasn’t upset with his friend and favorite receiver.

His helmet’s VR screen popped down, showing Hokor’s scowling, one-eyed face and his tiny little Krakens ball cap.

“Good throw, Barnes,” the Leader said. “Spread wide, single-back dive-left, but if you see an opportunity to pass, take it.”

Tara the Freak ran onto the field; Becca ran off.

Quentin tapped the side of his helmet, making the VR screen snap back into its hidden housing. He looked at his teammates and repeated the coach’s command.

“And listen for an audible,” Quentin said. “It’s loud down here.”

Ju sneered. “Just give me the damn ball, Q. Stop hogging the glory.”

“Pipe down, Tweedy. On two, on two, ready?”

“Break!” the team called in unison.

They jogged to their starting spots. Denver lined up wide left, the bigger Halawa a yard inside and a yard behind her. Crazy George — who had painted his face in tiger stripes for some unknown reason — lined up at right tight end. Tara the Freak lined up wide right. This close to the end zone, Tara’s strength was more valuable than the breakaway speed of the other Ionath receivers.

Five yards behind Quentin, Ju settled into a three-point stance. Even over the crowd, Quentin could hear him breathing. Snorting was more like it; the big running back wanted the ball.

Quentin slid his hands beneath Bud-O-Shwek. He looked out over his offensive line: left tackle Kill-O-Yowet, left guard Sho-Do-Thikit, Bud-O at center, Michael Kimberlin at right guard and Vu-Ko-Will at right tackle. Vu-Ko hadn’t been able to stop Nossek, but the rest of the line had dominated their Ice Storm opposites — which was why this play was called to go left of center, as opposed to right.

The Ice Storm linebackers, Chaka the Brutal and Max Taliaferro, crept up, then crept back. They faced a difficult choice: creep closer to stop the run and have Quentin throw over them for the touchdown, or stay back to cover crossing routes and let Ju build up a head of steam if Quentin handed off the ball. The defensive backs spread out to cover Denver, Halawa and Tara the Freak, leaving only Santa Cruz in place to stop a pass over the middle to the back of the end zone.

To audible, Quentin would call out the color “red,” signaling his teammates that they needed to listen closely to his following words for the changed play. He saw the linebackers drifting back ... he decided to stick with the run.

“Blue, nineteen! Blue, nineteeeeen. Hut-hut!”

The linemen smashed into each other. Quentin pushed hard off his right foot, stepping back with his left as he reached the ball toward Ju. The running back’s arms violently snapped down. Bud-O, Sho-Do and Kill-O pushed forward, their multi-jointed legs driving them into their white-jerseyed, chrome-facemasked opponents. Kill-O knocked his defender aside, then gathered and expanded faster than Quentin had ever seen. The Krakens guard slammed into Taliaferro, knocking him backward. Ju followed Vu-Ko’s block. Chaka the Brutal crashed into Ju and wrapped him up, but Ju twisted his hips and kept his big legs pumping — Chaka fell away. Santa Cruz came in hard for a touchdown-saving, head-on hit: Ju lowered his head and shoulders and bowled her over before strolling into the end zone for the score.

Ionath 27, Isis 7.

The crowd roared. The Ionath City dome far above turned Krakens orange.

Ju stood tall, held his arms straight out and tilted his head back like an actor taking a curtain call. Quentin and his teammates jogged to the running back, slapping his shoulder pads or helmet, congratulating him on the touchdown.

Ju grinned at Quentin.

“Q, this is so easy, it’s like stealing. I hope the rest of the season is just like this.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Quentin said. “There’s still a quarter to play in this one, so let’s just take care of business.”

Ju rolled his eyes. The Ice Storm had managed one long pass for a TD when Katzembaum Weasley, the Krakens free safety, got burned by Isis receiver Angoon for an 80-yard strike. Other than that, John Tweedy and the defense had shut the Ice Storm down. Isis QB Paul Infante had been sacked six times; he looked as battered and bloody as someone on the losing end of a street fight.

Quentin and Ju came off the field to the praise of their teammates. Everyone was happy, even Hokor — at least, as happy as the surly little Leader could be, which wasn’t very much.

Arioch Morningstar kicked in the extra point.

Ionath 28, Isis 7.

GFL WEEK ONE ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

D’Oni Coelacanths

26

Alimum Armada

27

Buddha City Elite

17

Vik Vanguard

14

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

24

Wabash Wolfpack

35

Ionath Krakens

35

Isis Ice Storm

10

Orbiting Death

24

To Pirates

21

Yall Criminals

35

Themala Dreadnaughts

0

Bartel Water Bugs

42

McMurdo Murderers

7

Texas Earthlings

28

Bord Brigands

21

D’Kow War Dogs

17

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

24

Shorah Warlords

7

Jang Atom Smashers

21

Sheb Stalkers

28

Jupiter Jacks

10

Coming into the opening week of the ’86 GFL season, one question was on the minds of football fans all across the galaxy: are the Ionath Krakens (1-0) ready to defend their ’85 title? Based on the results of their 35-10 drubbing of the Isis Ice Storm (0-1), the early answer is a resounding “yes.”

Krakens quarterback Quentin Barnes ripped the Storm secondary for 341 yards and four touchdowns. Barnes completed passes to ten different receivers. Denver, Yassoud Murphy, George Starcher and Tara the Freak all caught touchdowns. Denver led all receivers with six receptions for 112 yards. Running back Ju Tweedy carried the ball 15 times for 96 yards and a touchdown.

How did the Krakens’ Planet Division rivals do? Well, that depends on which team you’re talking about: Buddha City, Wabash, OS1 or Yall? Over the past five seasons, Ionath has developed or renewed bitter rivalries with those four franchises.

The OS1 Orbiting Death (1-0) made an early statement with a 24-21 come-from-behind win over the To Pirates (0-1). Death quarterback Condor Adrienne ran in the winning touchdown in dramatic fashion, hitting Pirates’ star defender Ciudad Juarez head-on and falling across the goal line with just four ticks left on the clock.

Wabash (1-0), who has faced Ionath the last two years in the playoffs, controlled Coranadillana (0-1) 35-24 in a game that wasn’t as close as it sounds. Wolfpack QB Rich Bennett connected with tight end Alexander Van Houten for three scores, while Ralph “Pappy” Schmeer rushed for 56 yards and two touchdowns.

Yall quarterback Rick Renaud showed no signs of the injuries suffered in last year’s playoff loss to Ionath. The 2685 league MVP threw for 428 yards and five touchdown passes as the Criminals (1-0) posted a 35-0 shutout over the Themala Dreadnaughts (0-1).

Buddha City (1-0) also notched a win, edging out Vik (0-1) by a score of 17-14 on a last-second field goal by kicker Donald Baynes. Elite defensive tackle Don-Wen-Sul dominated the game, recording three sacks on Vanguard quarterback Rich Barchi.

In the Solar Division, Texas (1-0) kicked off the season with a strong 28-21 win over the Bord Brigands (0-1). Earthlings linebacker Alonzo Castro intercepted Bord QB Mike Kazmierczak and returned the ball for a 72-yard, game-winning pick-six.

Despite three touchdown passes from D’Oni quarterback Glenn Howell, the Coelacanths (0-1) dropped their Tier One opener to Alimum (1-0). The Armada won 27-26 on a 65-yard Hail Mary touchdown pass from quarterback Kirill Gomelsky to rookie receiver Sopchoppy.

In other key Solar Division games, Neptune (1-0) topped D’Kow (0-1) by a score of 24-17, while Jupiter (0-1) was upset 28-10 by Sheb (1-0). The Stalkers rallied after their rookie receiver Ashaway died on their first offensive play of the season.

Deaths

Sheb rookie receiver Ashaway, killed on a clean hit by Jupiter linebacker Katan the Beheader.

Offensive Player of the Week

Yall Criminals quarterback Rick Renaud, who threw for five touchdown passes and 428 yards in a win over the Themala Dreadnaughts.

Defensive Player of the Week

Buddha City defensive tackle Don-Wen-Sul, who had three sacks, five solo tackles and three assists in the Elite’s 17-14 last-second win over the Vik Vanguard.

35

Week Two:
Sheb Stalkers at
Ionath Krakens

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

1-0

Alimum Armada

1-0

Bartel Water Bugs

1-0

Buddha City Elite

1-0

Jang Atom Smashers

1-0

Ionath Krakens

1-0

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

1-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

1-0

Sheb Stalkers

1-0

Wabash Wolfpack

1-0

Texas Earthlings

1-0

Yall Criminals

0-1

Bord Brigands

0-1

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

0-1

D’Kow War Dogs

0-1

D’Oni Coelacanths

0-1

Jupiter Jacks

0-1

Isis Ice Storm

0-1

McMurdo Murderers

0-1

Themala Dreadnaughts

0-1

Shorah Warlords

0-1

To Pirates

0-1

Vik Vanguard

THE GAME, JUST LIKE THE WEEK of practice before it, went by in a blur.

Quentin knew the defense’s every move. He anticipated their actions and predicted their adjustments. He saw their deep green helmets with red-eyed, white-lightning-bolt skulls on the side, saw their white jerseys with the red-trimmed green numbers, saw their red leg armor with the white lightning bolts down the thighs. He’d seen those same uniforms back in his rookie year four seasons earlier, but back then he’d been watching from the sidelines as Don Pine had led the Krakens to a home victory.

This time, Quentin was the one who drove daggers into the Sheb Stalkers souls.

He hit Denver on a flag pattern for a 56-yard TD.

Minutes later, on a third-and-long, he scrambled 32 yards to the Sheb 25-yard line, then on the next play found Tara the Freak over the middle for another score.

A touchdown pass to Milford closed out the second quarter.

Halftime whizzed by as he and Hokor searched for new ways to exploit the Sheb D, but there wasn’t much new territory to be mined as the Sheb D had already been exploited to the tune of a 28-0 Ionath lead.

In the second half, Quentin hit Cheboygan for a deep pass to the Sheb 3-yard line. Next play, he looked right, staring at Denver long enough to draw the defense, then tossed a pass to Yassoud in the left flat; ’Soud took it in for the score.

In the fourth quarter, a John Tweedy interception gave Ionath the ball on the Sheb forty-nine. The very next play, Quentin stepped up into the pocket and threw a laser strike to Halawa, hitting her at the back of the end zone for his fifth TD pass of the night.

With a 42-3 lead, Quentin stayed on the sidelines, giving Yitzhak two full drives of game-time reps. Zak completed a couple of short passes, but mostly handed off to Yassoud or rookie fullback Nancy Wolf. The score remained the same when the clock ticked 0:00.

Quentin led his teammates in a lap around the field, reaching up to touch the Krakens fans who reached down to touch them back.

• • •

THE KRAKENS HAD JUST WON their second game — that meant the regular season was well under way, and that meant Becca should have gotten over it by now. But she hadn’t.

[REBECCA MONTAGNE ISN’T ANSWERING YOUR CALL.]

The room computer gave him the news he’d expected, the same news it had given him all week leading up to the game against the Stalkers, and the week leading up to the Ice Storm before that. She was perfectly civil to him in the locker room, on the practice field and during games, never showing anger or disdain that could hamper team unity, but outside of those places, she simply wouldn’t talk to him.

Following the Stalkers game, Quentin had cleaned up, congratulated his teammates on the dominant win, then done his time in the post-game press conference. After that, the short walk through the secure underground tunnel that ran the stadium to the Krakens Building, then up to his apartment.

The door chime sounded softly, and for a brief second, Quentin’s heart surged at the thought of Becca finally coming to see him.

[JOHN TWEEDY AT YOUR DOOR.]

Quentin sighed. “Enter.”

John came in, hand in hand with Jeanine. The sight of his sister instantly raised Quentin’s spirits a little. She gave him a big hug.

“Good game, baby brother.”

“Thanks. You watched on holo?”

She shook her head. “Hell no, I was there this time. Don’t worry, no one would have recognized me.”

Jeanine held up her palm and tapped the icons that appeared above it. A holopic popped up, showing two smiling mustached men wearing Sheb Stalkers jerseys and jackets. It took Quentin a second, but he recognized Jeanine as one of the men.

“A fake moustache?”

She held a slim finger against her upper lip. “Presto! I’m like a whole ’nother person, don’t you think?”

Quentin didn’t recognize the man in the picture with her, but he didn’t need to.

“I’m glad Fred was with you.”

“Me too,” John said. The words CHICKS LOOK BETTER WITHOUT FACIAL HAIR scrolled across his forehead. Jeanine laughed and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Q, we’re going to dinner to celebrate,” John said. “Come with us. Fred’s going to be there. Ju might come, too, if he’s not out drinking with ’Soud, Crawford and Athanas. By the way, that rookie can drink.”

Food would be good, as would spending time with his sister ... but what if Becca called back?

“Nah, you guys go ahead. I’m going to analyze our game footage.”

“We’ve got three straight road games coming up,” John said. “Coranadillana, then Yall, then the six-day trip from Yall to Neptune, then the six-day trip from Neptune back home — we’ll be away from Ionath for two full weeks. You need to enjoy these home wins while you can, brother of mine.”

Jeanine reached out and held Quentin’s hand.

“Come on,” she said. “A relaxed dinner away from this little apartment of yours will do you good. Listen to your big sister. She knows all about affairs of the heart.”

She knew he and Becca were having trouble? Of course she did — she was dating the team’s linebacker, who also happened to be Quentin’s best friend.

Quentin had been so obsessed with the season, with the Ice Storm and then the Stalkers — and with his love life — that he hadn’t really carved out time to spend with Jeanine. That was stupid: he’d crossed the galaxy to save her, then couldn’t be bothered to take an elevator two floors down and hang out with her every now and then? He was busy, sure, but nobody could be that busy.

Sometimes, he realized, he didn’t know how fast the weeks were flying by, didn’t comprehend how much time passed while he was heads-down in playbooks, practice and game footage.

“Okay, I’ll go,” he said. “As long as the restaurant isn’t Torba the Hungry’s.”

Jeanine made a sour face. “I don’t think I ever want to see that place again.”

“Ever-ever?” John said, his eyes widening like he was six and Jeanine had just broken his favorite toy. “But Torba’s is great. The ribs are amazing. Q, why wouldn’t you want to go ... oh, right, the whole big light thing and almost shooting your fake dad in the face.” John shrugged. “Anyway, we’re going to Bernie’s Biscuit House. He’s got a private back room.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Quentin said. “Just have to finish up a few things first.”

Jeanine stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Okay, but don’t take long.”

John and Jeanine left. Quentin didn’t have anything to finish up, but maybe he could ask Becca to come to dinner. Maybe if Becca knew John and Jeanine would be there, she might come.

He felt a rush of embarrassment. No, he wasn’t going to call Becca a second time in one night, no way. She was the one being ridiculous, not him. He was stronger than that.

The door chime sounded. Quentin’s heart betrayed him, again surging at the hope that it was Becca coming to talk.

[MICHAEL KIMBERLIN AT YOUR DOOR.]

Quentin sighed. “Enter.”

The mountain of HeavyG offensive guard walked in. His right eye was swollen and blackened, and there was a smear of blue nanomed gel on his split lower lip. Quentin hadn’t been touched all night, but only because his offensive line had battled hard to protect him.

“Good evening, Quentin.”

“What’s up, Mike? I was about to head out to dinner.”

Kimberlin raised an eyebrow. “You’re going out instead of studying for next week? Will wonders never cease?”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I leave the building sometimes.”

“An event more rare than a full eclipse, I assure you. If you have a moment before you go, I have an issue of some importance.”

The man looked deadly serious.

“Uh, sure, Mike. Go ahead.”

Kimberlin started to talk, then paused, gathering his thoughts. Quentin waited. Kimberlin usually knew exactly what he wanted to say, about any and all subjects. Whatever this concerned, it was hard for him.

“We had a conversation two seasons ago, he said. “I don’t know if you recall it. I told you that someday you might use your abilities for something greater than football.”

Quentin nodded. “When I cooked dinner for the Ki, right? When Mum-O barfed up a hamburger.”

“Which was less than appetizing.”

“You can say that again.”

Kimberlin’s voice dropped in volume, not to a whisper, exactly, but not far from it.

“After our trip to the Portath Cloud, I believe that someday I spoke of has arrived. Our next game is in Coranadillana. Being there gives you a chance to discreetly meet with sentients from the Tribal Accord’s independence movement.”

Independence movement? What did that have to do with anything?

“Mike, if you want to charge sentients for my autograph, do I get a cut of that action?”

Kimberlin’s face wrinkled in annoyance. “This isn’t the time for your bad jokes. I’m not talking about your thumbprint.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“The invasion,” Kimberlin said.

Quentin’s anger stirred, a snake slowly uncoiling in his belly. He’d finally pushed away all thoughts of Petra’s ridiculous request, and here was Mike, stirring things up again.

“Wait a minute,” Quentin said. “How could that be what you meant when you said I should do something greater than football? We had that conversation way before we went to the Cloud.”

“That’s not what I meant at the time,” Kimberlin said. “I was trying to ... it doesn’t matter. What matters is now. You have a huge role to play in all of this, and we can start this week. The Harrah have the best pilots and fightercraft in the galaxy. Sure, the Creterakians have thousands of Harrah in the Imperial Fleet, but we’ll need the underground support of the tribal leaders from each of the Accord’s five homeworlds. I can arrange meetings with members of the five major tribes.”

This was coming from out of nowhere. What the hell was the Harrah independence movement? How did Mike know anyone from it? And why was he bringing this up now, when ...

The snake in Quentin’s belly unfurled further, lifted its head and flashed fangs dripping with poison.

“You talked to Petra,” he said. “Bumberpuff had a message for you, right? Petra put you up to this.”

“What?” Kimberlin shook his head. “No, I didn’t talk to Petra ... wait, did you talk to her again? Since we’ve been back?”

The thought of that excited Kimberlin, animated him.

“It’s a lie, Mike. There’s no invasion.”

The words just came out and they felt good, they felt right. Quentin desperately wanted them to be true. If the invasion was a lie, he didn’t have to change anything, he could enjoy the life that he’d worked so hard to build.

Mike crossed his arms. “Why would Petra lie about it?”

“Maybe their economy is failing, I don’t know,” Quentin said. “They have no trade with other systems. Maybe she wants to use this to get other nations to accept her. She needs something after all the wars she started — a boogeyman even scarier than the Prawatt might do that.”

“The Prawatt have existed for centuries without intergalactic trade,” Kimberlin said. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

Quentin shrugged. “I said I don’t know why she’s lying, Mike, I just know she is. And even if she isn’t? It’s still not my problem.”

The HeavyG stared, a scowl slowly forming on his oversized features. “If she’s not lying, the life of every sentient in this galaxy is at risk, and it’s not your problem?” He shook his head. “Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe everyone was.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I thought you’d left the selfish kid from Micovi behind.”

Quentin wanted to hit him. If Mike hadn’t been so damn big, he might have done just that.

“Selfish? I’m a team player and you know it. I’ve given everything I have for the Krakens.”

The HeavyG pounded a huge fist into a huge hand, and his face screwed up tight with fury.

“I’m not talking about football! I’m talking about the entire galaxy going to war!”

Quentin had learned how to control his own emotions mostly because his default state was one of rage. Kimberlin wasn’t like that: anywhere but the football field, Mike was always calm, always collected, always spoke in a voice so smooth it could make a rabid dog lie down and take a nice nap. Before now, Quentin had never heard the man yell. Had they been talking about anything else, anything at all, Quentin would have tried to slow things down and understand his friend, his teammate and tutor and mentor, but when it came to Petra and her delusions Quentin was simply done with all of it.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told her,” Quentin said, unable to hide the threatening growl that laced his voice. “If you think there’s a war coming, then go get a soldier, someone who can actually do something about it. You supposedly know the Harrah independence movement? If that isn’t just as much crap as Petra is slinging, then tell them.”

Kimberlin breathed in deep through his nose, a sharp, long sound like he was trying to jam a cork into a bottle of frustration. He let it out slow, and his face returned to normal: calm, placid, patient. His face, yes, but his eyes still simmered with anger.

“I may have asked you for action before I fully explained why I think this is real,” he said, his voice strained. “I can educate you on why this is so important, Quentin. I can—”

“Get out, Mike. Get the hell out of my apartment. Now.”

Mike stared, his mouth twitching slightly. Quentin wondered if that cork might pop from internal pressure, and knew that if it did, there would be no putting it back.

“We’re not finished with this,” Kimberlin said.

“We are. Get out.”

Kimberlin shook his head, then turned and left. The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Quentin fuming and wishing he had a target. Any target.

It didn’t matter what Kimberlin believed, didn’t matter what Petra said, didn’t even matter if Bumberpuff was really being used or if he was the one pulling these strings. Right now what mattered was that the Krakens were in first place, and that his sister was waiting to share a meal with him.

Focus on that ... you have responsibilities to the team and your family ... just calm down, just calm down ...

Quentin waited for a few minutes to make sure he wouldn’t run into Kimberlin in the halls, then headed out to dinner.

GFL WEEK TWO ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Yall Criminals

42

Alimum Armada

3

Buddha City Elite

24

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

21

Orbiting Death

35

D’Oni Coelacanths

14

Ionath Krakens

42

Sheb Stalkers

3

Themala Dreadnaughts

24

Isis Ice Storm

21

To Pirates

28

Wabash Wolfpack

17

Jupiter Jacks

10

Bartel Water Bugs

28

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

37

Bord Brigands

12

D’Kow War Dogs

28

Shorah Warlords

24

Jang Atom Smashers

10

Texas Earthlings

21

McMurdo Murderers

7

Vik Vanguard

24

Is it too soon to dub 2686 the “Season of the Gunslinger”?

Quarterback barrels blazed this week, led by Rick Renaud and Quentin Barnes. Both signal-callers guided their squads to 42-3 blowouts: the Criminals (2-0) over the Alimum Armada (1-1), and Ionath (2-0) over the Sheb Stalkers (1-1). Barnes racked up 367 yards and five TD passes, while Renaud threw for 381 yards and four scores.

The two QBs are either #1 or #2 in the league in passing yards, TD passes and completion percentage, which certainly makes their looming Week 4 matchup look like a potential shootout. In Week 3, the Krakens visit Coranadillana (0-2), while Yall has the tougher outing in a visit to OS1 (2-0).

“It’s a huge game for us,” Renaud said. “The Death are one of the best teams in the league.”

OS1 continued their home-field dominance, notching a 35-14 win over the surprisingly competitive D’Oni Coelacanths. The win came at a high cost, however, with the second-quarter death of OS1 running back Chooch Motumbo.

“Chooch was a big part of our playoff run last year,” said OS1 team owner Anna Villani. “He’ll be missed, but we’re excited about the debut of Danté Diener and hope he can keep up the great work.”

Diener, a rookie running back, came in after Motumbo died. Diener ran for 112 yards on 15 carries, including touchdown runs of 32 and 27 yards.

Also in Planet Division action, the To Pirates (1-1) got back on track with a 28-17 win over Wabash (1-1). The Jupiter Jacks (0-2) might have come just a touchdown away from winning last year’s Galaxy Bowl, but so far this season the Don Pine–led squad is winless. The Jacks fell 28-10 to the Solar Division–leading Water Bugs (2-0). Bartel QB Andre “Death Ray” Ridley ran wild, rushing for 87 yards on 10 carries, including two touchdowns, and threw for another 215 yards and two TD strikes to wide receiver Dixonge.

Neptune (2-0) and Texas (2-0) remain tied with Bartel for first place in the Solar.

The Scarlet Fliers hung a 37-12 drubbing on the Bord Brigands (0-2). Neptune’s defense dominated, holding the Brigands to 198 yards of total offense and keeping them out of the end zone all afternoon. Fliers defensive tackle Chris Maler notched three sacks, while linebacker Jan “The Destroyer” Dennison had an interception and a fumble recovery.

Texas notched a 21-10 win over Jang (1-1). Next week, the Earthlings have a chance to go to 3-0 for the first time in franchise history when they visit the winless Isis Ice Storm (0-2).

Deaths

OS1 running back Chooch Motumbo, killed on a simultaneous hit by D’Oni linebackers Dana Stowell and CB Harvey. The league is reviewing the hit, as illegal head-to-head contact may have been involved.

Offensive Player of the Week

Ionath Krakens quarterback Quentin Barnes, who threw for 367 yards and five TD passes in a win over the Sheb Stalkers.

Defensive Player of the Week

Yall Criminals linebacker Anthony Meaders. Meaders had seven solo tackles, five assists, a forced fumble and a sack against the Alimum Armada.

36

Week Three:
Ionath Krakens at
Coranadillana Cloud Killers

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

2-0

Buddha City Elite

2-0

Bartel Water Bugs

2-0

Ionath Krakens

2-0

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

2-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

2-0

Texas Earthlings

2-0

Yall Criminals

1-1

D’Kow War Dogs

1-1

Alimum Armada

1-1

Jang Atom Smashers

1-1

Themala Dreadnaughts

1-1

Sheb Stalkers

1-1

To Pirates

1-1

Vik Vanguard

1-1

Wabash Wolfpack

0-2

Bord Brigands

0-2

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

0-2

Jupiter Jacks

0-2

D’Oni Coelacanths

0-2

McMurdo Murderers

0-2

Isis Ice Storm

0-2

Shorah Warlords

QUENTIN RELEASED THE BALL only a split-second before a big HeavyG lineman smashed into him and lifted at the same time, shoulder pad in his ribs, giant arms crushing around his waist. Quentin didn’t have to see the ball’s path to know it was on target, that it would hit Denver for six.

Then the ground came up and said “hello,” making an instant Quentin sandwich: the bright yellow, black-lined field on one side, 530 pounds of defensive end Jesper Schultz on the other.

Quentin lay there for a moment, his head spinning from the double impact, and heard the long booooo of the Cloud Killer crowd. He laughed — a halting thing, interrupted by stabs of dull pain.

“Good one, Schultzie. Is that—” Quentin winced at what felt like a broken rib “—the best you can do?”

Schultz stood up and pulled him to his feet. The big HeavyG gave Quentin’s helmet a friendly slap.

“Come on, Barnes — you didn’t think you’d get out of this game completely untouched, did you?”

Quentin fought to keep his face neutral, even forced a smile. Maybe it was two ribs.

“I dared to hold out hope.”

Schultz glanced at the scoreboard. “Well, looks like you finally got us.”

The touchdown pass to Denver had put Ionath up 31-10, soon to be 32-10 after Arioch Morningstar kicked the extra point. With only five minutes remaining in the fourth quarter, Quentin had just put the game out of reach. The jinx was over: after three losses against them as a starter, he had finally beaten Coranadillana.

“Hey, Schultzie, you know that’s the first time I’ve been sacked this year?”

Jesper smiled. “Aw, look at you, trying to make me feel better. Such a nice little guy you are. Good luck this year.”

“You too,” Quentin said and jogged for the sidelines, his eyes already scanning for Doc Patah.

• • •

QUENTIN! QUENTIN!

He pointed at a familiar face.

“Jonathan Sandoval, Net Colony News Syndicate,” the man said. “You finally beat Coranadillana. What was different this time, as opposed to the last three seasons you lost to them, and does this mean the path is clear for Ionath to go undefeated?”

Quentin laughed and leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly as the motion tweaked his cracked ribs. Doc Patah’s nerve block had taken away some of the pain, but not all of it. After the press conference, Quentin was due in one of the Touchback’s rejuve tanks for a three-hour session to repair the bones — first, though, he had to answer stupid questions like that one.

“Undefeated? Come on, Sandoval, can’t you just let us enjoy tonight’s win?”

The Human reporter didn’t let up. “So are you saying you don’t have confidence in your team? Are you saying that Ionath can’t go undefeated?”

At one point or another over the last four years, Quentin had wanted to punch each and every reporter that covered the Krakens. The same faces every week: Sandoval, Yolanda Davenport, Kelp Bringer, Pikor the Assuming, Kinizzle, Ron-Do-Hall ... if they weren’t asking a ridiculous question that exposed their lack of real football knowledge, they were fishing for that nugget of manufactured controversy.

It had worked on him when he was a rookie, but he wasn’t a rookie anymore.

“We take our opponents one at a time,” he said. “Next week we face the Yall Criminals, an excellent squad. If we don’t prepare properly, they’ll beat us — that is the only game that matters right now.”

Sandoval sat down. Maybe he’d carve up Quentin’s words to find some new meaning, maybe not.

Quentin! Quentin!

The multi-headed monster never stopped squawking for more. Quentin saw a Creterakian dressed in a black bodysuit with bright images of bouncing cherries moving on it. The cherries were being chased by what looked like a yellow pie missing one slice, except the slice opened and closed like it was the pie’s mouth. Where did that species find such horrid clothes?

“Kinizzle,” Quentin said. “Go ahead with your question.”

THE QUYTH WARRIOR PUSHED HIS WAY through the packed bar. Pushed gently, so as not to cause an alarm or bring attention to himself. Even at the other end of the establishment, he could hear the screaming of a drunk Human.

“So then I says to her, but I’m not an apple, I’m a stick figure!”

Marik recognized the man — John Tweedy. The sentients surrounding John roared at the punch line. Marik the Covetous didn’t find it funny at all — not that he had ever understood Human humor. He hated Humans for their lack of hygiene, poor education and primitive, superstitious beliefs, which remained popular a full millennia after science had carried the species to the stars. And their little faces with those tiny little eyes: Humans were the most disgusting race in the galaxy. Except for Whitokians, of course, but that was a given.

Coranadillana had several bars that catered to Quyth customers, but could the targets have gone to one of those? Oh no, of course not — the smelly Humans usually congregated with other smelly Humans, hence their presence in a bar designed for their smelly kind. There were a few Harrah, though. Some were bar employees — flying drinks to tables and returning with empty mugs — but most were football fans wearing orange and black backpacks or trailing ribbons of the same colors.

Fans of the Ionath Krakens had taken the place over for the night.

Marik worked his way to a wall and put his back to it, scanning the crowd. His sources from Ionath City said the target rarely went out after home games and almost never when the Krakens were on the road — but if he did, he went out with the overly loud, overly obnoxious Tweedy brothers. If the target was anywhere on Coranadillana, he would be here.

A barrel-chested man suddenly jumped up on top of a table. The table wobbled, but the orange-and-black clad fans surrounding him quickly steadied it. Marik recognized this Human, too: John’s brother Ju, who also played for Ionath. He ran the ball, or threw it, or maybe kicked it — Marik didn’t know a damn thing about football and didn’t care to learn.

“Time to sing,” Ju said, raising his glass. Beer sloshed out of it, splashing down on those who had kept him from falling on his face; they didn’t seem to care.

“Come on, everyone,” Ju said. “Let’s sing My Girl from Satirli 6!”

“Satirli 6!” John Tweedy screamed, then hopped up and down. “Good song!”

Behind Ju and the fans surrounding his table, Marik saw an impossibly thick HeavyG raise a glass and shout in joy. The man’s head came up to Ju’s shoulder; it took Marik a moment to realize the man wasn’t also standing on a table — the massive sentient was just standing.

“Identity check,” Marik said quietly. “I think this one is a bodyguard.” The J-plant concealed beneath a fake sheet of chitin sent the request to his partner. Marik closed his eye, then squeezed the eyelids tighter once, twice, a third time: that activated the scanner embedded in the contact lens covering his cornea. He opened his eye and stared at the big sentient, who looked almost as drunk as the Tweedy brothers, and was singing that awful song just as loud.

His partner’s voice came back through the J-plant, so clear it sounded like the Leader was standing only an inch away.

“Marik, you obviously didn’t study the research you were assigned,” said Turon the Ugly. “You are supposed to know all Krakens players on sight. That is Tim Crawford, a defensive tackle.”

Marik wished Turon were right next to him, so he could grab that sensitive spot between the little Leader’s pedipalps and just squeeze. Maybe twist a little as well, remind Turon who was the bigger and stronger of the two.

“I do not need to do the research,” Marik said. “That is why you are here.”

“Do not forget your place, Marik. Is there any sign of the target?”

Marik hated Leaders. Turon wasn’t his shamakath, and Marik didn’t have to take his orders. Still, he scanned the packed crowd, looking for the target. He saw another oversized HeavyG — not as large as Crawford, but far too big to be just another bar-goer.

“Target check,” he said, staring at the man.

“That is Josh Athanas,” Turon said. “Look at the size of him ... he is 228.6 centimeters tall ... Crawford is almost 240. I know we have some large sentients in our organization, but those two look like giants.”

“They are giants,” Marik said.

Pro football players were so massive, seeing them in person made one doubt one’s own eye. Marik was used to being the biggest sentient in the room almost everywhere he went, yet his antenna stubs wouldn’t even come up to Crawford’s sternum.

Marik finished scanning the crowd.

“No sign of the target,” he said. “Has anyone else reported in?”

“Negative,” Turon said. “He must have left right from the stadium and gone up to their team bus. There is no point to continuing this exercise. You and the others may leave. I will book travel for next week.”

Marik’s eye swirled with black; he knew, because the contact lens reflected it, let him see what was normally invisible to him. He tried to calm himself. This trip had been wasted, but hopefully they would get their chance at Yall.

GFL WEEK THREE ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Alimum Armada

14

Jupiter Jacks

17

Bartel Water Bugs

17

Buddha City Elite

13

Wabash Wolfpack

24

D’Oni Coelacanths

10

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

10

Ionath Krakens

32

Isis Ice Storm

21

Texas Earthlings

20

Orbiting Death

35

Yall Criminals

7

To Pirates

35

Themala Dreadnaughts

10

Bord Brigands

14

D’Kow War Dogs

13

Vik Vanguard

35

Jang Atom Smashers

12

McMurdo Murderers

10

Shorah Warlords

28

Bye Weeks: Neptune (2-0) and Sheb (1-1) did not play this week.

Week 3 ushered in an upset and possibly a changing of the guard, as OS1 (3-0) stunned Yall (2-1) by shutting down the league’s most-productive offense. The Orbiting Death held the Criminals to a single touchdown in the 35-7 rout.

“They’re good, but they had to come to the Black Hole,” said Death signal-caller Condor Adrienne. “Here, everything changes. Our house, our rules.”

Adrienne put in a solid 22-of-33 passing performance for 243 yards and two TDs, but it was rookie running back Danté Diener that ruled the day. Diener ran for 125 yards and three scores.

Renaud had been flying high coming into the game, but the Death defense held him to just 207 yards passing and no TDs. The Criminals’ only score came on a reverse to receiver Concord.

The win keeps OS1 tied for first place in the Planet Division with rival Ionath (3-0). The Krakens hung a 32-10 defeat on host Coranadillana (0-3). Ionath faces Yall in Week 4, while the Death have a bye. A win over Yall would put Ionath a half-game up and give them sole possession of first place.

Bartel (3-0) took control of the Solar Division with a hard-fought 17-13 win over the Buddha City Elite (2-1). Water Bugs running back Robert Shonfelt picked up 104 yards on 20 carries, including both of Bartel’s touchdowns.

Texas (2-1) fell out of first place in the Solar thanks to a 21-20 upset at the hands of Isis (1-2). The Ice Storm fell behind 20-0 in the first half but scored three touchdowns in the fourth quarter to pull ahead.

Deaths

No deaths reported this week.

Offensive Player of the Week

D’Kow War Dogs running back Daniel Carrus, who rushed for 205 yards, including a 95-yard touchdown run, in a losing effort against the Bord Brigands. Carrus broke six tackles on the long TD run, including a pair of collisions that knocked two Sklorno defensive backs out of the game.

Defensive Player of the Week

To Pirates rookie defensive end Johnny Mushet, who had three sacks and a forced fumble in the Pirates’ 35-10 win over Themala.

37

Week Four:
Ionath Krakens at
Yall Criminals

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

3-0

Ionath Krakens

3-0

Bartel Water Bugs

3-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

2-0

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

2-1

Buddha City Elite

2-1

Texas Earthlings

2-1

To Pirates

2-1

Vik Vanguard

2-1

Wabash Wolfpack

1-1

Sheb Stalkers

2-1

Yall Criminals

1-2

Bord Brigands

1-2

Alimum Armada

1-2

D’Kow War Dogs

1-2

Themala Dreadnaughts

1-2

Jang Atom Smashers

1-2

Isis Ice Storm

1-2

Jupiter Jacks

0-3

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

1-2

Shorah Warlords

0-3

D’Oni Coelacanths

0-3

McMurdo Murderers

IT WOULD TAKE TWO AND A HALF DAYS to travel from Ionath to Yall. Hokor scheduled the Touchback to depart on Tuesday afternoon. That gave the team Friday for a full-contact practice at Tomb of the Virilli Stadium, home of the Criminals. It always helped to get a feel for the field prior to game day. They would practice at the stadium on Saturday as well, but that was just a walk-through, as no one wanted to get dinged up before Sunday’s clash.

The Krakens returned from Satah, home of the Cloud Killers, on Monday evening. That made Tuesday morning a mad scramble to take care of any planetside business before the Touchback departed. Quentin had shuttled down for a nice family breakfast with Jeanine, John, Ju and Ma Tweedy (Ma had been kind enough not to ask about Becca, thankfully), then come right back up again.

Two hours before departure, Hokor called Quentin to his office on Deck Eighteen to address something urgent.

“Urgent” meant Gredok was involved.

Quentin strolled into Hokor’s office. He expected to see Coach and Gredok, but there was one more sentient present — Danny Lundy, sports agent extraordinaire.

Coach sat behind his tiny desk, as usual, wearing his tiny Krakens ball cap. Gredok the Splithead was in his cushy corner chair, black fur gleaming almost as brightly as his gem-studded platinum jewelry. The Dolphin stood in front of Hokor’s desk, off to the side, leaving one chair open for Quentin.

“Hey, buddy,” Danny said. “So happy you could join us.”

Quentin looked from Danny, to Hokor, to Gredok.

“Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

Gredok’s glossy fur fluffed up slightly, briefly, then lay flat. While there was no color in his cornea, Quentin sensed the team owner was in a positive mood, if not outright happy.

“Well, Barnes, it seems we face an unexpected complication,” the crime lord said. “Danny Lundy says his quarterback client demands a trade.”

Quentin looked at the Dolphin. What was Danny trying to pull? Gredok had won the battle over Quentin’s contract, and that was that.

“I didn’t tell you to talk to Gredok,” Quentin said. “My contract is fixed and I’ll live up to the terms.”

Danny’s head bobbed up and down. The office lights reflected off his wet rainbow-colored skin. “Easy, guy — I’m not here to talk about your contract.”

And then Quentin understood.

“Yitzhak wants out? I know he’s still pissed, but he’s number two on the depth chart and he’s getting playing time. That’s way more than he had last year, Danny. And if he leaves Ionath he’ll lose all of that sponsorship money. Did you explain that to him?”

The Dolphin shook his head from side to side, flinging a tiny bit of wetness onto Hokor’s little hat. The coach didn’t seem to notice. He just sat there, his eye swirling with threads of dark blue.

“Wrong again, pal,” Danny said. “I’m not here for Goldman, either.”

Quentin was getting tired of this game. “You don’t represent Haney, and that’s all the quarterbacks we have on this team, so you want to get to the point?”

“You missed one, buddy, one who isn’t on the depth chart. And if my client can’t play quarterback? Then she wants a trade, and she wants it immediately.”

QUENTIN KNEW THE COMPUTER was announcing his presence, but he didn’t care — he kept pounding his fist against her door.

“Becca! Open up!”

She knew why he was there. If she thought she was going to hide in her room and not talk to him, she had another—

The door to her quarters slid open. Quentin stepped inside.

Becca stood by her holotank, arms crossed, eyes burning with frustration.

“I gather you’re not here to congratulate me on taking one step closer to my dream?”

“You know damn well I’m not,” he said. “Why did you go over my head?”

“I didn’t go over your head, you arrogant ass, because it’s not your franchise. I asked my agent — who you introduced me to, by the way — to negotiate in my best interests.”

She was going to pretend this was all business?

“It’s my team, Becca. And I told you no.”

She threw up her hands. “Since when do you get to tell me what to do? You aren’t the one that pays my salary, Quentin. I’m a grown woman and I will do what’s best for me.”

“We all need to do what’s best for the team, not for ourselves.”

She glared at him, her lip half-curled into a sneer.

“That’s easy for you to say. You want to play quarterback, and you’re playing quarterback. Such a sacrifice you’re making.”

He slapped his chest. “In my rookie year I played running back when Mitchell Fayed died. I let Don Pine play quarterback and I ran the ball because that gave my TEAM the best chance to win, so don’t you lecture me about sacrifice.”

She held up a single finger. “One game! You were a running back for one damn game! This is my fourth season at fullback. Every play I’m at risk, just like everyone else. Any play could be my last — I have to go after my dream now.”

“This is the life we chose, Becca. You know injuries are part of the game.”

She nodded. “Injuries and death. I know the dangers we face better than you. I’ve killed players — you haven’t.”

In her first game as a Kraken, her very first play in Tier One, she’d been on kickoff return against Isis. She’d laid a devastating full-speed block that killed Ice Storm player North Branch. Becca had almost quit football over that. Quentin had all but forgotten that incident — clearly Becca had not. The look in her eyes said she lived with that guilt every day; she just chose not to talk about it.

“Okay, sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “Look, the team needs you at fullback. Why are your needs so much more important?”

She answered his question with one of her own.

“Quentin, why don’t you get it? It’s not just the chance of injury that makes me go after this now. Next year, maybe the year after that, our galaxy is going to war. We could all die — I’m not going to miss out on my dream.”

Petra again, her manipulations, spreading everywhere, corrupting everything.

“Don’t tell me you buy into her crap.”

Becca stared at him, astonished.

“You don’t believe her? You don’t think the Abernessia are coming?”

He crossed his arms. “Petra is a liar, Becca. She proved that.”

Becca shook her head slowly, her expression a combination of both disbelief and realization.

“In the months we spent on Earth, you barely spoke of the trip to the Cloud,” she said. “I let that go because I thought you were so worked up over Jeanine and the duel and everything else. I thought you’d want to talk about the invasion in time, but you don’t even believe it’s real.”

She looked at him like she was waiting for him to contradict her, but he said nothing.

“Quentin, you and I were on Sanctuary together. We met Petra, we were inside of her. If you were honest with yourself, you’d admit that she wouldn’t lie about something this serious.”

“A liar is a liar,” Quentin said. “She lied about my sister, and—”

Becca grabbed her holotank and threw it to the floor, where it broke into several sparking pieces.

“Give it a rest with your damn sister already!”

Heavy black hair hung in front of Becca’s face, so thick that Quentin could only see her right eye.

“Your sister is safe! Petra did a horrible thing. Jeanine could have died, sure. So could’ve you. So could’ve I and the others, but you know what? We did not die. That’s because Petra knows what she’s doing. She’s eight centuries old and she’s made up of thousands of smart sentients who merged with her so they could all become even smarter.”

“Being old isn’t the same thing as being wise,” he said. “My time in the Purist Nation taught me that.”

Becca’s head tilted back but her eyes stayed fixed on him, as if he’d just said something so stupid she couldn’t believe it had come out of his mouth.

“You’re comparing a bunch of racist old Humans to her? You don’t think there’s a difference?”

He thought of Bumberpuff’s blind devotion to Petra, and how Petra used that any way she wanted.

“No, I don’t see any difference at all.”

Becca put her hands on her hips. “Then we’re done talking about it. So, are you going to tell me what Gredok decided, or do I have to call Danny for the details? Am I getting traded or not?”

Quentin’s jaw clenched involuntarily. He’d argued with Danny, and with Gredok and Hokor, but Danny won, and Quentin had been reminded yet again that when push came to shove he was Gredok’s employee, not Gredok’s equal.

“Hokor insisted you stay at fullback for this week,” Quentin said. “Kopor needs more first-team reps in practice, so I don’t get decapitated when he starts against the Fliers in Week Five.”

Becca’s eyes widened. “So ... when we play Neptune, I’m ... I’m officially a Tier One quarterback?”

“Third string,” Quentin said. He meant that to sound insulting, but her position on the depth chart didn’t matter. They both knew she was better than Zak and Haney — if Quentin went down, Becca would go in to replace him.

“Gredok is putting Trevor Haney on the practice squad,” Quentin said. “To make room for you on the QB roster. I guess no one cares about his dream to play quarterback, huh?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

“So his dreams are more important than mine? Right, Quentin, because you know Trevor Haney so well. You guys are just best buddies, right? So sure, take his side.”

“It’s not about taking sides,” Quentin said. “It’s about what’s best for the team. But I guess that doesn’t matter to you.”

She sneered. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

“You have two more weeks at fullback, Becca. Think you can be a team player for that much longer and do your real job?”

The second that left his mouth, he regretted it. Rebecca Montagne was an All-Pro fullback, a consummate professional who had risked her own safety time and time again to protect him: both on the field and off.

She pointed to the door. “Time for you to leave.”

He wanted the words that would make this right, that would get her to think of the team and to show her how much he wanted to stop fighting, how he wanted to go back to the way things were ... but if those words existed, he didn’t know how to find them.

Becca had what she wanted. Quentin just hoped that her dream wouldn’t sink the Krakens’ chance at another title.

“You’re right, it is time to go,” he said.

He turned and walked out.

THE
TOUCHBACK’S
SHUTTLE DESCENDED over the endless city of Virilliville. Dense civilization blanketed the entire surface of Yall, making the planet glow like a light bulb, marred only by a few uneven strips of darkness where the oceans were too deep for buildings, too rough for permanent platforms. The endless city lights lit up the bottoms of pink clouds, formed by billowing columns belching forth from hundreds of skyscraper smokestacks.

Quentin stared out a window, knowing that he shouldn’t, knowing what he saw made him even sicker than dropping out of punch-space.

“I wish they wouldn’t do that,” he mumbled.

John heard him, came over and looked out over Quentin’s shoulder.

“Do what, Q? I can’t see a damn thing through all that smoke.”

“The smoke is what I’m talking about,” Quentin said. “They’re cooking each other, John — a feast for a football game shouldn’t mean death for thousands. It’s horrible.”

“Oh, no, it’s delicious.”

Quentin glared at him.

“Ahhhh,” John said slowly. “Not horrible as in tastes bad, you mean horrible as in not a nice thing to do, right?”

“Can’t put one past you, Uncle Johnny.”

SHARP AS A WHIP scrolled across John’s face.

“I don’t know, Q — have you ever eaten Sklorno?”

“Of course not!”

John shrugged. “Well, then maybe you should try some before you get all riled up about this sort of thing.”

Dancing letters on John’s forehead spelled out TASTES LIKE CHICKEN.

Quentin flashed a guilty glance at Denver and Milford, who were sitting a few rows back.

“John,” he said through clenched teeth, “you shouldn’t say things like that in front of our teammates.”

John laughed. “Q, it’s been such a long time since you went all hayseed on me. The question isn’t who has eaten Sklorno, it’s who hasn’t” He looked across the aisle. “Hey, Choto, you ever munched down on a little grasshopper casserole?”

Choto looked up at John, then saw Quentin staring angrily — the Warrior hesitated.

“Answer him,” Quentin said. “Have you actually eaten a sentient being?”

Please say no, please say no ...

Choto’s eye swirled with red-orange.

“Yes, but I was a guest at a protandry ceremony,” he said. “It would have been bad form to turn down the main course.”

Quentin shook his head. “That’s gross, Choto. Gross.”

John shouted back to Denver and Milford. “Hey, ladies, have you ever eaten Sklorno?”

The two receivers started hopping up and down. Their raspers lolled. Spit suddenly flew everywhere, a long strand splattering across Virak the Mean.

“Feasting time!” Denver said.

“Feed the tribe!” Milford said. “Celebrate life!”

John shrugged, then turned back to Quentin. “Seems like they’re fine with it. It’s their species, Q — maybe you shouldn’t judge?”

“The sentients that live always seem to be fine with the death of those that don’t,” Quentin said. He heard the shortness in his voice, the anger. He was lecturing John, who was only trying to help. “Sorry. I know they have their own culture and everything, it’s just that ... well—” he pointed to the window, which looked to be a sheet of pink as the shuttle sailed right through a smoke column “—all of this is apparently done to celebrate me.”

John hit his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Ow,” he said. THAT HURT: DON’T KNOW MY OWN STRENGTH scrolled across his skin. “Now I get it, Q. That could make a fella feel bad. If you don’t like it, why don’t you do something about it?”

“What the hell can I do about it, John? There’s trillions of Sklorno. What should I do, have the shuttle land at every pillar of smoke so I can go in and single-handedly shut down the incinerators like I’m Patuth the Muscular? Life isn’t like the movies.”

John stared, then shook his head in that way that made Quentin feel stupid.

“Q, didn’t you single-handedly stop the Sklorno from going to war with the Prawatt?”

Quentin opened his mouth to argue ... but he couldn’t, because John was right.

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

The shuttle broke through the cloud. Quentin stared at Virilliville’s towering, densely packed skyscrapers, at the multi-layered roads weaving between them. Even the smaller buildings here towered over Ionath City’s tallest. Many skyscrapers were painted in the purple and white of the Yall Criminals. And up ahead, the spectacle that was the Tomb of the Virilli Stadium, shimmering with waves of light and cascading color.

Beyond the stadium, more columns of pink smoke lit by the city beneath, stretching all the way back to the horizon. Could he do something about that? No, he couldn’t — the Sklorno culture had been this way for millennia. Still, he had stopped that war. He didn’t want to change the Sklorno way of life ... he just didn’t want anyone cooked in his name.

Was that really so much to ask?

He gave his head a hard shake. Imposing his will on other cultures wasn’t his business — his business was winning football games. And this week? The showdown everyone in the galaxy would be watching: Quentin Barnes vs. Rick Renaud.

Everyone expected a shootout, and Quentin planned to deliver.

QUENTIN STEPPED UP into the pocket.

Around him, black-armored, orange-jerseyed Ionath linemen struggled to hold back the onslaught. Yall’s deep-purple jerseys looked almost black in the afternoon light. Black-trimmed white numbers and letters spelling CRIMINALS across the chest blazed in the sun, as did white arm guards, hardened gloves and three parallel stripes that ran down deep-purple leg armor.

Yall’s white helmets looked like they’d been through war. Most of the purple “ball-and-chain Sklorno” logos on the sides were scratched, gouged and chipped, so typical of gear near the end of a Tier One game. The jerseys of both teams were streaked with the dark-green paint that made up the field’s lines, and with white from the field itself.

Quentin looked for Denver: covered. Milford and Halawa, also covered. Yall defensive tackle Anthony Meaders spun off a Sho-Do-Thikit block and rushed in, the HeavyG’s all-fours gallop closing the five feet in a blur.

Quentin juked left and ran right, out of the pocket, away from Meaders, just out of reach of the long HeavyG arms. Quentin tried to look downfield, but linebacker Riha the Hammer rushed in on a delayed blitz. Still sprinting, his mental clock ticking away, Quentin took a half-step forward to freeze Riha and pushed off that foot in almost the same instant, once again running right. His mental clock told him he had half a second before Meaders reached him: there was Denver coming back to help out her scrambling QB. Quentin started to throw, then something hit his feet — he went down fast, his facemask skidding across the white field.

Quentin heard whistles blow: his team had used its last timeout.

He’d been sacked, caught from behind. It didn’t make any sense ... he’d seen Meaders coming, knew the tackle’s top speed. Quentin hadn’t taken any hits that slowed him down. So what had he missed? What had gone wrong?

A big hand on his shoulder.

“Q, you all right?”

Kimberlin, leaning down.

“Fine,” Quentin said.

He let the lineman help him up, then jogged back to the huddle. He couldn’t worry about the sack, not with thirty-four seconds to play in the fourth quarter and his team down 21-17.

The sack had brought them up to fourth and fifteen on the Yall twenty-eight. They were inside Morningstar’s range, but the Krakens had used all their timeouts: even if they made the field goal attempt, they’d still have to get the ball back via an on-side kick, then get into range for a second field goal before time expired. Long odds indeed.

Quentin tapped the side of his helmet, activating his heads-up display.

“Coach, we gotta go for it.”

“Of course we do,” Hokor said. “You look slow as frozen mud out there, Barnes. Are you okay to run it on a quarterback keeper?”

“I’m fine, but we need fifteen yards ... we need a pass, not a keeper.”

“Yall’s tendencies indicate they will rush four and blitz Riha, leaving Cauthorn back twelve yards,” Hokor said. “They think blitz pressure will force you into a short pass over the middle, letting Cauthorn make the tackle shy of the first down. If you get through the line of scrimmage, Cauthorn is the only one you have to beat — can you put a move on him?”

Quentin had to stop himself from glancing over his shoulder at the Criminals defenders, who were lined up and waiting. Forrest Dane Cauthorn was an excellent middle linebacker. If Quentin didn’t make him miss, it was game over.

“Just give me the ball, Coach.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Hokor said. “Audible out if you see something else. Your call. Make it happen, Barnes — the game is on your shoulders.”

And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Quentin tapped away the heads-up and looked at his huddled teammates. Ju, Becca and George Starcher had gone to the sidelines, replaced by Yassoud — who was a better receiving running back than Ju — Cheboygan and Tara the Freak. That gave Ionath four receivers.

The crowd created an oppressive wall of noise; it sounded like a bomb going off in an endless detonation. Quentin had to scream just to be heard in the huddle.

“One-back, four-wide. Delayed quarterback draw. X-flag, Y-streak, Z-flag, B-out and A-hook-right.”

The called routes would send Denver wide right, up and toward the end zone’s right corner, taking her defender with her. Cheboygan, who would be five yards inside of Denver, would streak straight toward the end zone, taking the safety with her and away from the middle of the field. On the left side, Milford and Tara the Freak would mirror Denver and Cheboygan’s patterns, taking their defenders with them. Yassoud would come out of the backfield and curl right, hopefully pulling Cauthorn away from his middle-of-the-field placement.

The play-call was one hell of a gamble; it meant that Hokor had full confidence in his veteran quarterback to make the on-field decision.

“Everyone, run those routes like your life depends on it,” Quentin said. “We need to sell it. And if I audible to a pass, run those same routes. Yassoud, be ready to come back and block the second I cross the line of scrimmage, got it?”

“Got it, boss,” the running back said.

Quentin gave each player a quick hard look as he finished up, screaming to be heard over the Tomb of the Virilli crowd.

“We execute this play, we get this first down, and we’ll win this game, I promise you. On two, on two ... ready?”

“Break!”

The Krakens jogged to the line. It seemed impossible, but the crowd cranked its punishing roar up a few more notches. Last season, the Krakens had defeated a Criminals squad dubbed “the best team ever assembled,” knocking them out of the playoffs. The Yall fans still felt the Galaxy Bowl title should have been theirs, and they wanted payback.

In the stands, white flags with purple ball-and-chain Sklorno waved, white and purple pom-poms shook, and tens of thousands of fans decked out in purple and white tried to scream out the few thousands clad in orange and black.

Quentin glanced to the Yall sidelines and saw his opposite, Rick Renaud, watching. Renaud had been the best in the game for the past few seasons. He was still an amazing quarterback, but his time at the top had passed — Quentin was about to demonstrate that right here on the man’s home field.

He looked over his offensive line at the battered white helmets and torn dark purple jerseys of the enemy. Defensive tackles Meaders and Kin-Ah-Thak were digging their feet in, hoping to time Quentin’s snap count and come in hard. The Criminals HeavyG defensive ends were low to the ground, tree-trunk legs bent and ready to drive forward. The linebackers — Cauthorn and Riha the Hammer — both crept up to the line, showing blitz. Which one would come? Quentin saw a flare of black swirl in Riha’s eyes, there and gone as the Warrior tried to hide his emotions, but it was too late; Quentin had been watching him the whole game, knew him from last year, knew that Hokor was right — Riha was coming. Cauthorn would cover over the middle.

Hokor had called the perfect play; no audible needed.

Quentin slipped his hands under Bud-O-Shwek, feeling the sweaty, pebbly skin on the Ki’s underside.

“Green, nineteen. Green, nineteeeen. Hut... hut!”

The ball slapped into his hands as the linemen slammed into each other. Quentin dropped back five steps. His receivers sprinted out on their patterns. He watched in case someone unexpectedly came open, but the defenders were locked in tight in one-on-one coverage and there were no passing windows.

The offensive line fell back under the defensive assault. Bud-O gave ground to Meaders, but as he fell back, he angled the defender off to the left. Kimberlin did the same with Kin-Ah but pushed the massive Ki slightly out to the right.

Quentin held the ball at his ear, bounced in place, kept looking downfield, waiting for the perfect moment.

Yassoud came out of the backfield and angled right: Cauthorn turned to run with him.

BLINK—

All sound vanished. Time slowed.

Quentin tucked the ball and took off. He shot between Bud-O and Kimberlin. Meaders reached a big hand over Bud-O and hit Quentin’s shoulder pad, but Quentin was too strong to be stopped by a glancing blow.

He angled left, picking up five yards before the defensive backs broke off their coverage and came at him. Cauthorn was much closer: he turned away from Yassoud — the big Human linebacker sprinted at Quentin, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent battle cry.

Quentin answered with a silent scream of his own, threw his head and shoulders forward for a full-speed collision. The white-helmeted defender powered forward, all his weight leaning into the blow.

The split-second before impact, Quentin planted on his left foot and bounced two feet to his right, the move as nimble as that of a ballet dancer sliding across the stage.

Cauthorn reached out, unable to stop his forward momentum, but his arm slapped uselessly against Quentin’s stomach armor and then the big linebacker was past, out of the play.

Quentin saw Yassoud running in front of him, looking to make a block. The Criminals safety rushed in; Yassoud hammered her, turned her slightly to the inside — Quentin cut left, almost brushing against Yassoud’s back as he angled for the end zone’s front-left corner.

His feet flew across the white field, over the dark-green lines. The first down marker fell away behind him. He saw the Criminals cornerback trying to break free of Cheboygan’s downfield block, but the oversized receiver kept contact, kept driving her foe backward.

Quentin sensed other Criminal D-backs closing in from behind. He dove forward, extending his hands out, felt the weight of defenders grabbing at him as the ball hit the inside of the orange pylon and sent it flying.

BLINK—

The noise of the world rushed back. Quentin slid across the end zone’s purple paint. Bodies rolled off him. He stood, the front of his orange jersey so stained he looked more like a player from Yall than from Ionath.

A hovering Harrah zebe signaled touchdown.

The crowd screamed in fury and disappointment: Quentin Barnes had broken their heart yet again. He flipped the ball to the ref, glanced over at the Criminals sidelines — there stood Rick Renaud, helmet at his side, shaking his head and mouthing what had to be a long string of creative curses.

Krakens 23, Criminals 21, with twenty-four seconds to play and the extra point still to come.

Quentin’s teammates crashed in, pressing around him, shouting in joy and victory, thumping his shoulder pads and slapping his helmet. He laughed and ducked, pushing at his friends as he ran toward the Ionath sideline.

Renaud was an amazing quarterback, but twenty-four seconds wasn’t enough time for him to work some magic of his own. On the Criminals’ first play following Quentin’s TD run, pressure from Mum-O-Killowe forced Renaud to throw the ball away, leaving only eighteen seconds. On the next play, Renaud chucked the ball downfield, hoping to make something happen. Something did, but not what he wanted — Krakens strong safety Niami intercepted the pass, sealing the 24-21 victory.

THE KRAKENS CELEBRATED in the common area of the visiting locker room. Quentin shared words of encouragement with his teammates — good victory, but we have a long way to go ... more tests are coming at us soon ... this season is ours for the taking ... and other positive talk. But despite the win, he couldn’t get that sack out of his thoughts.

In the past, Meaders would have hit the ground grabbing at empty air. Quentin had always been able to track every player on the field, to plot their movements, to know where they were even when he was looking somewhere else. That ability was what made a great quarterback. He knew how much time he had in the pocket, knew when to scramble, knew how long he had to improvise until his receivers could find open spots. His size, quickness, accuracy and arm strength were critical to his success, but not as much as his innate field awareness.

That awareness hadn’t changed; he’d known exactly when to scramble. No, he hadn’t gotten that part wrong — he just hadn’t moved as fast as he thought he could. There was only one explanation:

I’ve lost a step.

It couldn’t be. But was there any other answer? He hadn’t stumbled. He hadn’t taken any serious hits earlier in the game that would have slowed him down. He wasn’t limping, hadn’t tweaked a muscle or pulled a ligament... there wasn’t anything wrong with him.

He was still very young for a quarterback, but he’d put in four seasons of Tier One ball, plus a pair of playoff runs. He’d been injured more times than he could count.

Maybe all those hits are catching up with you.

Had the same thing happened to Pine? Quentin had watched all of the man’s games, multiple times. In Pine’s early years, he’d been a decent scrambler, able to avoid defenders and buy time, often even just tucking the ball and running as Quentin now did. Pine had never been as fast as Quentin, of course, but defenses still had to account for his mobility.

As Pine’s career progressed, he stopped scrambling as often. When he felt pressure, he would throw the ball away or simply go down and take a sack so as not to throw a risky pass that might be intercepted. Don shifted his game from being a fleet-footed, scrambling threat to being a ball-control quarterback who didn’t turn the ball over. Don Pine hadn’t stopped scrambling because he wanted to; he’d done it because he had to. Hundreds of hits had combined with the march of time to slow him down, to force him to change his game. It happened to every quarterback.

Even, apparently, to Quentin.

But he was only twenty-three. It wasn’t supposed to happen that soon ... was it?

A pair of muscular arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground.

“Q! Cheer up, we won!”

The arms squeezed hard, a little too hard.

“Uncle Johnny, okay, okay! Put me down, I’m all cheered up.”

John set him back on his feet.

“We’re four and oh,” John said.

UNDEFEATED IS NOT A SHOE SIZE played across his forehead. Quentin had no idea what that meant.

John leaned closer. His eyes squinted as he examined Quentin’s face.

“Q, are you bummed out because that big fella caught you from behind?”

Quentin’s jaw dropped. “High One, John, how did you know that?”

I AM A PERCEPTIVE AND SENSITIVE SOUL trailed from his right temple down under his chin.

“Because we’re bestest of buddies,” John said. “And also I’m dating your sister. That makes us related, and related people share the same DNA, and people who share the same DNA have brains that are interconnected, so obviously I know what you think.”

Quentin shook his head. “That’s not how it works, John.”

John made a pssh sound. “Like you know science, slowpoke. Speaking of dating, how about you and Becca come out with me and Ju and the crew tonight? There’s a Human zone near the stadium, so I’m pretty sure we won’t get eaten.”

Quentin looked around, searching for Becca. He saw her on the other side of the common area. She was standing with Milford and Denver, laughing at something the two excitable receivers were doing. Becca saw Quentin looking. Her smile faded. Then, she turned back to the receivers and the smile blossomed again.

“Yikes,” John said. “It’s been weeks of this. She’s still crazy-mad at you?”

“You’re as perceptive as ever, John.”

John held up a finger. “Don’t forget sensitive, Q. I’m very sensitive with emotions and whatnot.”

Quentin nodded and turned back to his locker. “You are, John, you are.”

“Sucks to be you, brother,” John said. “I know you’re pissed she’s moving to quarterback — and you’re not alone, most of the team is angry our All-Pro fullback isn’t going to play shucking fullback anymore — but Coach made his decision and you’ve got to get behind that.”

It wasn’t like John was saying something Quentin didn’t already know. The battle was lost. If he expected Becca to be a team player, he had to be one himself and accept the change. He would, soon — at least he hoped he would — but it was still too bitter of a pill to swallow.

“I know, John. I know. It’s just stupid is all.”

John nodded. “Which is why she’s mad at you, because you think it’s stupid. She’ll either get over it or she won’t. That’s fifty-fifty odds, Q, and that ain’t bad. So what do you say? Do your press conference bit, then come out with me and Ju. Your brothers will cheer you up.”

Quentin couldn’t think of going out in Virilliville without also thinking of billowing columns of pink smoke.

“Not sure that’s a good idea,” Quentin said. “There’s like, millions of my ... uh ... my followers here.”

“Q, you don’t listen so good sometimes. I told you we probably won’t get eaten. We’re going to the Human district. It’s walled off. Great nightclub section, with heavy security throughout.”

“What, only Humans are allowed?”

“That would be racist,” John said. “Other species are totally welcome. Not just any Sklorno can get in, though, only the smart and well-behaved ones, you know? The good kind of Sklorno.”

Quentin wondered if the next thing John said might be some of my best friends are Sklorno.

He again looked at Becca — she looked at him at almost the same time. Her face instantly grew hard and unforgiving. She turned and walked into the HeavyG locker room.

They’d won the game. On the field, he and Becca had worked together so effortlessly they might as well have had the linked brain John believed in. Quentin wanted to celebrate the win, sure, but he wanted to celebrate it with her.

“Sorry, John. I’m not up for going out tonight. But I promise I will after the Neptune game next week, win or lose, okay?”

“Hah,” John said. “Like we could lose to those scrubs.”

John gave Quentin another heavy slap, then walked away, leaving Quentin rubbing his now-stinging shoulder.

He just wanted to finish up and go get some sleep, but he couldn’t because his job wasn’t done — the multi-headed monster needed to feed.

Quentin finished undressing, grabbed a towel and headed for the Ki baths.

“BRIGHT LIGHT REMAINS in the stadium facility,” the agent said. “No indications he will leave and enter Virilliville proper.”

Of course he wouldn’t, not if he was smart. Well, he was a football player, so he wasn’t smart, but Quentin Barnes was far from stupid.

The agent’s J-plant buzzed with the annoying voice of his controller.

“Desert Sun, do you have visual on Bright Light?”

Creterakians were disgusting little creatures. Their high-pitched voices could cut crysteel. The agent hated them. They had subjugated his planet, his government, his people ... but they also paid extremely well.

“Negative, Boss Seven,” the agent said. “Bright Light is in reserved areas not open to the public.”

Creterakians barely understood the concepts of “privacy” and “public.” The bats were a shared intelligence, or maybe it was distributed intellect... something along those lines, anyway. More like insects than a real sentient race, really.

“Desert Sun, this is a high-contact area for Bright Light. We must know who he is communicating with. Are you able to get closer?”

Of course he could get closer. He was better than anyone. For him, it was easy ... but why tell that to his “boss?”

“There might be an opportunity shortly, but it would be extremely dangerous to my safety,” the agent said. “I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.”

A pause from the other end.

The agent waited. The Creterakians had more money than they knew what to do with. As long as you didn’t come out and actually ask them for it — which was offensive to some indefinable part of their primitive group-think, perhaps — they would throw cash around like, well, like Quentin Barnes throwing at will against the Yall Criminals secondary.

“Desert Sun, you are approved for a triple bonus if you send visual confirmation of Bright Light inside the facility.”

The agent had to bite his hand to hold back a sudden laugh. The bats ruled the galaxy, they had founded the GFL, but they knew nothing about how the league actually worked or the culture surrounding the sport.

“I accept the mission,” the agent said. “If I don’t make it out, tell my mother I love her.”

He couldn’t help saying that, he just couldn’t.

“Desert Sun, we are not in contact with your mother. You frequently make this request, yet we have no information on your family structure.”

“Desert Sun, out,” the agent said, managing to shut off his comms before the laughter finally escaped him.

GFL WEEK FOUR ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Alimum Armada

28

Isis Ice Storm

27

D’Oni Coelacanths

20

To Pirates

23

Jupiter Jacks

10

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

3

Yall Criminals

21

Ionath Krakens

24

Wabash Wolfpack

27

D’Kow War Dogs

21

Jang Atom Smashers

14

Bartel Water Bugs

24

Bord Brigands

17

McMurdo Murderers

14

Texas Earthlings

28

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

24

Sheb Stalkers

27

Vik Vanguard

30

Bye Weeks: OS1 (3-0), Buddha City (2-1), Themala (1-2) and Shorah (1-2) did not play this week.

With the season one-third over, the undefeated Bartel Water Bugs (4-0) stand alone atop the Solar Division standings. Bartel gutted out a back-and-forth 24-14 affair with Jang (1-3) to stay in first place. Bugs’ QB Andre “Death Ray” Ridley’s skills were on display again, as he ran for a touchdown, threw for another and caught a trick-play pass from running back Robert Shonfelt for a third.

Bartel is a full game up on Texas (3-1) and Vik (3-1), both of which posted close wins. The Earthlings held off a late-game rally from Neptune (2-1) to give their home crowd a 28-24 win, while the Vanguard kicked an overtime field goal to beat Sheb (1-2) by a score of 30-27.

In the Planet Division, Ionath (4-0) stayed in first place with a 24-21 win over the Yall Criminals (2-2). Ionath’s Quentin Barnes threw for two touchdowns and also scampered 28 yards for the winning score late in the fourth quarter. Barnes racked up 271 yards in the air and another 110 on the ground.

Following a season-opening loss, the To Pirates (3-1) won their third straight, 23-20 over D’Oni (0-4). Pirates QB Abdullahi Ba hit wide receiver Victoria for an 82-yard go-ahead touchdown late in the fourth quarter.

“That’s the second time this season we’ve lost by a field goal or less,” said Coelacanths head coach George Hrab. “If we want to stay in Tier One, we need to figure out how to finish games.”

The Pirates and Wabash (3-1) are tied for third in the Planet, a full game behind Ionath and a half-game back of OS1 (3-0).

The Wolfpack topped D’Kow (1-3) by a score of 27-21.

While it is a little early to start the annual relegation watch, it’s important to note that there are three teams who have yet to win a game. Coranadillana (0-4) joins D’Oni at the bottom of the Planet Division, thanks to a 10-3 loss to the Jupiter Jacks (2-2), while the newly promoted McMurdo Murderers (0-4) are in sole possession of last place in the Solar.

Deaths

No deaths reported this week.

Offensive Player of the Week

To Pirates quarterback Abdullahi Ba, who threw for 380 yards, three touchdowns and no interceptions in a come-from-behind win over D’Oni.

Defensive Player of the Week

Scootchie-Poo Pootersnoot, cornerback for the Neptune Scarlet Fliers. Pootersnoot became the first Prawatt player in GFL history to earn Player of the Week honors, thanks to a pair of interceptions it returned for touchdowns.

38

Week Five:
Ionath Krakens at
Neptune Scarlet Fliers

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

4-0

Ionath Krakens

4-0

Bartel Water Bugs

3-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

3-1

Texas Earthlings

3-1

To Pirates

3-1

Vik Vanguard

3-1

Wabash Wolfpack

2-1

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

2-1

Buddha City Elite

2-2

Bord Brigands

2-2

Yall Criminals

2-2

Jupiter Jacks

2-2

Alimum Armada

1-2

Sheb Stalkers

1-2

Themala Dreadnaughts

1-2

Shorah Warlords

1-3

Isis Ice Storm

1-3

D’Kow War Dogs

0-4

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

1-3

Jang Atom Smashers

0-4

D’Oni Coelacanths

0-4

McMurdo Murderers

QUENTIN TOWELED OFF, his body mostly relaxed after a long post-practice soak in the Ki baths. Mostly relaxed, because ever since Becca’s position change, tension seemed to fill the locker room.

Trevor Haney had left a firm number-two spot with New Rodina to stay in Tier One; now he was on the practice squad and wouldn’t even dress for games. He hadn’t been with Ionath long, but the players liked him, and his demotion didn’t seem right.

Then there was the obvious fact that although Becca was number three on the depth chart, she was better than Yitzhak. Everyone could see it.

The Krakens had won the Galaxy Bowl with Becca at fullback, and now she wasn’t there. That made everyone nervous about the rest of the season. No one was happy. No one except for Kopor the Climber, who suddenly found himself as the starting fullback.

The team was en route to Neptune, a six-day trip from Yall that took them first to Ol in the Ki Rebel Establishment, then three punches through the Ki Empire, and three in the Whitok Kingdom before popping out at Neptune in the Planetary Union. The game after that required another five-day trip from Neptune back to Ionath. Add in the first leg from Ionath to Yall, and the games themselves, and the three-game road trip meant a total of almost three full weeks away from home.

Some of the players were already starting to grumble about the long voyage; Quentin worried what effect that might have on the upcoming game against the Scarlet Fliers. As if that wasn’t bad enough, w hen the Krakens finally returned to Ionath, it would be on a Friday night, giving them only two days at home before a Monday Night Football matchup against the visiting Alimum Armada — so, basically, it was almost a four-game road trip.

Quentin walked into the Touchback’s empty Human locker room. The other Human players had taken their post-practice nannite showers, then gone off to their rooms for some time to themselves before team dinner. Next week Quentin would have to do his annual visit to the Ki quarters and eat with them — he wasn’t looking forward to that one bit.

Like all the lockers on the Touchback, there was no door, just two-foot-long dividers sticking out perpendicular from the wall, shelves, armor racks and clothes hooks between them. There was just enough space that if he scrunched his arms together, he could have slid between the dividers, a shoulder pressing against either side.

He started to dress. He was buttoning his shirt when the shimmer hit — he’d lost track of time, forgotten the schedule. He held onto the locker, shut his eyes tight, tried to stay standing as reality bent and warped and twisted around him. Just when he thought his atoms would spread to their original home in the stars, the shimmer vanished.

Quentin cautiously opened one eye. For a second, he thought he might not throw up, then his stomach told him he was wrong.

After, he used his towel to try and clean up what had been a rather excellent lunch. It quickly became clear that one towel wasn’t enough. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that third helping of beef stew. He found another towel and finished the job.

It was the first time that season he’d thrown up from a punch-out. So annoying — he thought he’d put that chronic motion sickness behind him.

Quentin heard the pitter-patter of little Quyth Worker feet.

“Elder Barnes, I... oh, that smell. Ah, I see you had an accident.”

“Sorry about that, Messal.”

“Why are you cleaning it?”

Quentin looked at the two ruined towels, at the vomit smears still streaking the floor, then back at the Worker. “Because I’m the one that threw up?”

Messal’s big eye blinked slowly.

“Elder Barnes, you are aware that you are a millionaire, are you not? We have sentients who will clean up after you.”

The galaxy revolved around the rich — sometimes Quentin forgot that he was one of them.

“I got most of it,” he said. “Tell whoever finishes the job I said thanks. You came here to talk to me about something?”

“Oh, yes, I did, Elder Barnes. There is a delegation here to see you.”

“A delegation? From where?”

“From your church.”

“Why would the Church of Purism come to the Touchback to see me?”

Messal’s eye swirled with a touch of pure red. That color wasn’t seen often in any of the Quyth castes; it best translated to amusement.

“Your church,” Messal said. “The Church of Quentin Barnes.”

It hit Quentin that the Touchback had just come out of punch drive but was only four days into the trip — nowhere near Neptune.

“Where are we, exactly?”

“We punched out near Capizzi in the Planetary Union,” Messal said. “Still a full day’s punch from Sol System and Neptune, Elder Barnes.”

“And this delegation contacted the Touchback as soon as we punched out?”

“They did, Elder Barnes. It appears they were waiting for us. They hailed Captain Cheevers and are requesting an audience with you. They said it is a matter of life and death.”

This was just weird. As far as he knew, no one from his church had tried to meet him at Yall. That was a Sklorno planet, so why not there?

“How many sentients in this delegation?”

“Six, Elder Barnes. A Human, a Ki and four Sklorno.”

A Human? A Ki?

“What are other species doing in the delegation? They accountants or something?”

“I do not know their roles,” Messal said. “Perhaps you have been busy preparing for football games, as you should be, Elder Barnes, but your church is—”

“It’s not my church, dammit.”

Messal bowed.

“Of course, my apologies. The Church of Quentin Barnes has spread to species beyond the Sklorno. It is growing quite rapidly. And I should also point out that one of the four Sklorno is Richfield.”

The name stopped him cold. It couldn’t be.

“Richfield. Our Richfield?”

“Yes, Elder Barnes.”

Richfield, retired from the team just six weeks back, was here as a member of the CoQB? She’d said she was going to Earth to preach. Had that not happened?

“What’s her role with the delegation?”

“Apparently, she is the new high priestess.”

“What happened to the old one?”

“I could not say, Elder Barnes.”

How could she have become the head of the church in just six weeks? Had she leveraged her position as his former teammate? Seeing as the Sklorno worshiped athletes, maybe Richfield was some kind of godling in her own right.

“Did Coach say they could come aboard?”

“Coach Hokor the Hookchest left that decision up to you,” Messal said. “Captain Cheevers has no problem with it, as long as the delegation departs the Touchback before the punch drive is recharged for the next leg. Since Gredok is back on Ionath, that means the decision is up to you.”

So much for counting on Coach as an excuse to avoid this.

“What do you think, Messal? Should I meet them?”

Quentin half expected the old Messal to answer, the wavering Messal who would say something like oh, I could not possibly presume to offer advice on such a thing, but instead, Messal thought for a moment, then gave his take.

“They seem to have gone through a lot of trouble to meet you at this precise location, Elder Barnes. It is in your best interest to find out why. If you choose to meet with them, take Choto with you. If there is trouble, and I do not think there would be, I am confident he can keep you safe.”

Quentin finished buttoning his shirt. “But I don’t want anything to do with my church. And I don’t want a misinterpretation of something I said to cause sentients, somewhere, to get hurt, or killed. I don’t want to do anything wrong.”

Messal fidgeted, thinking. “Elder Barnes, you are their god. Perhaps I am not an expert in primitive belief structures, but if you choose not to see the delegation, they will try to find meaning in that decision. If you suddenly become a one hundred-meter creature made of wind and lightning that destroys a Sklorno city simply because you have had a bad day, then they would try to find meaning in that. If there is any fun to be had in your role as a supreme being, it’s that the circular logic of your followers will make it impossible for you to be wrong about anything.”

Quentin didn’t follow all that, but one part stuck: if he didn’t meet the delegation, they might interpret that in a way that led to violence. So, he could see them and risk having his words be misinterpreted, or he could ignore them and risk them reading something bad into that. Great choice. If they thought he was angry with them, or that they had disappointed him somehow, who knew what they would do to get in his favor? For crying out loud, to celebrate him, they already ate each other, and ...

The columns of pink smoke. If Richfield was the new high priestess, he could tell her what he thought about sacrifices in his name. He could actually do something about it, and he could do it right now.

“I’ll meet them,” Quentin said. “Bring the delegation aboard.”

THE DELEGATION WAITED on the Touchback’s 50-yard line.

Quentin brought only Choto and Messal. John would just complicate things. Quentin knew he should have brought Kimberlin, but outside of games or the practice field, he didn’t want anything to do with that man.

Richfield wore the orange and black robes of the CoQB’s high priestess. Just seeing her familiar reddish-black hair brought warmth to Quentin’s soul, despite the incredibly strange situation.

With her stood three other Sklorno, also in orange and black robes, and — as Messal had promised — a Human in an orange and black business suit and a Ki wearing the equivalent orange and black clothing for his species.

Quentin and Choto walked to meet them. The white discs that kept the practice field’s nanograss cropped short skittered out of the way, then went back to their places once the two moved past.

The delegation saw him coming. Richfield was in front, waiting patiently. The three Sklorno behind her started to jump, overwhelmed at the sight of him. The Human trembled. The Ki closed all five of its eyes and stood there, motionless.

Richfield whipped around to face the others, extended her legs and stood at her full eight-foot, five-inch height.

“Stop your grab-assing,” she screamed at the other Sklorno. They instantly fell still, or at least tried to: the jumping stopped, but they shook as if the temperature was far below freezing.

Richfield faced Quentin just as he reached midfield.

“Godling, I tell them to be still because I know you do not approve of the grab-assing.”

Quentin thought briefly of explaining what grab-assing actually meant, but Richfield was in the general ballpark, so he let it go.

“It’s good to see you,” Quentin said. “When you took the white jersey, I thought our paths might never again cross.”

Richfield’s eyestalks undulated slightly.

“That was a sad day, but the Quentinbarnes works in mysterious ways.”

He winced at hearing his name used where most people said High One, or the name of some other deity.

“Quentinbarnesquentinbarnes,” Richfield said. “When Gredok told me I was not good enough to receive your holy blessings, I knew my life would change. And it has! Now it is I who can give your holy blessings!”

She lost control for a moment, jumped up and down twice. When she did, Quentin saw a gold pendant flopping from a metal chain around her narrow neck — there was something odd about that pendant.

Richfield forced herself to stop jumping. She stood perfectly still.

“Godling Quentinbarnes, I have come to humbly announce my new position as the leader of your holy house of holiness.”

He’d played alongside this sentient, been on the field and in the locker room with her more times than he could count. And now she was the leader of this insane church; life never ceased to surprise him.

Still, having her in charge made him feel better about the whole affair. He didn’t know her well, but he did know her, and that was more than he could say for all but a handful of her species.

“Richfield, when you were still on the team, the church had another high priestess. What happened to her?”

“She was unworthy,” Richfield said. “She was killed, she was cooked, she was—”

“I get the picture,” Quentin said, wishing he hadn’t asked at all.

Richfield had killed the former priestess to take over the CoQB? That seemed barbaric, but Kimberlin had taught him long ago that Sklorno culture couldn’t be judged by Human standards. And besides, was the way to the top in this church really all that different from the way to the top of Purism? Except for the eating part, of course.

The golden object around her neck caught his attention again. It was thin and lumpy, like a gilded bit of tree branch.

He pointed at it. “The former priestess didn’t have that. Is it significant?”

Richfield bounced in place.

“Oh, yes-yes-yes, Godling. It is the holy relic of the Church of Quentin Barnes. With this in my possession, I was able to rally support in my bid to become high priestess!”

Her tentacle tip curled under it, held it up the way a Human would put something on a palm and offer it for inspection.

“It is from the Galaxy Bowl,” she said. “Your right fifth-finger metacarpal.”

Quentin stared at it.

“My pinkie? You wear my pinkie around your neck?”

“Coated in gold!”

Quentin’s severed finger had become a holy relic. At her retirement ceremony, she told him she had magic to help her. His finger had to be the magic she was talking about. Quentin had asked Doc Patah to cut it off; he hadn’t asked what happened to it. Had Richfield just snatched it in the madness of the victory celebration?

It didn’t matter. She had it now, it gave her some kind of power in the church, and that was that. He certainly didn’t want it back.

Sklorno followed him, worshiped him, and while he didn’t understand or approve of it, he understood that idolatry was part of their culture. The Human and the Ki, however?

Quentin looked at the man in the orange and black suit.

“What’s your name?”

The man turned ghost-white. “My name? The godling wants to know my name?”

“Yes,” Quentin said. “Today, while we’re young.”

He was maybe six feet — a little shorter than most, but normal. The man glanced at Choto, who was the same height but with 400 pounds of pure muscle compared to the man’s 250 pounds of mostly flab.

“Choto isn’t going to hurt you,” Quentin said. “He’s here to protect me. Now, what’s your name?”

“Hoyt Bogard,” the man said in a rush.

“Hello, Hoyt,” Quentin said. “Answer me something. The Sklorno following me, I get that. Sort of, anyway. But you? You’re Human — don’t you already have a religion?”

“Oh, of course, Godling, of course,” Hoyt said. “I was a Catholic. Then a Hindu. Then a Philminer. Then a Jew for a while, but that required too much studying, so I kept searching.”

Quentin looked at Richfield. “And how much studying is there to be in the CoQB?”

“None!” Richfield hopped twice, caught herself doing it, then stopped. “All one must do is see the truth that the godling Quentinbarnes is a holy creature. Does the godling demand that sentients study to join the church?”

Quentin wanted to say: yes, make them study math and science, so they don’t get lured into this crazy religion the way so many of my uneducated countrymen got lured into Purism. But why should he bother? Math and science had been around for thousands of years, yet still sentients followed countless religious doctrines and superstitious ideologies.

“No studying,” Quentin said. “There’s no point.”

“The godling has spoken,” Richfield said. “So let it be written.”

The Ki pulled out a messageboard and started writing.

Quentin pointed at the Ki. “And who is this?”

“Who-Love-Q,” Richfield said.

Quentin sighed. “Of course he is.”

“Lack of study pleases the godling,” Richfield said. “What other commandments does the godling have?”

Commandments? Could this get any crazier? Quentin glanced at Choto.

Choto held up his pedipalp hands, palms out, in an all-too-Human gesture.

“Please do not ask me to help you with this,” the Warrior said. “The entire affair is already beyond words.”

“Thank you, Choto, you’re so damn helpful.”

Quentin could make commandments. Well, maybe this was his chance to put a stop to the factories belching out pink clouds. That, and possibly more.

He took a big breath. Should he speak in some kind of a deep tone, something that sounded important? Maybe, but he didn’t know how to sound like that. He squared his shoulders, stood at his full height, and spoke directly to his former teammate.

“I want you all to be good,” he said. “I forbid members of the church from hurting each other. No, wait, from hurting anyone.”

The Ki wrote quickly.

“And no more eating Sklorno,” Quentin said. “Or any other species for that matter.”

As soon as he said the words, he could hear Michael Kimberlin in his thoughts, talking about how Quentin didn’t understand other cultures, how he couldn’t apply his Human morals to other races and civilizations. The Sklorno had insane overpopulation problems; organized cannibalism was the only way they could control it — at least that’s what Quentin had been told. So if he ordered them to change what they had done for millennia, what would happen?

He didn’t know. And he didn’t want that kind of responsibility. He couldn’t change an entire race with a single comment, but at least for his followers, he could make a difference.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “No one gets killed, cooked or eaten in my name. I forbid it.”

Richfield thought on this for a few moments. Just watching her response told Quentin he was asking for a lot, perhaps too much. But in the end, she did the Sklorno version of a bow.

“So let it be written,” she said.

The Ki wrote.

“Thank you,” Quentin said. “All right, you told me you’re the high priestess and you listened to my commandments. When you hailed our ship, you said it was a matter of life or death?”

“Yes, Quentinbarnes. We have come to tell you that your life is in danger.”

“From who?”

“The Creterakians,” Richfield said. “They are watching your church. That is why-why-why we had to come meet you out here, way away from Ionath and the Sklorno planets.”

“Wait a minute — they’re watching the church. I don’t do anything with the church, so how can that put my life in danger?”

Hoyt licked his lips, then leaned closer like he was sharing a deep, dark secret.

“We have converts in the Creterakian Ministry of Religion, and they say that bad things could happen to you if your followers measure over a hundred million.”

“What kind of bad things?”

“Assassination, for one,” Hoyt said.

Choto leaned in. “Assassination is a bad thing, Quentin.” He leaned back.

Quentin sighed and rubbed his eyes. Religious people back on Micovi or standing on the 50-yard line of the Touchback’s practice field, it didn’t matter — they were all crazy.

“A hundred million,” he said. “Then I guess I’m safe, because that number is ludicrous.”

Hoyt beamed and nodded furiously. “We know! The Creterakians think you have only sixty-five million!”

“Well, that’s good, then, because ...” Quentin lost track of his thought. “Wait, did you say only sixty-five million?”

Hoyt nodded.

“Worshiping me? Sixty-five million sentients, worshiping me?”

“That is what the Creterakians think,” Hoyt said. “We have been meticulous in communicating that false number, to lead them astray.”

Quentin felt a hollow feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

“So ... how many do I really have?”

Hoyt looked at Richfield. She stepped forward, spoke so quietly Quentin had to strain to hear.

“It is difficult to tell,” she said. “Very difficult. Our current estimate is two hundred and fifteen million.”

Quentin stared at her. Then he stared at Hoyt, then at the Ki, then back to Richfield.

“You’re kidding,” he said. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

Richfield bowed. “Very well, Godling — we are kidding.”

“That’s not what he meant,” Hoyt said. “Godling, we’ve studied this, very carefully and very quietly. Other than the sentients standing here with you now, no one knows that estimate.”

Two hundred and fifteen million. That was ten times the number of sentients that lived on Micovi.

“Quentinbarnesquentinbarnes, are you pleased?”

That was more than all the mining colonies combined. The entire planet of Stewart had a population of just over 300 million.

The CoQB wasn’t a church ... it was a nation, and it was growing.

“Quentinbarnes? Have you any other commandments?”

He shook his head. He couldn’t handle any more of this.

“No,” he said. “No more commandments. I’m just a football player. Don’t bother me again.”

He turned and walked away, Choto instantly at his side.

Quentin hadn’t asked for any of this, didn’t want any of this. Petra, Richfield, Gredok, Kimberlin ... Quentin wanted them all to just leave him alone and let him do the thing he’d been born to do.

“Choto, I’m going to break down footage of Neptune’s game against the Earthlings. Care to join me?”

“Of course, Shamakath,” Choto said.

Quentin hated that term. He usually lectured Choto against using it, but not today, because that term was accurate — to Choto ... and to some 215 million sentients.

QUENTIN ADJUSTED his red do-not-hit practice jersey as he walked toward the line, stopping about five yards behind Bud-O-Shwek. Shotgun formation: Kopor the Climber stood at his right, Yassoud on his left. Up above, the Touchback’s dome showed the pure black of punch-space.

They had been hard at it during the trip from Yall to Neptune, had run literally hundreds of plays together, yet still Quentin couldn’t get used to having Kopor at fullback instead of Becca. A gray-striped Warrior behind him instead of a HeavyG woman — it just felt weird.

It wasn’t that Kopor was doing anything wrong. He knew the offense, of course — not with Becca’s instinctive mastery, but easily well enough to handle most anything thrown his way. Still, Quentin was glad Kopor’s first game was against the anemic defense of Neptune and not a head-crushing squad like OS1. Kopor had been the starter before Becca came, and with a game or two, hopefully he’d be back to his old form.

Quentin gazed out over his orange-jerseyed offensive line to survey the black-jerseyed defenders. John Tweedy looked back from his middle linebacker position. His eyes flicked to his right, Quentin’s left, telling Quentin that Virak the Mean was coming.

The called play was a screen pass to Yassoud. If this had been a game, it was the perfect thing to run against a linebacker barreling in, but right now Quentin didn’t need to gain yards — he needed to see if Kopor could pick up the blitz.

“Red, twenty-two,” Quentin called out. “Red, twenty-two!”

The first word, red, signaled an audible. The second, twenty-two, indicated the play. His offense knew that if he called any number other than one in the twenties, the original play-call stood. This gave Quentin the chance to make “fake” audibles so the opposition couldn’t key in on a particular color.

Red twenty-two was a downfield pass. Yassoud would roll out to the left flat on a pattern, leaving Kopor alone to stay home and pass-block.

John crept toward the line, pointed at Kopor and screamed. “I’m coming for you, meathead! I’m tearing off your head and taking a dump on the black stuff inside your shucking chest, then I’m going to kill your quarterback!”

I NEVER LIKED QUENTIN ANYWAY scrolled behind John’s facemask.

Earlier in the week that kind of talk had gotten a rise out of Kopor, distracted him. In three days of practice, however, he had settled down and wasn’t taking John’s bait.

Quentin raised his right knee high, signaling to Bud-O that he was ready for the snap. When Quentin put his foot down, there was a one-second pause before the ball shot toward him.

The offensive and defensive lines clashed together: hard, but not as hard as in a game.

Quentin raised the ball to his left ear. He kept one eye on his receivers and one on Kopor.

John pushed into the line like he was the one blitzing. Kopor took a half-step forward. Even yesterday, Kopor would have bought into that feint and overcommitted, rushing straight at John, but not this time.

John reversed, back-pedaling into coverage.

Quentin saw Virak coming from the left, coming hard. Kopor had to react immediately ... and he did. The fullback tucked and rolled, popping up between Quentin and the oncoming Virak.

Hokor had ordered the team to go half strength — unless they were facing Kopor, that was. Virak brought every ounce of his 375 pounds in at top speed. Kopor’s 415 pounds met him head-on with a thunderous crack of helmet and armor.

Quentin stepped up into the pocket, as he would in a game. Virak kept coming but Kopor had a good fit on him, kept Virak from adjusting his path of attack — the linebacker harmlessly passed through where Quentin had been standing one second earlier.

Quentin threw a dump-pass to Yassoud in the flat, who ran upfield until Bumberpuff came up to meet him. The two players slowed, then ran into each other with all the intensity of friends sharing a hug.

A whistle blew from Hokor’s floating cart.

“Nice work, Kopor,” the coach’s amplified voice called out. “Much better than yesterday. Second team offense, ten reps, let’s go!”

Virak reached down a middle arm, gripped Kopor’s pedipalp arm and pulled the bigger Warrior to his feet.

“Good block,” Virak said, then turned and ran to the defensive side of the line.

Kopor’s eye swirled with yellow-orange, and Quentin couldn’t blame him: Virak the Mean didn’t pass out compliments often.

Quentin and Kopor jogged to the sidelines with the rest of the first stringers. Nancy Wolf and a red-jerseyed Yitzhak came on to replace them, along with Josh Athanas and the other second-string linemen.

As the second offense huddled up, Quentin saw Bud-O scurry past the sideline benches toward a waiting red-jerseyed Becca. She handed him a ball. Bud-O got down into his center’s stance. Becca stood behind him. She turned her head left and right, looking out at an imaginary defense. She called out signals — softly, enough for Bud-O to hear, enough for her to practice the snap-count cadence, but not enough to disturb the second team out on the field.

Becca took the snap and drove back five steps, keeping the ball high at her ear. She read through some imaginary coverage, then threw twenty yards on a rope to a waiting Milford, who quickly threw it back.

Many players weren’t happy with her leaving her position and bumping Haney to the practice squad. But some players, obviously, either didn’t care or just wanted her to be as prepared as she could be.

As the third-string QB, Becca saw only a handful of practice plays. Yet here she was, creating her own drills, visualizing what she would do when she got in, practicing her drop back, her reads, even the way she took the snap. Her moves looked sharp and precise. Her eyes burned with intensity.

Quentin glanced back to the field, where Yitzhak stood behind a full offensive line and shouted a snap count.

How long would it be before that was Becca with the number-two squad ... and if that happened, what would it do to Zak?

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

DAN: And now let’s get into our topic of the day. It’s GFL Week Five, and we all know what happens come midnight, Friday, Football Standard Time — the trade deadline! Deals get made before Saturday, or they don’t get made at all. Akbar, what news do you have?

AKBAR: The big story is the trade of linebacker Izic the Weird from Themala to the Pirates in exchange for center Graham Harting. The Pirates keep investing in their defense, and this is a big move.

DAN: Harting was an All-Pro, a big reason that Pirates QB Frank Zimmer — God rest his soul — had such a long career. I can’t believe they traded him.

TARAT: Dan, Harting is an excellent player, but the Pirates have a young new quarterback in Abdullahi Ba, and they want him to develop with a young new center, to build a connection that will last for years. It is obvious that the Pirates will not make the playoffs this year, so it is logical that they are trying to build up their defense for next season.

AKBAR: Not make the playoffs? Tarat, the Pirates are 3-1, they’re in third place and, also, wait, let me check my sources — they are the To Freaking Pirates. Is that centipede sandwich you’re eating laced with drugs? Because you must be high.

TARAT: I do not participate in the consumption of controlled substances.

DAN: Hey, Akbar, let’s not refer to a sponsor’s food as laced with drugs, all right? Because here at the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show, we just love us some Hooper’s Grinders. Hooper’s, with franchises all across the Planetary Union, the League of Planets, the Tower Republic and opening soon, the Quyth Concordia. They provided us today’s delicious lunch, including that lovely centipede sandwich. Tarat, is it delicious?

TARAT: It is, Dan. Proper centipede cooking is truly an art.

DAN: I’m glad it tastes good, because what I’m about to tell you will not sit well in your mouth. Did you read Yolanda Davenport’s column that posted a few minutes ago?

TARAT: I did not.

DAN: Yolanda reported that the Krakens have officially moved Becca Montagne to quarterback and have put third-string QB Trevor Haney on the practice squad.

AKBAR: What? She’s an All-Pro fullback! Why would they do that?

TARAT: Yes, Dan, why would the Krakens do that?

DAN: The column says that Montagne demanded it or she wanted to be traded.

TARAT: I am unhappy that Yolanda Davenport acquired this story and I did not.

AKBAR: She really kicked your ass this time, Tarat.

TARAT: So who will be the starting fullback for the Krakens?

DAN: According to Yolanda, that will be Kopor the Climber or rookie Nancy Wolf.

TARAT: This is a major mistake on the part of the Krakens, Dan. Their offense relies heavily on a mobile fullback that can block and also catch short passes. Often, the Krakens leave a linebacker unblocked at the line of scrimmage, and it is the fullback’s responsibility to stop that player from reaching Quentin Barnes. Kopor the Climber is a personal acquaintance of mine, but he is not at the caliber of Montagne. If she isn’t lined up to protect Barnes, this will cost the Krakens in the long run.

AKBAR: I guess being the Galaxy Bowl MVP’s girlfriend has benefits, eh, Dan?

DAN: So it would seem, little buddy.

TARAT: Or it could be the result of her agent, Danny Lundy. He is infamous for his ability to get his clients what they request.

DAN: Let’s go to the calls! But first, let me take another bite of this delicious vat-grown protein and ranch dressing sub from Hooper’s Grinders. Hooper’s, take a bite, take a big bite. I ... oh my god, that’s disgusting! What’s in my mouth?

TARAT: I believe you ate my centipede sandwich by mistake, Dan.

AKBAR: (laughing) Oh man, I switched ’em, and you just ate it!

DAN: (spitting) Good god, I think I’m going to die!

AKBAR: (laughing loudly)

TARAT: Dan, do not be an infant. Insect protein is very good for the Human body.

DAN: Water! Beer! Oh my god, I think I have a leg stuck in my teeth!

QUENTIN STOOD in the Touchback’s observation deck, his eyes closed, waiting for the punch-out.

“He’s totally gonna puke,” Ju said.

“No way,” John said. “Our little Quentin is all growed up. He doesn’t do that anymore. One fluker does not a puker make.”

Quentin tried to ignore them. That was hard to do when they were here not to see the Touchback arrive at Neptune, but instead to watch him. He’d made the mistake of mentioning to Ju that he’d thrown up after the Capizzi punch-out, and now his delicate digestive tract was the main topic of conversation between his brothers.

“Puke detector on full alert,” Ju said. “Put your money where your mouth is, John — a six-pack says Q has a yak attack. I even brought the puke bucket.”

Ju held up the small golden trashcan that Quentin had used in seasons past. A plastic trash bag lined the inside, while stickers from GFL teams covered the outside. The latest addition: a red sticker with the black-lined white trident, the logo of the Neptune Scarlet Fliers.

“You’re on,” John said.

Quentin felt the shimmer start, felt himself spreading across an infinite amount of space, then ripping back together at something beyond the speed of light. He was queasy, sure, but he’d gotten so much better at this. That punch-out at Capizzi had caught him by surprise: this time he was ready. The last of the shimmering started to fade away. He was going to make it, he—

Something flicked him in the crotch. Not too hard, but enough to make his breath catch, enough to make him bend over a little. He opened his eyes to see a grinning Ju, offering the golden puke bucket. Next to him stood John, his face an expression of outrage and betrayal.

“No fair,” John said. “You can’t touch him if there’s a bet!”

Ju shrugged. “You didn’t say I couldn’t touch him, so I can.”

Quentin started to stand up straight, then saw the briefest shimmer as the last of the punch-out effect drained away.

He snatched the bucket away from Ju, who laughed as Quentin threw up.

“Cheater,” John said. “Shucking cheater mega-booger eater. You can’t flick a guy in the nads to win a bet. That’s just not... it’s not classy.”

“Six-pack,” Ju said. “And good beer. None of that swill you and Quentin drink.”

Quentin heaved one more time, then the queasiness passed. He stood and performed the last part of the ritual, tying the top of the plastic bag so someone could come in and get it later.

“Nut shot,” Quentin said. “Not very nice, Ju.”

Ju shrugged again. “All’s fair in beer and bets, Q. It wasn’t personal — it was just business.”

Out beyond the observation deck’s crysteel windows, Quentin took in the sights of Neptune. A massive sapphire-blue world, several times bigger than Earth. A gas giant — not as big as Jupiter, but still damn big. Humans didn’t live on Neptune proper, nor did Ki or even Quyth. Harrah were the planet’s only full-time residents; they flourished on the gas giant just as easily as they did on the five planets of the Tribal Accord.

It wasn’t the planet itself that made Neptune, it was the seemingly endless clusters of constructs surrounding it: small vessels, mining barges, stations, manned satellites, decommissioned warships, obsolete cruise ships, old colony arks that had never made it out of the solar system ... all part of the flourishing “world” known as the Neptune Net Colony.

Floating dead ahead was the Touchback’s destination point: Trident Station. An old ark originally meant to carry half a million emigrants to Tower, it had fallen victim to a Planetary Union economic depression; the government had run out of money even before fitting it with what would have been the largest — and most expensive — punch drives in history, leaving the ark only three-quarters complete. The massive derelict sat unused for fifty years, right up until the Shell Gas Corporation bought the ark for a fraction of its original cost. The company used a new impulse-drive technology to move the station from a position near Earth to Neptune, a trip that took almost a decade. Trident City now housed somewhere around 400,000 permanent residents in the ark proper and well over 1 million more in the thousands of vessels spreading away from it like a combination asteroid belt/insect hive.

John didn’t seem to care about the amazing view: he’d lost a bet to his brother, and he was flaming mad about it.

“Q, you promised we’d go out after the game,” John said. “No backing out this week. You got me?”

The look on John’s face made it clear Quentin got him, whether Quentin liked it or not.

“Sure, John. I’ll go.”

That seemed to mollify John.

“Well, good. Ain’t no pub crawl like a Net Colony pub crawl, Q. Trust me when I say that the Neptunians really know how to party.”

“I think its Neptoids,” Ju said. “Or maybe Neptons?”

John shrugged. “Whichever.”

[FIRST-SHUTTLE PASSENGERS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE SHUTTLE BAT] called out the Touchback’s computer. [DEPARTURE IN FIFTEEN MINUTES]

Ju gripped Quentin’s shoulder, gave it a friendly shake.

“Come on, Q. John and I will walk you to the landing bay. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. I think it’s time we discussed you changing your last name to Tweedy.”

John’s face lit up, both in expression and in a flash of glowing orange exclamation points. “Sensational idea, my good man! A postulatory exposition the likes of which society beckons to hear on a rare basis!”

Quentin rubbed his temples as he walked.

“What does postulatory mean?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know, but it has five syllables. I counted.”

John and Ju continued to babble about why Quentin should change his last name, but Quentin slowly tuned them out; his mind relaxed into the total focus of game preparation.

The Krakens were undefeated; he would make sure they stayed that way.

THE NEPTUNE SCARLET FLIERS took the field to the roar of 150,000 fans, all screaming for their team to knock off the defending Galaxy Bowl champs. A win would put Neptune at 3-1 and keep them in the Solar Division playoff hunt, while a loss would leave them three full games behind undefeated Bartel, who had topped D’Kow earlier in the day.

The stadium’s bottom pointed down toward the blue gas giant beneath; the domed top faced out into the void. A noon local-time start put the distant sun directly overhead. Sunlight blazed down on scarlet helmets with a white-then-black outlined trident displayed large on each side. The jerseys were black with a large faded trident logo starting on the left shoulder pad, the trident’s three prongs ending at the right hip. The same symbol ran down the outer thighs of scarlet leg armor. White-trimmed scarlet letters spelled FLIERS across their chests, with white-trimmed scarlet numbers below.

The Fliers looked sharp, looked confident, looked ready to take on all comers — right up until the game actually started.

From the first snap, it was obvious that Neptune wasn’t at Ionath’s level, at least not that Sunday afternoon. In the fourth quarter, with the score 28-10, the Fliers looked deflated.

They looked beaten.

Quentin stood on the sidelines, watching his defense and whispering a silent thank you to High One that he didn’t have to line up against them.

Mum-O had a pair of sacks. He’d begun his night by knocking the Fliers right offensive tackle out of the game, and since then he’d been toying with the second-stringer the way a cat toys with wounded prey that it will soon dispatch to that great animal kingdom in the sky. Four seasons ago, Mum-O had been a rookie alongside Quentin and — just like Quentin — had fully come into the prime of his body and abilities. The young Ki had an intangible that Quentin did not, however: Mum-O was just plain mean. He’d always been a badass, ready to brawl at the drop of a hat, but the way he hit now, the way he put everything he had into every tackle — Mum-O enjoyed hurting other sentient beings.

As if Mum-O wasn’t enough for offensive lines to deal with, they also had to face Ionath defensive ends Alexsandar Michnik and Ibrahim Khomeni. Before gorillas went extinct centuries ago, there must have been five-hundred-pound members of that species, tree-trunk-sized arms pounding massive fists into the ground as they roared and rushed, thick muscles fluttering with movement, shaking at each impact. It would have been a terrifying thing to see, though probably not quite as frightening as watching the orange-and-black clad Michnik and Khomeni rage forward with reckless abandon. Michnik had one solo sack, and another when he and Khomeni had reached Neptune quarterback Adam Gurri at the same time. After that hit, Quentin had been shocked to see Gurri get up, but he had — the Fliers signal-caller was one tough bastard.

Even when Gurri could get a pass off, which wasn’t often, his day hadn’t got any better. The Krakens secondary — Wahiawa and Bumberpuff at the corners, Niami at strong safety and Katzembaum Weasley at free safety — had gelled as a unit. They were quite possibly the league’s best. If not, they were second only to Jupiter’s D-backs, a group that literally gave Quentin nightmares.

To top off a defensive line that couldn’t be blocked and a secondary that Yolanda Davenport had recently nicknamed the “Blast Shield,” there was Ionath’s biggest defensive star: one Jonathan Wilmer Tweedy. Before every snap, he stood in the middle of the field, pointing, spitting, snorting, screaming insults and nonsensical words at Gurri, at the Fliers running backs Lizard Gaston and Jerome Bird. On every snap, John crashed around like a tank, spinning off of blockers and driving all his hate into whoever was dumb enough to carry the ball.

Choto and Virak played on either side of John. Their mission was simple — if they couldn’t make the stop, they’d force the play back inside where John could finish it off. When they did make tackles, they did so in differing styles: Choto had perfect form, wrapping up his opponents and efficiently bringing them down, while Virak unleashed his pent-up rage and just generally knocked the snot out of anyone. Runner or blocker, it didn’t matter to Virak as long as he had someone to hit.

Quentin was grateful his first game with Kopor the Climber at starting fullback came against the Fliers, who didn’t exactly have the league’s best defense. Kopor had missed two key blocks that day. On the first one, Quentin had been lit up by linebacker Jan “The Destroyer” Dennison. On the second, Quentin had almost lost his head to defensive tackle Chris Maler. Two sacks wasn’t that bad, though. For most of the afternoon, Quentin had been able to stand tall in the pocket and deliver. He’d torched cornerback Fanning Springs and free safety Tulsa, repeatedly hitting Denver, Milford and Halawa on long passes. His main victim of the afternoon, however, was the Fliers’ newest player: Prawatt cornerback Scootchie-Poo Pootersnoot.

Pootersnoot was among the handful of Prawatt players that had signed with teams other than the Krakens, an obvious indication that the GFL was well on its way to fully accepting the species. At the end of the day, owners and coaches really only cared about one thing: getting the best player for the position, regardless of race, nation of origin, ideology or anything else that made one sentient different from another. Pootersnoot had shown great potential early in the season, but was still a rookie cornerback, and rookie cornerbacks were a thing to be used and abused. Quentin had done just that, hitting Cheboygan on a beautiful 75-yard TD strike right over the top of the Prawatt defender.

At game’s end, the Krakens walked off the field with a 35-10 win. Everything had gone smoothly and by the numbers. The only odd thing was Becca’s uniform: clean, untouched. Near the end of a game, her uniform, helmet and face usually carried the marks of an afternoon’s violence. But that afternoon, she had stayed on the sidelines.

Quentin didn’t know if that bothered her. He hoped it did, and at the same time, he hated himself for feeling that petty.

When the final gun sounded, the Krakens had once again shown the league that they were not paper champions. On offense, Ionath would light you up. On defense, they would beat you damn near to death.

The Krakens were 5-0. They held the title, and they were ready to defend it against all comers.

IF THE BEER-STAINED, SLIGHTLY PEELING wall covering had once been smart paper, it had stopped working long ago. The mismatched tables were made of salvaged starship hulls, and every one of them wobbled at least a little. Of the four beers on tap, Quentin knew all their names — not a pretentious microbrew in the house. There wasn’t even a menu, just popcorn, ziggynuts and flash-dried spiders (the latter of which, he had to admit, he’d developed a taste for, thanks to hanging out with Choto for so long).

The place was a dive; Quentin felt right at home.

This was the sixth stop on John’s pub crawl. Or maybe the seventh, Quentin wasn’t sure. They had left Trident Station and hit the web of ships surrounding it, their limo/shuttle taking them from one station (or converted starship or retired freighter or anything that was airtight and had engines) to the next. The bars were mostly packed with Humans, but there were other species as well, including more Harrah than any place Quentin had seen outside of Tribal Accord space.

Their latest stop, a hole-in-the-wall called Kessel’s Run, had been filled with Scarlet Fliers fans still enjoying their night even though the game had ended six hours earlier. Unlike other cities — such as OS1, for example — the Neptune fans welcomed opposing team players and opposing team fans. Aside from two Harrah aerial duels that had popped up out of nowhere, the evening had been remarkably violence-free.

Ju was standing on one of the wobbly tables, beer mug in hand and at least some of the sloshing beer remaining in it. He was trying to get the dwindling crowd to sing a sixth-straight rendition of “Black Velvet Band,” but the sentients remaining weren’t that interested; the novelty of bellowing songs with a GFL star had worn off about three renditions ago.

John was passed out, flat on his back on another table, legs and arms hanging, a half-empty beer balanced on his chest. HeavyG backup defensive end Cliff Frost’s massive shoulders shook with laughter as he drew on John’s face with a black pen.

Yassoud Murphy and backup linebacker Pishor the Fang were arm wrestling. ’Soud was drunk, sweat pouring off him, his body shaking with intensity and effort. Pishor matched that intensity, his baseball-sized eye swirling with the black of anger and the dark red of surprise — he couldn’t believe how strong Yassoud had become.

Quentin sat in a booth with Choto. Quentin had been drinking in moderation, but he consumed alcohol so infrequently during the season that even his four beers were making him a little tipsy. Choto drank something that smelled awful and looked like gray sludge. Whatever it was, this was his third mug. His eyelid sagged shut. He slowly slid to his left, then the eye shot open and he sat bolt upright.

Choto blinked rapidly, but the eyelid was already starting to sag again.

“I am very tired,” he said. “And also possibly intoxicated to some degree.”

It was good to see his friend and bodyguard relax for a change. And why not? They’d earned the right to celebrate. The Krakens had taken all three games of a brutal road trip. Soon they would depart for Ionath, and next Sunday they would be heavily favored against the 2-2 Alimum Armada at Ionath Stadium — the Krakens had an excellent chance to finish the first half of the season undefeated.

Choto pointed a wavering pedipalp at Yassoud and Pishor.

“They were just arm wrestling a few minutes ago. How many times have they done this?”

“Still the first time,” Quentin said. “Ten minutes and going, by my count.”

Choto muttered something in Quyth. He sounded impressed.

Ju tried to do a little dance but stepped on the edge of the table — it tilted under him, sending him crashing down on John, smashing the mug on John’s chest and dropping both of them to the floor. The bar patrons cheered and laughed.

Something caught Quentin’s eye: a Human man sitting at the bar stood up to adjust his seat, then sat back down again. Quentin only noticed because of the man’s height — in that brief moment when he stood, he towered over the other patrons. Six-ten, maybe ... maybe even as tall as Quentin, but skinny. He wore a long black coat with the collar up, obscuring part of his face, and a fedora down low so the brim covered most of the rest. But Quentin could see the man’s skin ... a deep, dark chocolate color.

“Dammit,” Quentin said. He leaned closer to Choto. “I think that tall guy over there is Jonathan Sandoval.”

“The reporter?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “We should get everyone out of here before he makes up some story about our drunken escapades.”

“Does John and Ju crashing to the floor not qualify as an actual drunken escapade?”

“Not to Sandoval,” Quentin said. “He’ll invent something far worse. Or hang around until John wakes up and wants to fight someone. Come on, Choto, sober up. We need to get our guys to the limo and return to the Touchback.”

Ju pushed himself slowly to his hands and knees, then stood with the help of Frost. Ju had blood on his chest.

“Dangit,” he said. He reached up to his sternum, pulled free a shard of blood-smeared mug and tossed it to the floor.

John sat up. His face tattoo scrolled gibberish beneath magic-marker whiskers, pointy eyebrows and a kitty nose.

“Not a party until Ju bleeds,” John said.

Ju held up his blood-covered fingers. “It’s a party.”

Two scarred HeavyKi bouncers, each six hundred pounds at least, pushed through the remaining crowd. They came in like they were going to roust everyone out, but one look at Frost — a six-foot-eleven HeavyG — made them stop in their tracks.

Frost smiled at them. “You fellas have something to say?”

John tried to get up. “They wanna go, Cliffy? I say we floor the mop with their faces!”

Quentin nudged Choto. “Tell those bouncers we’ll get everyone out of here.”

Choto slid out of the booth. He walked to the bouncers, wobbling only a little, his middle and pedipalp arms outstretched in a we don’t want any trouble gesture.

Quentin walked to Ju, who was picking up the table: not to put it where it belonged, but to throw it at the bouncers.

“Put it down,” Quentin said. “Bleeding or not, the party’s over.”

Ju harrumphed.

John finally managed to stand. “Come on, Q! These guys is be busting’ up our place! Someone should smack them in their hexamouths, or whatever the hell they call those face-holes of theirs.”

Cliff’s impromptu art made John look ridiculous.

“Hello, kitty,” Quentin said. “John, this is their place. We are the ones busting it up. So by your logic, what should happen?”

John frowned. “Someone should smack us in our hexamouths?”

Ju shook his head. “We don’t have hexamouths.”

Quentin grabbed Frost’s shoulder. “Get these two to the limo, got it?”

Frost smiled wider and gave a snappy military salute.

“Tweedy brothers,” he said, “fall in\”

The huge defensive end shepherded the drunken Tweedys past the bouncers. Quentin saw Choto tapping the credit box strapped to his wrist — he was probably paying for the damages. The linebacker called to Frost.

“Clifford, may I use your pen?”

Frost tossed a pen to Choto, who promptly signed the left upper arm of each 600-pound HeavyKi. The bouncers seemed very pleased with how things had turned out.

Quentin heard the grunting of a Human and the deep clicks of a Quyth; Yassoud and Pishor were still at it.

“It’s a tie,” Quentin said to them. “We’re leaving.”

Both sentients struggled, arms shaking.

“Let go,” Yassoud said.

“You let go,” Pishor said. “I will not slam your scrawny arm through this table, I promise.”

Quentin walked over, grabbed their wrists, squeezed as hard as he could and yanked them apart.

“I said, we’re leaving.”

The two Krakens stood up, both laughing, both rubbing their now-painful wrists.

“Damn, Q,” Yassoud said. “You’re stronger than you look. Wanna arm wrestle?”

Quentin pointed to the door. Yassoud and Pishor stumbled toward it. Choto fell in at Quentin’s side.

They left Kessel’s Run. There were no “streets” to speak of in this place, just a long central corridor with a curved ceiling some fifty feet overhead. Bars, restaurants and shops lined the corridor. The ship had once been a water tanker, almost eight hundred meters long, but its punch drives had worn out. It still had impulse engines and — like every other ship in the Net Colony — could shift its orbital position at will. Almost every vessel in the Net Colony could move, and often did; Quentin had heard the locals use the phrase “never the same neighbors twice.”

The former tanker thrummed with activity. Every store, restaurant and bar was still open, holo signs above them blazing brightly. Crowds of Humans wandered from club to club, most of them holding colorful plastic cups of various shapes and sizes. Each bar had a signature drink, it seemed, and each signature drink had a signature take-home container. Up above, the air was thick with Harrah. Most bore the colors of their local tribes, but many trailed streamers of scarlet, white and black — the colors of the Fliers. More than a few trailed streamers of orange and black: Harrah who either lived here and were Krakens fans or had traveled to the gas giant to catch their beloved team in action.

If there was one thing Quentin loved about a place with too many Harrah, it was the near absence of Creterakian soldiers. In the Net Colony’s smaller ships, John said, bats tended to disappear — the Harrah Neptunians hated their winged overlords and would take them out any chance they got. There weren’t enough Creterakians garrisoned in the Net Colony to investigate every death and disappearance. The all-encompassing hand of the Empire wasn’t quite as all encompassing as Quentin had once thought.

He looked up and down the expansive corridor, craning his head to see past the crowds of late-night revelers. He saw Yassoud and Pishor heading to the loading dock — that was a relief, as he wouldn’t have been surprised if the two had searched for another bar in which to continue their undecided battle. He didn’t, however, see the rest of his friends.

“Choto, you see John anywhere?”

“I do not,” Choto said. “Clifford seemed quite sober — I suspect he already has John and Ju at the limo.”

Quentin hoped so. He didn’t want to come back out here and hunt for the drunken Tweedys.

“Come on,” Quentin said. “Let’s head ou—”

Choto suddenly turned and shoved Quentin, hard. Quentin flew to his left — a metal pipe hissed through the air where his head had just been. He slammed into a Human woman; they both crashed to the metal deck. People scattered out of his way.

He looked back at Choto, who drove a knee into the ribs of the HeavyG holding the pipe. The attacker doubled over, face scrunched in pain. Choto swung a pedipalp fist into the man’s mouth, knocking him to his knees.

Quentin scrambled to his feet. A blur of motion hit Choto from behind: a Ki had expanded and slammed into Choto’s back. The two landed hard, skidding and rolling. Quentin ran toward Choto. He saw Yassoud and Pishor coming from the other direction. A Human near them turned sharply, swung a baseball bat into Yassoud’s stomach. ’Soud’s mouth opened in a breathless look of surprise; he dropped hard. Pishor’s fast pedipalp hands grabbed the bat out of the man’s grip, then jammed the end into the man’s mouth, knocking his head back. Pishor raised the bat to strike again, but three more attackers slid out of the crowd and gang-tackled him.

The Ki that had leveled Choto rolled on top of the Warrior, six legs straddling him, and started raining down blows with all four hands. The Ki wore Scarlet Fliers fan gear: a crimson lower-body suit, a black jacket with four long sleeves. The five Ki eyes saw everything, but seeing Quentin barreling in and reacting in time to do anything about it were two different things. Quentin drove his shoulder into the sentient, knocking him off Choto and driving the Ki to the deck. Quentin followed up with an elbow to the soft spot just below the Ki’s mouth. The effect was the same as hitting a Human in the throat: the ten-foot-long creature sputtered and gasped, spitting clear fluid out of his hexagonal mouth.

Choto stood on wobbly legs.

Yet another attacker slid from the crowd, a Quyth Warrior, middle hands reaching out and slapping against Choto’s chest — there was a crack of electricity; Choto flew backward, sending smaller sentients sprawling across the corridor deck.

Choto didn’t move.

The attacker turned to face Quentin. Like most Warriors, this one had multiple engravings on his reddish carapace. Quentin recognized some of them — gang symbols and the marks a Warrior got while serving prison time.

The Warrior wore gloves on his middle hands. A thin cable ran from each glove to a box on his belt. The gloves smoked slightly. Curls of black wormed across his cornea, but there were also strands of pink — nervousness — and some of blue — fear.

The HeavyG that Choto had taken out stood up. He weakly wiped blood from his mouth, grabbed the pipe, then fell in at the red Warrior’s side.

The coughing Ki struggled to get his six legs beneath him.

From farther down the old tanker, Quentin heard Humans screaming the kind of obscene encouragement typical of a street-brawl crowd — Pishor and Yassoud still fighting for their lives, probably.

The reddish Warrior moved closer to Quentin, smoking shock-gloves out in front of him. The bleeding HeavyG came forward as well, pipe held in both big hands.

Someone stepped out of the crowd and stood between Quentin and his attackers: a tall, black-skinned Human wearing a long coat and a fedora.

Jonathan Sandoval.

“You should leave now,” Sandoval said to the Warrior. “Before this gets messy.”

The reporter was tall, sure, but so skinny he looked like he might break into a dozen pieces if he tripped and fell on the deck.

“Sandoval,” Quentin hissed, “get the hell out of the way!”

The reporter held up a hand, a gesture that said stay back, let me handle this.

The red-shelled Warrior tilted his head to the right. “Get lost, or get hurt.”

The still-coughing Ki tucked his legs against the sides of his body, then slithered like a snake to the Warrior. Spectators scrambled out of the way. The Ki stood, reached into his clothing and drew a pair of ten-inch knives.

The reddish Warrior had the pipe-wielding HeavyG on one side, the Ki on the other. He waited another moment, as if he expected the sudden show of numbers to make Sandoval run.

Sandoval did not.

Instead, he stepped forward in a blur of motion, right fist shooting out in a straight jab that snapped the Warrior’s head back and sent him sprawling.

Quentin stared, stunned. He’d watched professional fighters in the Octagon, but he’d never seen anyone punch that fast or that hard.

Mods ... Jonathan Sandoval has mods.

The Ki’s blades slashed out. Sandoval turned, a precise movement — the blades slid harmlessly past. He drove an elbow into the Ki’s mouth with a sickening crunch: two black, triangular teeth spun through the air and clattered onto the deck.

The HeavyG raised his pipe, but he didn’t even get the swing off before Sandoval’s long leg kicked out, heel driving into the man’s stomach. The attacker flew backward, landed in a motionless heap on the deck.

With the three attackers down, Sandoval turned and grabbed Quentin’s right arm.

“Come with me, Barnes.”

Quentin tried to yank away, but Sandoval’s grip didn’t budge. The reporter squeezed — Quentin’s thoughts vanished beneath the single overpowering fear that his arm was about to break. Sandoval pulled Quentin toward Kessel’s Run.

Before Quentin knew what was happening, Sandoval had thrown him through the bar’s open front door. Quentin slammed into tables, knocking them aside. Kessel’s Run was almost empty: most of the patrons had run outside to watch the fight.

Sandoval entered. The two HeavyKi bouncers rushed at him. Sandoval’s hands snapped out and grabbed each one by their thick necks, his thumb pressing deep into the pressure point below their mouths. Both bouncers stiffened instantly, afraid to move a muscle.

“You’re closed,” the reporter said quietly. “Get everyone out, let no one in. Do what I say and I’m out of here in five minutes, no one gets hurt, and you’re each a thousand creds richer.”

He let them go. The two HeavyKi paused for a moment, black eyes blinking, then they started herding the few remaining drunkards out of the bar. Sandoval, meanwhile, stayed between Quentin and the door, blocking any escape. In seconds, the bouncers pushed the last person out, walked out themselves, then shut the door behind them.

Quentin was trapped with a man far stronger than any lineman he had ever faced.

“Sandoval, what the hell is going on? How come you have mods?”

“First things first,” he said. “I’m from Earth. The African States. We have a saying there — know what it is?”

Quentin shook his head.

“It goes, when someone saves your life, say thank you.”

Quentin needed to get to his friends, but from what he’d seen — and felt — he wasn’t going to get past Sandoval until Sandoval let him past.

“You’re right,” Quentin said. “Thank you. Do you know why those guys attacked me?”

Sandoval shrugged. “My guess is they were sent by one of your many true fans. You’ve got the Pirates coming up, and Kirani Kollok is still so tickled that you turned him down. Then there’s OS1 and your girlfriend Anna Villani. Then Buddha City, and we know how much your home system loves you. Then Gloria Ogawa’s Wolfpack, then—”

“I get it,” Quentin said. He was almost surprised the reporter hadn’t also mentioned Petra Prawatt. “There are people that want to take me out. Whatever. What about you, Sandoval? How can you get away with mods like that?”

Sandoval crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe.

“Because I’ve got special dispensation from my employer.”

“Net Colony News Syndicate has dispensation to turn sports reporters into killing machines?”

Sandoval smiled and shook his head.

“Clever. You always were so clever, Barnes. I mean my other employer.”

“Which is?”

“The Creterakian Ministry of Religion,” Sandoval said. “They pay me to follow you.”

The CMR ... the same organization that Richfield said would kill him if the church gained more than a hundred million followers. Did they know it was way past that already?

At least that explained the mods: if Sandoval was telling the truth, if the Creterakian Empire had hired him, they could give him some kind of pass for the illegal tech. It made sense why they picked Sandoval, or recruited him or whatever — as a reporter, he could follow the GFL teams and be at any game he chose. No one would think twice about it.

Quentin thought about sprinting to the rear of the bar, hoping he could find a back door, but he’d seen Sandoval move and knew he wouldn’t make it five steps.

“Why would you follow me? I’m just a quarterback.”

“You’re more than that,” Sandoval said. “At least that’s what the CMR thinks. The CMR is very concerned about just how dangerous you could be. You, and your church.”

Quentin felt cold all over. Was he going to die here? Die over something for which he had no interest and zero control?

He needed to get out of this bar, needed to get to Yassoud and Pishor, needed to check on Choto. Had John and Ju made it back to the limo, or had someone attacked them as well?

“My friends are still out there,” Quentin said. “They’re in trouble, so let me go.”

Sandoval shook his head. “Before you even ask me what I want? Why, that just seems rude”

The reporter was toying with him. Sandoval didn’t care about Quentin’s friends. Whatever this was, Quentin couldn’t help them until he played Sandoval’s game.

“Fine,” Quentin said. “What do you want?”

“The same thing everyone else wants, Barnes — money.”

Quentin felt a flutter of hope; this was just another kind of negotiation. Money he had.

“The CMR isn’t paying you, Sandoval? What, you’re just a patriotic citizen serving the Creterakian Empire out of the goodness of your heart?”

Sandoval laughed. “Not in this lifetime. Yes, they pay me, but we have another saying back in the African States. Want to know what that one is?”

“I’m on the edge of my seat with anticipation.”

“Why get paid only once when you can get paid twice for the same job?”

“Sounds a little long for a folksy saying,” Quentin said. “You sure you didn’t just make that up?”

“Sayings have to start somewhere, don’t they?”

Quentin grabbed a chair and sat. He calmed himself, controlled his breathing and heart rate.

“Why would I pay you? I won’t go bar hopping again anytime soon, so I doubt I’ll need further rescuing.”

“You’ll pay me because of what I can tell the CMR,” Sandoval said. “They are so afraid of how fast your church is growing that they’ll authorize an assassination order on you if it exceeds a hundred million members.”

“It’s not my church,” Quentin said. He hoped being calm about the assassination order — even a little dismissive of it — would help. If he showed no fear, that might take away some of Sandoval’s perceived power. “The church has my name, but I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

The reporter shrugged. “I’m not sure the bats care.”

Quentin shrugged. “Whether they do or they don’t, it doesn’t really matter, because the CoQB is nowhere near a hundred million members. I don’t know much about it, but I’ve heard it’s got around sixty-five million. I think I’m safe for a little while.”

Sandoval’s eyes narrowed; Quentin sensed his annoyance.

“Don’t he to me again, Barnes. I’m not one of your moron teammates that you can play little mind games with. I actually am a reporter. A good one. I know how to dig for information. I know how to find the real story, things like, oh, I don’t know ... Richfield’s little visit to the Touchback?”

The brief negotiation was already over. If Sandoval knew about that meeting, Quentin had to assume he also knew about the numbers Richfield had discussed. With one word to his bosses, Sandoval could sign Quentin’s death warrant.

“You said something about money?”

Sandoval smiled. “There we go, was that so hard? All I want is a little slice of that good fortune you got from being born a goddamn genetic freak. How much will you make this year?”

Quentin thought about low-balling the number, but Sandoval’s only job — as a reporter, anyway — was covering the Krakens. Quentin couldn’t take the chance that he didn’t already know the answer.

“Sixty-five million,” Quentin said. “But after my agent’s fifteen percent, and taxes, I get to keep thirty-three million.”

Sandoval shook his head. “The tax man, always there with his hand out. I feel your pain, my friend. Sadly, I’m going to add to it, but only a little. I’ll take eleven million. See? Just a third, because I’m a helluva nice guy. I’ve got an unnamed account at a Tower bank. You know how lax the Republic is with their financial system.”

“I get paid per game,” Quentin said. “I don’t have eleven million just sitting around. If I get paid per game, then so do you, you piece of garbage.”

Sandoval slowly raised a hand, fingers outstretched. He made a fist, opened it, made a fist, opened it: as he did, Quentin heard the tiny whirs and clicks of machinery.

“I can kill you right now, Barnes, and not a thing will happen to me, because I’ll tell the CMR what I know and say you tried to take me out.”

Quentin laughed. He couldn’t help it.

“If you kill me, you won’t get anything. And when I’m gone, I imagine the CMR won’t need to pay you quite as much as they do now. Unless the Church of Don Pine is approaching a hundred million?”

Sandoval’s smile faded. He lowered his hand.

“Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“Don’t take it as too much of a compliment,” Sandoval said. “There’s still a lot of headroom there.”

Quentin stood. “So do we have a deal?”

“Almost. You need to understand something. I know you want to get out of here and check on your friends, so you’d probably agree to anything. But this deal sticks, Barnes. If you think you can get out of it by tattling to Gredok, or the commissioner, you won’t like the results. I’ve got reports filed away that will automatically go to the CMR if anything happens to me. And if later on you decide not to pay me? Then I’ll report to them personally. You’re still rich ... just a little bit less so.”

He grabbed the door handle, stopped, then smiled over his shoulder.

“See you at the next press conference,” he said, then opened the door.

The two HeavyKi were standing there, a wall of flesh blocking the way.

“Get back in here,” Sandoval said. “Let’s get you two paid. Barnes, you can leave now.”

Quentin took off like a shot. Choto was still on the deck, but sitting up, a bloody Yassoud and a battered Pishor at his sides. Cliff Frost towered over them, glowering at the crowd as if to scare off any further threats. Two Human constables were there as well, probably trying to find out what had happened.

Quentin ran to his teammates.

“Is everyone okay?”

Yassoud pulled Choto to his feet.

“As soon as we see Doc Patah, we will be,” Yassoud said. “Broke my ribs for sure.”

Quentin slid his arm around Choto, carried the Warrior’s weight.

“Cliff, where’s John and Ju?”

“Passed out in the limo,” the HeavyG said. “They’re fine.”

Quentin felt a flood of relief wash over him. Money he could replace, friends he could not.

The constables asked questions, but Quentin and the others ignored them. GFL players had diplomatic immunity and couldn’t be detained unless there was a felony; a bar fight didn’t count. There was also no sign of the attackers — they must have cleared out while Quentin was talking to Sandoval.

“Let’s get to the limo and get out of here,” he said. “I’ve had my fill of Neptune.”

QUENTIN SAT AT A TABLE in the Touchback’s dining deck, staring at the heaping plate of food before him. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he had to eat; maintaining the proper level of protein, carbs and calories was just as important to his training regimen as running, lifting and stretching.

If last night’s fight was the reason for Quentin’s diminished appetite, it didn’t have the same effect on Ju. Ju sat across the table from Quentin, gnawing big chunks from the roasted thigh of some animal (a pig, maybe, or a bressler, Quentin wasn’t sure which). Grease dribbled down his chin and onto the napkin tucked into his shirt. The shirt read: Ma Loves Me Best.

Michael Kimberlin sat on Quentin’s left, methodically working away at a small mountain of hamburger and mashed potatoes. Everyone had heard about the assault. While no one seemed to know of Sandoval’s involvement, the telling of the tale from Choto, Yassoud and Pishor made everyone understand that the attack had been organized and aimed at Krakens players. Kimberlin hadn’t asked if he could join Quentin at the table. The big HeavyG had simply sat, sending a clear message that he no longer cared what Quentin wanted: Mike was getting involved, and that was that.

On Quentin’s right sat Choto. The big Warrior had a blue bandage around his neck and an ice pack resting against the top of his head, held there by some kind of white wrap that circled under his tiny chin. He looked like he was still hurting; he also looked ridiculous. To Ju’s left sat Becca. She ignored her food and kept staring at Quentin, to the point where he felt uncomfortable. Like Kimberlin, she didn’t seem to care anymore about what had happened in the recent past — the attack had instantly changed everyone’s priorities. The whole team seemed on high alert.

And to Ju’s right, arm on the table and head down on his arm, the moaning form of John Tweedy.

“Ohhhh,” John said, his voice muffled by the crook of his elbow. “Oh, beer, why do you hate me so?”

Ju gently patted his brother on the back. “Because you’re ugly, John. That’s why I hate you, anyway.”

Becca smacked Ju on the shoulder.

“Knock it off, Julius. Your brother is in pain. Be nice.”

Ju looked at her, dumbfounded. Quentin knew why: in that moment, Becca had sounded like a deeper-voiced, younger version of Ma Tweedy.

She returned to staring at Quentin.

“So, Q, who do you think they were?”

He forced himself to eat another spoon of his macaroni and garbird. Chewing it gave him a few moments to think about a believable answer.

“I told you, I don’t know,” he said. “One of them, the Ki, had Scarlet Fliers gear on, but it looked brand new. He might have bought it that day to blend in. Or it could have been a few actual Fliers fans, really angry that we whipped their team.”

“Yassoud told me they didn’t ask him for money,” Becca said. “Same with Pishor. Did they ask you for money?”

Quentin shook his head. Becca had already asked him that. He had a feeling she would ask him that again, several times.

“The Orbiting Death,” John said into his arm. He looked up. His skin was bright red from repeated scrubbing that hadn’t fully removed the ink applied by Cliff Frost. The straight black lines of a kitty face were still clearly visible. “Villani hired those thugs to bust Quentin up, maybe. Or maybe it was that rotten Gloria Ogawa!”

Ju stared at his brother, then shook his head sadly. “Just look at you, John. Wait till Ma sees this.”

John’s face wrinkled with worry. “Aw, Ju, you’re not gonna tell Ma, are you?”

“Don’t know,” Ju said. “Maybe if you were really nice to me, I might forget to tell her.”

John nodded. “I can be nice. Mega-nice!”

“Super- mega-nice?”

Becca gave the table a light slap. “Can we please focus on the fact that someone attacked our teammates last night? And that their primary target probably wasn’t our number-two running back or a backup linebacker? Someone wanted our quarterback out of the picture. What if John is right and it was Ogawa who set it up? Or Villani? We’re the hottest team in the league right now — if they don’t think they can beat us on the field, they’ll find another way.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a team at all,” Kimberlin said. “Or an attempted mugging. Quentin, did the attackers mention anything else?”

The tone of Mike’s voice indicated that he had an idea of what that anything else might be.

“No,” Quentin said. “They didn’t.”

Mike clearly didn’t believe him. “We should talk about this later. In private.”

Quentin thought back to Mike’s claim that he knew sentients from the Harrah independence movement. What else did Mike know? Who else did he know?

“Maybe,” Quentin said. “Right now, though, I think we should all be grateful that nobody got hurt.” He glanced at Choto. “Seriously hurt, I mean.”

Choto rubbed his closed eye with a pedipalp hand. “I’ve had worse.”

Becca leaned back and crossed her arms.

“Probably a good idea that you don’t go out and party anymore,” she said. “If they tried to get you once, Quentin, they’ll try again.”

Choto adjusted the bag of ice on his head. “That is an excellent suggestion,” he said. “Stadium facilities, both at home and on the road, are guarded and protected. The Touchback is very safe as well. And when you are in Ionath, the Krakens Building is the most secure place in the city.”

That didn’t leave anything outside of Quentin’s apartment and football-related activities, but he didn’t really mind. He didn’t need to go out for meals or anything else like that, and besides, he had far more important things to worry about: like how to get Sandoval his money, and, maybe, how to crush Sandoval without winding up the target of a CMR assassination order.

He nodded. “Staying in for the rest of the season sounds like a good idea.”

Becca seemed to relax a little. Now she looked more worried than angry.

John sighed. “My head hurts, but we all know I’m the thinker of the bunch. Don’t be like Yitzhak, Q — don’t hide in the damn Krakens Building your whole life long. You can go out and get beers with us, just wear a costume.”

Becca shook her head. “Yeah, because there are just hundreds of seven-foot-tall Humans as big as Quentin, walking around with wigs and fake beards. No one would ever recognize him. He’s not going out, Jonathan — life is more important than beer.”

John gave her a quizzical glance, as if to say, are you sure?

Ju touched the tip of John’s blackened nose.

“Beer hates you, John, remember?”

John rubbed at his temples. “It hates me a lot.”

“Because you’re ugly,” Ju said. “Right?”

John started to get mad, then remembered Ju’s ultimatum.

“Mega-ugly,” John said.

Ju smiled. There was a chunk of meat stuck between his teeth, and his chin gleamed with grease and a few more flecks of the same.

“I, on the other hand, am very handsome,” Ju said. “Don’t I look handsome, John?”

John sighed. “Mega-handsome. Like, the most super-mega-handsome guy ever.”

Becca rolled her eyes.

Choto set his ice pack on the table.

“Quentin,” he said, “there is something that I do not understand. When the red Warrior knocked me out, there were three attackers left. Yassoud and Pishor seemed occupied. How did you come away without any marks?”

“You mean other than this?” He slid up his sleeve. Where Sandoval had grabbed him, his muscular arm showed a deep yellow-purple bruise in roughly the shape of a Human or HeavyG hand.

Becca hissed in a breath. Her expression changed from hard-eyed and stern to that of someone dying inside because a person she loved had been hurt.

Ju waggled the animal leg in Quentin’s direction. “I hope you did the family proud and gave better than you got.”

Quentin controlled a wave of embarrassment: other than knocking that Ki off Choto, he hadn’t even thrown a punch.

“There were some Krakens fans or something, they helped chase the guys off,” Quentin said. He grew worried that he might say something stupid, possibly give a hint about the CMR or Sandoval. “Listen, guys, I’m beat. I’m going to crash before practice.”

He stood, forced a smile and headed for his quarters. The trip home to Ionath would take another five days, during which he’d try to avoid the subject as much as possible. Once back on Ionath, everyone would accept that the situation was in Gredok’s hands, and they could all get back to focusing on football.

GFL WEEK FIVE ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Buddha City Elite

10

Yall Criminals

38

Isis Ice Storm

42

D’Oni Coelacanths

3

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

10

Ionath Krakens

35

Texas Earthlings

14

Orbiting Death

24

Themala Dreadnaughts

14

Wabash Wolfpack

21

Bartel Water Bugs

27

D’Kow War Dogs

10

Jupiter Jacks

17

Jang Atom Smashers

14

McMurdo Murderers

10

Sheb Stalkers

28

Shorah Warlords

21

Vik Vanguard

27

Bye Weeks: To (3-1), Alimum (2-2), Coranadillana (0-4) and Bord (2-2) did not play this week.

Both division-leading teams notched wins this week, keeping Ionath (5-0) atop the Planet and Bartel (5-0) atop the Solar.

Ionath pounded Neptune (2-2) by a score of 35-10. Krakens signal-caller Quentin Barnes threw for 305 passing yards and two touchdown strikes, while adding another TD on the ground. Running back Ju Tweedy rushed for 85 yards and a touchdown. Yassoud Murphy rushed for one TD and caught another, part of his four receptions for 56 yards.

“Barnes was unstoppable today,” said Scarlet Fliers quarterback Adam Gurri. “The way Ionath is playing right now, I don’t see that changing.”

OS1 (4-0) remained undefeated and in second place in the Planet Division, thanks to a 24-10 thumping of Texas (3-2).

Wabash (4-1) grabbed its third straight victory, 21-14 over Themala (1-3). Wabash sits in third place in the Planet, a half-game ahead of To (3-1), who was off this week with a bye.

Coranadillana (0-4) was also on a bye week, which leaves D’Oni (0-5) in sole possession of last place in the Planet, thanks to a 42-3 drubbing at the hands of the Isis Ice Storm (2-3).

Vik (4-1) stayed in second place in the Solar, after a 27-21 outcome against Shorah (1-3). It was the Vanguard’s fourth win in a row after stumbling out of the gate with an opening-day loss. Vik has a bye in Week 6.

The other team streaking up the Solar Division rankings is Jupiter (3-2). After losing their first two games, the Jacks have won three straight to move into a tie for third. Jupiter edged out Jang (1-4) with a game-winning drive late in the fourth quarter. Jacks quarterback Don Pine hit wide receiver Beaverdam for a 6-yard touchdown with just 4 seconds left to play, giving the Jacks a 17-14 win.

“The rumors of our demise have been greatly exaggerated,” Pine said. “We’re back in the hunt. We’re just taking it one game at a time. If we play our best, we can beat any team in the league.”

McMurdo (0-5) lost its fifth straight, 28-10 against Sheb (2-2). The Murderers are dead last in the Solar and look to be heading for relegation.

Deaths

No deaths reported this week.

Offensive Player of the Week

Isis quarterback Paul Infante, who threw for 280 yards and four touchdowns against D’Oni.

Defensive Player of the Week

OS1 linebacker Yalla the Biter, thanks to five solo tackles, six assists, one sack and one interception in a win over Texas.

39

Week Six:
Alimum Armada at
Ionath Krakens

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

5-0

Ionath Krakens

5-0

Bartel Water Bugs

4-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

4-1

Vik Vanguard

4-1

Wabash Wolfpack

3-2

Jupiter Jacks

3-1

To Pirates

3-2

Texas Earthlings

3-2

Yall Criminals

2-2

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

2-2

Alimum Armada

2-2

Bord Brigands

2-2

Buddha City Elite

2-2

Sheb Stalkers

2-3

Isis Ice Storm

1-3

Shorah Warlords

1-3

Themala Dreadnaughts

1-4

D’Kow War Dogs

0-4

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

1-4

Jang Atom Smashers

0-5

D’Oni Coelacanths

0-5

McMurdo Murderers

SATURDAY’S PRACTICE was little more than a walk-through, but it felt great to have his feet back on the blue turf of Ionath Stadium.

Gredok’s response had been mostly as expected: when on Ionath, he didn’t want Quentin leaving the Krakens Building, and when on the road, he wanted Quentin either on the Touchback or safe in the opposing team’s facilities. For once, Quentin had been only too happy to do what the owner asked. Quentin still had no idea who the attackers had been working for. That part of the mystery was up to Gredok: maybe his criminal organization could finally do something that would benefit the Krakens.

For now, however, Quentin wasn’t going to worry about it. He relaxed as the water’s heat soaked into his body. A few feet away from him, a ball of Ki writhed slowly, three and a half tons of snake-like linemen relaxing in that species’ unique way.

His love life was a mess, he was lying to his friends about the fight, he had to pay blackmail or become a target of the Creterakian Empire, and someone was trying to kill him — again. But here, he felt safe. Here, he could focus on his job. When it came to football, he always knew exactly what to do. With everything else, he felt clueless.

Over the sound of trickling water, he heard the door open and footsteps approaching. Quentin looked to the darkness of the entryway: was Becca finally coming to join him again?

His heart sank when he saw that it was Michael Kimberlin.

The swirling Ki let out a collective gurgle of recognition, welcoming a fellow lineman to their daily ritual. Kimberlin dove headfirst into the water, making a surprisingly small splash for such a massive sentient. He went fully under, then popped up, treading water.

“Let’s talk about the attack,” he said.

“What’s there to talk about, Mike? Gredok is handling it.”

“That would be fine if it was just some owner out to break your legs,” Kimberlin said. “But it could be bigger than that. When Petra talked to you the second time, she wanted you to be a leader, right? She wanted you to be some kind of unifying figure?”

Quentin hadn’t told anyone about that, not even Becca. To hear Kimberlin say it... it felt violating. Bumberpuff had promised he wouldn’t speak to anyone about it, but who knew if the Prawatt had kept his word.

“That’s ridiculous,” Quentin said. “What makes you think she asked me that?”

“It’s not ridiculous, it’s logical,” Kimberlin said. “She probably sees the same thing I see, that you have a unique ability to bring sentients together. Your popularity is unprecedented, Quentin — and I think it’s why you were attacked.”

Quentin didn’t answer. Bumberpuff must have told him about Petra’s visit. Bumberpuff claimed he hadn’t known what the conversation was about, but that had to be a lie ... didn’t it? Mike couldn’t have just figured this out on his own.

“The attack was from another team, Mike, to stop us from winning. So I’m popular, so what? Why would someone want to hurt me because of it?”

Kimberlin kept treading water, stared hard at Quentin as he did. Quentin stared back, his face expressionless; if he could hide his emotions from Gredok the Splithead, he could hide them from Michael Kimberlin.

The HeavyG swam to the wall next to Quentin.

“I was right,” he said, resting one massive arm on the wet tile. “She wants to unify the races to fight the Abernessia, and she wants your help to do it.”

Quentin thought of denying it, but either Bumberpuff had talked, or Kimberlin was just that smart. Either way, it didn’t help anything to insult the man’s intelligence.

“Say that’s exactly what she wants,” he said. “You want to tell me why that somehow makes me a target?”

Kimberlin glanced at the swirling ball of Ki, as if he only now realized they were a few feet away and hearing everything that was said. He glanced at Quentin, raised an eyebrow: can I go on with them here?

Mum-O, Bud-O, Sho-Do and the others, weaving in and out of the ball, heads appearing then vanishing, black eyes watching. They were quiet, but they were listening. They were Quentin’s silent supporters, never saying a word but always on his side. He didn’t have to ask if they understood that this was a secret, that they weren’t to mention it to anyone — he just knew.

“Go ahead,” Quentin said. “Nothing we discuss here will leave this room.”

“Petra wants you to help unify the races, because together, the races can fight the Abernessia,” Kimberlin said. “So if a group wants to stop the races from uniting ...”

He let the sentence trail off, leaving it for Quentin to finish as he had done so many times during their tutoring sessions. And like those times before, it worked.

“Then I’m a threat,” Quentin said. “If someone thinks I can unite the races, and they don’t want the races united, I’m a threat.”

Kimberlin nodded.

“But who would want to stop the races from unifying? That would mean more peace, more sentients getting along without hating each other. I mean, not that I’m going to do a damn thing, but who would object to all the races getting along?”

“The Zoroastrian Guild,” Kimberlin said. “They want to destroy the Creterakians, not allow races to form stronger ties with them.”

That boogeyman again? Quentin hadn’t expected to hear that.

“But I’m not trying to form stronger ties,” he said. “I’m not doing anything like that.”

“Just because you’re not trying now doesn’t mean you won’t try later. If the ZG thinks you’re a potential threat, they will try to take you out.”

Had they already? Fred had learned that the ZG was behind the parade bombing after the Krakens won the T2 Tourney. If that suicide bomber had gotten closer, he could have killed Quentin.

“The ZG was behind the parade attack,” he said. “Could they have also been behind those fighters attacking us off of Yall?”

Kimberlin nodded. “I believe that was a Guild attack, yes.”

Quentin thought that over. It made sense initially, but as he turned it around and around in his head, it didn’t add up.

“We haven’t had any attacks since then,” Quentin said. “But if they can launch that kind of a strike against us, they should be able to do just about anything. I mean, I’ve been out in several cities since then, and I took a long trip to Earth with no protection at all, not even Choto. If they wanted me dead, wouldn’t I be dead?”

“I don’t think they were after you then,” Kimberlin said. “The Guild has resources, sure, but those resources are limited. They could find some isolated place and build up a force like those fighters, but cities — especially cities with a Tier One franchise — aren’t isolated spots. They are heavily patrolled by system police and the Creterakian fleet, and there are strict weapons bans and technology to detect weapons. That fighter attack probably represented a huge investment for them.”

Quentin stared at the man.

“Wait a minute, Mike ... you said they weren’t after me then? Who were they after?”

Kimberlin looked away. Quentin noticed him blinking rapidly — the man had said something he hadn’t intended to say and had been called on it.

“I just meant that it was probably a general attack,” he said.

Quentin shook his head. “Don’t lie to me. You said they weren’t after me. The only way you could know that is if you knew who they were after.”

“I’m not lying.”

But he was. Quentin could spot it, perhaps as easily as Gredok could.

Kimberlin hopped out of the pool.

“Like it or not, you’re a target now,” he said. “Petra isn’t the only one who sees what you’re capable of. If I can figure that out, then so can the Guild. But maybe you’re right, Quentin, maybe if you don’t try to help Petra, maybe if you keep choosing your own needs over the needs of everyone else, then maybe the ZG will forget that you’re a threat to their objectives. Then you will be safe — and that’s what really matters to you, isn’t it?”

Without waiting for a response, Kimberlin walked out.

Despite the water’s heat, Quentin started to feel cold. He already had enough enemies — the last thing he needed was to add ruthless terrorists — mass murderers — to that list. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

And if he wasn’t the ZG’s target in those attacks, who was? Gredok? Another player? Kimberlin seemed to know a lot ... could Mike have been the target?

A small wave splashed against Quentin’s arm. Mum-O had slid out of the writhing ball. His thick twelve-and-a-half-foot body looked so at home in the water. He slowly circled Quentin, one black eye always watching, tips of his vocal tubes just above the surface.

“Gratchik kollowis jugatach,” he growled.

The other Ki grunted their agreement.

Quentin didn’t need a translator for that. He understood it as “our blood will spill together.” The Ki knew Quentin was in danger from many sides, and whichever side came first, they would fight along with him.

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” he said.

But somewhere in the small, hidden parts of his soul, he started to suspect that was just wishful thinking.

Live feed from UBS GameDay holocast coverage

“Hello, gridiron fans, and welcome back to Monday Night Football. I’m Masara the Observant, and with me as we get ready to start the second half is my broadcasting partner, Chick McGee.”

“Masara, what a first half we had. I’m sure when the space-age geniuses in league scheduling concocted this maudlin matchup, they didn’t know the Krakens would be an undefeated, unstoppable juggernaut and that the Armada players wouldn’t be worth their combined weight in fecal material.”

“Chick, that’s a little unfair. Just because the Krakens are up thirty-five to nothing doesn’t mean this game is over.”

“The only way this game isn’t over, Masara, is if the Krakens are in the locker room chowing down on the universe’s biggest laxative sandwich, and they spend the second half trapped in the bathroom ducking for cover from a brown hurricane of death.”

“Chick! Can we stick to football?”

“Sorry, Masara. Sorry, folks at home. Right, let’s keep it to football. The Ionath defense has shut down the Alimum attack, forcing seven three-and-outs. That’s given Quentin Barnes plenty of opportunities to work his magic, which he did, throwing for five touchdown passes in the first half.”

“That’s a new record, right, Chick?”

“Right you are, Masara. He broke Don Pine’s record of four first-half touchdown passes, set back in ’76 during Pine’s first stint with the Jupiter Jacks.”

“And Barnes has done that despite being sacked twice.”

“That’s right, Masara. It looked like a couple of miscues by Krakens fullback Kopor the Climber led to those sacks. I swear, the decision to move Becca Montagne to third-string quarterback instead of leaving her at fullback is just mind-boggling.”

“That it is, Chick. We’re almost ready to start the second half. Let’s go down to the sidelines to Jenny Briggs, who talked to Alimum coach Irena Rowe coming out of the halftime locker room. Jenny?”

GFL WEEK SIX ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Ionath Krakens

49

Alimum Armada

7

Themala Dreadnaughts

14

Buddha City Elite

24

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

10

Orbiting Death

28

To Pirates

35

Isis Ice Storm

10

Jang Atom Smashers

17

Wabash Wolfpack

14

Bord Brigands

21

Bartel Water Bugs

10

D’Kow War Dogs

21

Sheb Stalkers

17

Jupiter Jacks

14

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

7

Shorah Warlords

24

Texas Earthlings

20

Bye Weeks: D’Oni Coelacanths (0-5), McMurdo Murderers (0-5), Yall Criminals (3-2) and Vik Vanguard (4-1), did not play this week.

Coming into Week Six, there were three undefeated teams remaining in Tier One. Thanks to the Bord Brigands, now there are only two.

Bord (3-2) registered a huge 21-10 upset over heavily favored Bartel (5-1). The win takes the Brigands a game past .500 and puts them in fourth place in the Solar. Bartel remains in first despite the loss. Second place Vik (4-1), off this week with a bye, is still a full game back.

Ionath (6-0) and OS1 (5-0) remain perfect on the season, and are one and two in Planet Division standings.

The Krakens hammered Alimum on a record-setting day for Ionath quarterback Quentin Barnes. Barnes threw for 528 yards, a new single-game record, and seven touchdowns, which ties the record for most TD passes in a game, giving him the best single-game quarterback performance in the history of the league.

“Everything just clicked,” Barnes said. “My O-line gave me time to throw. My receivers found open spaces and had a ton of yards after the catch. Our defense kept shutting Alimum down and kept me on the field — it was a great team effort.”

The performance by the Ionath’s signal-caller overshadowed that of Orbiting Death QB Condor Adrienne, which was stellar in its own right. Adrienne threw 30 times for 26 completions, 314 yards and two TDs against Coranadillana (0-5).

Jupiter (4-2) won its fourth straight, chalking up a 14-7 win over archrival Neptune (2-3). The Jacks now have sole possession of third place in the Solar, thanks to Texas (3-3) dropping 24-20 to Shorah (2-3). After starting the season 2-0, Texas has lost three of its last four.

“We need to get this wagon righted, and pronto,” said Texas owner Tanel Lumiste. “This is our third season in Tier One, and it’s playoffs or bust.”

Deaths

No deaths reported this week.

Offensive Player of the Week

Ionath quarterback Quentin Barnes, who broke the single-game record for passing yardage (528) and tied the single-game record for touchdowns (7) against Alimum.

Defensive Player of the Week

D’Kow right defensive end Steve Owens, who had two sacks and a fumble recovery in the War Dogs’ win over the Sheb Stalkers.

40

Week Seven:
Ionath Krakens at D’Oni Coelacanths

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

6-0

Ionath Krakens

5-1

Bartel Water Bugs

5-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

4-1

Vik Vanguard

4-1

To Pirates

4-2

Jupiter Jacks

4-2

Wabash Wolfpack

3-2

Bord Brigands

3-2

Buddha City Elite

3-3

Texas Earthlings

3-2

Yall Criminals

2-3

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

2-3

Alimum Armada

2-3

Sheb Stalkers

2-4

Isis Ice Storm

2-3

Shorah Warlords

1-4

Themala Dreadnaughts

2-4

D’Kow War Dogs

0-5

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

2-4

Jang Atom Smashers

0-5

D’Oni Coelacanths

0-5

McMurdo Murderers

Transcript of broadcast from Galactic News Network (GNN)

“Tom, you’re on site in the city of Bord on Ki Rebel Establishment planet Ol, and ... Tom, is that gunfire?”

“Yes, Brad, that is gunfire. Sporadic battles have erupted all over the city. Local Creterakian garrisons are under attack, apparently by native Ki. They are—”

[SIGNAL INTERRUPTED: PLEASE STAND BY]

“Tom! Tom, are you okay?”

“Well, Brad, there appears to be a rather large piece of shrapnel sticking out of my leg, but my cameraman used some nerve blocks and a whole bunch of painkillers, so the pain isn’t that bad. I can ... wow, I feel pretty good, actually ... I can finish my report.”

“Tom, do you know why the locals are fighting?”

“It appears to be an uprising against Creterakian control. We’re getting some reports that this is a planet-wide initiative. The Rebel Establishment has been pushing for independence from the Empire for decades, Brad, and it appears they’ve finally resorted to violence ... hey, does anyone else see that glowing butterfly juggling six kittens?”

“Tom, that might be the painkillers.”

“Oh, right, Brad. Violence, as I was saying — the locals are using violence to get their way.”

“Tom, anti-Creterakian sentiment has recently been on the upswing in multiple systems, including the Harrah Tribal Accord and, of course, the Purist Nation. Did that unrest have anything to do with pushing this faction over the edge?”

“That’s definitely possible, Brad. Earlier today, the Zoroastrian Guild broadcast two planet-wide signals, one conflicting with the other. The first broadcast urged the citizens to rise up violently against the Creterakians. The second broadcast claimed the first was a fake, that it was not a message of the Zoroastrian Guild, and urged everyone to not engage in violent acts. This appears to be part of a growing schism within the terrorist group. The local Creterakian garrison tried to track down the source of both broadcasts but failed to find them. And then ...”

“Tom? Tom, are you there?”

“Yes, Brad, sorry about that. I might be a little weak from blood loss.”

“Tom, you need to get to a hospital.”

“No, I can finish the story, Brad. But if we could hurry it along a little, that might be ... wow, the fire is so bright, man.”

“Tom, we hear explosions in the background. Where are you, exactly, and how bad is it there?”

“I’m in downtown Bord, Brad. Many buildings have been damaged, mostly by Creterakian counter-strikes. The capital building is on fire, and we saw a large explosion at Freedom Stadium, home field of the Bord Brigands. The football team was practicing at the time. So far no word on if there were any injuries to the—”

[SIGNAL INTERRUPTED: PLEASE STAND BY]

“Tom! Tom, are you there?”

“Heyyyyy, Brad ... I’m back, man. Oh, wow, looks like there’s mortar fire coming in. That’s not good. For GNN — and for this really pretty flame-breathing unicorn that just showed up — this is Tom Skivvers, signing off.”

“ATTENTION, KRAKENS STAFF and Touchback crew. This is Captain Kate. Punch-out from Ionath is delayed. We have been hailed by the Regulator and are preparing to receive a shuttle.”

Quentin and the other players on the observation deck looked at each other, as if any one of them might know what was going on. They were about to depart on the five-day trip to New Whitok to face the winless D’Oni Coelacanths.

“This isn’t good,” John said. “Someone’s getting busted.”

In hopes of building a relationship with Kopor the Climber — and hopefully start developing the same on-field shared mind Quentin had with Becca and the other offensive starters — he had invited the fullback to be sort of an impromptu guest of honor for the punch-in. Denver and Bumberpuff had joined, as had John and Ju. They all wanted to make Kopor feel like he belonged as a starter. He’d put in a poor performance against Alimum, and he knew it.

“Busted?” Bumberpuff said. “I don’t understand, busted for what?”

“Mods,” John said, the word drawn out, full of import. “Gotta be mods. One of the rookies, probably, just like last time.”

That last time was three seasons earlier, when Froese had come to the Touchback to take rookie running back Dan Campbell away. Nobody on the Krakens had ever learned what mods Campbell had, nor had they ever heard from him again. The incident had made all too clear the immense power held by one Rob Froese, commissioner of the Galactic Football League.

“I hope it is not mods,” Kopor said. “Perhaps it has something to do with that attack on Bord. Did you hear one of their defensive ends died?”

John nodded solemnly. “Bandit Preston. He was solid. I hope they find whoever is responsible and string them up.”

“Paulisdead Paulisdead Paulisdead,” Denver said, her tone sad for once. “And not on the field. Quentinbarnes will strike the murderers down.”

The area outside the viewport seemed to brighten suddenly as the Regulator passed above, white hull reflecting down the light from Ionath’s sun. The Regulator slowed to a stop, its girth blocking out all sight of the stars above.

Ju let out a long whistle. “That sure is a big ship.”

“It’s not so big,” Bumberpuff said.

Ju sighed. “Well, not to you, Mister I Fly Giant-Ass Ships And Doesn’t That Make Me Special.”

“That’s a long name,” John said.

“It is,” Bumberpuff said. “It takes me forever to fill out forms.”

Everyone turned to look in amazement at the Prawatt. Quentin felt a laugh building, one held in check only by sheer disbelief and an assumption that he had misunderstood something. And also, he was mad at Bumberpuff — how could he laugh with someone he was mad at?

“Captain,” Quentin said. “Did you just make a joke?”

“I tried,” Bumberpuff said. “You see, the length of the name indicates it would take additional time to fill out forms, as opposed to a shorter name, which would take less—”

“We understood it,” Kopor said. “Funny, in a way. However, I do not think you will be the guest comedian on Late Night with Chorro the Hilarious anytime soon.”

Quentin laughed, surprised at Kopor’s deadpan delivery.

“Wow,” Quentin said. “Maybe we need to organize a team stand-up comedy night. I didn’t think either of you had a sense of—”

“Quentin Barnes, this is the captain speaking.” Captain Kate’s voice echoed through the observation deck. “Report to your quarters immediately, per orders of Commissioner Froese.”

Now everyone looked at Quentin. What could this be about? Something to do with the attack at Neptune, maybe? Or could Froese have found out about Sandoval?

Ju shook his head. “Quentin, I’m your brother. You should have told me you got mods.”

“I don’t have mods, Ju.”

MA IS GOING TO BE VERY DISAPPOINTED IN YOU scrolled across John’s face.

Quentin groaned. “John, now is not the time for jokes.”

Bumberpuff’s metallic body rattled. “That was a joke? But it was in the context of our linear conversation. I am afraid I don’t get it.”

Ju nudged Kopor. “You’re the comedian, apparently. You explain it to him.”

Quentin left the observation deck. Whatever Froese wanted, the little dictator wasn’t the kind of sentient you kept waiting.

QUENTIN ENTERED HIS QUARTERS to find several sentients already inside. The tiny form of Commissioner Froese, of course, wearing his ever-present outfit of a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a red tie embroidered with the GFL logo. Froese was sitting in Quentin’s favorite chair, glaring with malice the second Quentin walked in. The hulking form of a Quyth Warrior was farther back, sitting on Quentin’s workout bench: ex-linebacker Leiba the Gorgeous, wearing loose white pants with the GFL logo on the upper right thigh.

Leiba also held a stun-stick. As far as fashion accessories went, Quentin decided he wasn’t a fan.

Flanking both Leiba and Froese were two Sklorno in full battle armor, also white, with the GFL logo on their chest, between their white-armored tentacles.

And to top it off, a white-furred Quyth Worker dressed in a white GFL administrator uniform, standing next to a purple-skinned Human woman with short white hair. It was seeing those last two that let Quentin know he was screwed.

“Yolanda Davenport,” he said. “And Whykor...the Aware, is it?”

The Worker bowed.

“Exceptional recall abilities, Mister Barnes,” Whykor said. “And may I say your season thus far has been spectacular. Why, statistically speaking, you are on pace to—”

“Later,” Quentin said. “Whatever this is about, I want to get down to business.”

It had to be Sandoval. Froese wouldn’t have escorted Yolanda here, using the GFL’s flagship to do so, and come to Quentin’s room himself unless she had a big, big story brewing — something that could embarrass the league. Sandoval, obviously ... only that didn’t explain why Leiba held a stun-stick, especially when the power-armored Sklorno looked like they could wipe out all the Krakens in a matter of minutes.

Quentin owed Yolanda big-time for setting up that meeting with his sister, but if this was about Sandoval, he had to deny everything. Even dead, Sandoval had the power to turn Quentin into Public Enemy Number One. Quentin hated himself for it, but he needed to go on the offensive.

“Can’t wait to hear what this is about, Yolanda,” he said. “The last story you did on me turned out so well.”

Froese pointed his stubby finger at Quentin’s couch.

“Sit,” the commissioner said. “I’ll do the talking.”

“Shouldn’t Gredok be here for this?”

“I don’t want him here,” Froese said. “That’s why I came when I did, because I know he’s not on the ship. Now sit.”

Quentin sat.

Gredok wasn’t making the trip to D’Oni, but the Touchback was still in orbit over Ionath; Froese could have easily requested Gredok’s presence. Even more worrying was the absence of Hokor, who was on the ship. Froese and Yolanda wanted Quentin isolated, without allies.

The commissioner stared. For such a tiny sentient, he had power in his eyes: the power of total authority and absolute conviction in what he did.

“We know,” he said.

Froese waited, as did the others. Quentin looked at each of them in turn, wondering if maybe this time he was the one who didn’t get the joke.

“Good for you,” Quentin said. “You know ... what, exactly?”

Froese stood. He wasn’t much taller standing than he was sitting.

“You want to play games, Barnes?”

Quentin shrugged. “That is how I make my living, Commish.”

Froese’s dead-eye glare continued. Quentin took the moment of silence to read the man: a bit of a flush to the dark complexion; eyes dilated more than the other times Quentin had talked to him; left thumb making small, almost imperceptible circles on the left pointer finger. Those signs indicated that Froese was doing his best to hide fear.

Fear? Of what ... of Quentin? Why would the commissioner be afraid of him? If Froese had found out about Sandoval’s blackmail, that would make him angry, not afraid ... at least not afraid of Quentin.

“Look, Commish, I honestly don’t know why you’re here. What I do know is that you came into my quarters without being invited. I don’t know where you grew up, but on Micovi that’s called breaking and entering. I also know you’re holding up our trip to D’Oni. Whatever you know about me can’t be that shocking, because all I do is play football.”

And make deals with blackmailing agents of the CMR, and be the focal point of a church of millions, and integrate new species into the league, and stop wars ... you’ve been a busy boy, Quentin Barnes.

Froese’s hard glare wavered. He seemed unsure. He glanced at Yolanda.

Ah ... so this was her doing after all. Now Quentin would find out what was happening.

She let out a slow breath of air. Her purple skin looked darker in the cheeks. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared ... she, too, was afraid.

What the hell was going on?

“I’ve been working on a story,” she said.

“Well, you are a reporter,” Quentin said. “I imagine you’re always working on a story.”

She shook her head. “Not like this. This is the big one. If it was anyone else, I would have already written and filed the story, but I was wrong about you once.”

He crossed his arms. “That’s a rather kind way of putting it.”

She’d accused him of tanking games in her exposé on how the Krakens — Quentin included — had abused the GFL’s diplomatic immunity to help a known killer — Julius Tweedy — escape justice. She’d been wrong across the board. Yolanda had made up for that mistake a few times over, sure, but the weeks following that story had been among the most difficult in Quentin’s life.

“I won’t make that same mistake again,” she said. “That’s why I’m here now, before I file the story. Right now only the people in this room know.”

“The people in this room, minus one,” Quentin said. “Can we stop with all this crap and get to the point?”

Leiba the Gorgeous stood up. The two power-armored Sklorno shifted in place a little, widened their stances as if they were getting ready for action.

Yolanda nodded. Her nostrils flared even wider. She’d been afraid earlier ... now she was terrified.

“All right, let’s do this,” she said. “Quentin Barnes, how long have you been a leader in the Zoroastrian Guild?”

He stared at her, waiting for her to say something like just kidding, now on to the REAL question. She didn’t. All she did was stare back at him.

Froese and Leiba waited for his answer.

The two white-armored Sklorno stood stock still.

Quentin heard a slight hum droning from Leiba’s stun-stick.

He suddenly realized something he’d missed: Froese usually traveled with a flock of white-suited, entropic-rifle-carrying Creterakians. They were as much a part of his intimidating entourage as the power-armored Sklorno.

Quentin understood why the bats had been left behind. The ZG’s terrorist attacks had killed hundreds of thousands of Creterakians. Sure, the bats didn’t see death the same way Humans and Quyth did, but kill off a hundred thousand of any species and the survivors are going to be a little bit pissed. If Yolanda had leveled her accusation at Quentin in the presence of armed Creterakians, he might have already been dissolving from entropic rifle fire.

Quentin gave his head a shake. He had to get control of himself, stop whatever tells he might be giving off that would reveal his emotional state. But if he was giving off tells, that was okay, wasn’t it? Because he wasn’t a part of that murderous group.

“I’ve never been in the Guild, Yolanda,” he said. “This is even more ludicrous than when you accused me of tanking games.”

She nodded slightly, as if she had been expecting something along those lines.

“Like I said, Quentin, that’s why I’m here.”

Could this season get any stranger?

“I can’t wait to hear your reasons,” he said. “Because whatever went down, I was probably busy robbing a liquor store that day.”

No one laughed. It was a strange sensation: he felt like he was in trouble, a lot of trouble, yet he had done nothing wrong.

Yolanda started to speak, then stopped and activated her palm-up display. Quentin saw her reading her notes, saw her nodding slightly: she obviously had the information memorized, yet wanted to check it again before she spoke, just to be sure.

“I have evidence of communication going to and from known Guild cells,” Yolanda said. “These communications occurred when the Touchback was in orbit around a planet for an away game.”

She was serious. She actually thought someone in the Krakens franchise was involved with those butchers?

“That could be anything,” Quentin said. “The Guild is probably communicating all over the place. And aren’t you supposed to be a sports reporter?”

“I’m a reporter, first and foremost,” she said. “I cover sports, and since this story involves a pro football team, I’m on it.”

“You’re making blind accusations because of a couple of messages?”

“Not a couple,” she said. “Twelve of them, over four seasons’ worth, beginning with your second year as a Kraken, which was your first year in Tier One. My source uncovered hundreds of coded messages, from multiple cities and on multiple planets. Twelve of the messages in question came from the same device. All twelve of those messages occurred when the Touchback was in orbit at that particular city. The correlation is too strong to be chance.”

Quentin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If Yolanda and Whykor’s information was accurate, someone in the Krakens organization was a member of the Guild — a group that murdered civilians, that sought to overthrow Creterakian rule, that had just caused the Bord uprising.

“You’re making a big accusation here,” Quentin said. “Really big. Who is your source for this?”

Yolanda shook her head. “My source remains confidential.”

“Of course it does,” Quentin said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “You can just waltz in here and spout off accusations all you like, and you don’t have to prove anything, is that it?”

Yolanda’s expression hardened. Some of the fear melted way. He had just challenged her, and she was responding with aggression — the same way he would if someone challenged him on the football field.

“The primary source doesn’t matter, Barnes, because that source provided only the first two intercepted messages,” she said. “Since then, I’ve discovered the other ten messages myself, through other means. My proof is solid, and if you really want to see it, just keep flapping your gums and it will be there for you and the entire galaxy to see when I publish my story.”

“Take it easy,” Froese barked. “We’re here to get his side of it, not to threaten him that you’re going to run the story no matter what he says.”

Yolanda calmed herself. She nodded.

Froese turned to Quentin. “Whykor independently verified her information, using our own sources in Planetary Union Intelligence and the Non-Creterakian Intelligence Agency. There is zero question, Barnes — messages sent to and from this ship reached Zoroastrian Guild cells.”

“What if it’s someone who isn’t with the organization anymore?” Quentin asked. “It could have been Don Pine for all we know.”

Froese looked at Whykor. The white-furred Worker stepped forward.

“The dates of known communications point to someone who is currently on the roster now, Mister Barnes,” Whykor said. “The first encrypted message correlates to Week Seven of the 2683 season, when the Krakens visited the Lu Juggernauts. Another was received last season, when Ionath visited Buddha City Station — Mister Pine had been traded to the Jupiter Jacks before then and was not on the Touchback at the time. The most recent incident occurred this season, the day after Ionath’s Week Four game at Yall. A message was intercepted at planet Ol in the Ki Rebel Establishment, the same day the Touchback was in orbit there.”

Quentin remembered the trip. Ol — home of the Brigands — was the first punch-point en route from Yall to Neptune.

“That message was partially decrypted,” Froese said. “We haven’t got it all, but there were definitely phrases in that message that mention an uprising and an attack on downtown. Any guess as to what city was mentioned?”

Quentin’s anger faded away. This couldn’t be happening.

“Bord,” he said. “It was a message about an attack on Bord.”

Froese nodded. “Three weeks before the uprising that damaged Freedom Stadium and killed thousands of sentients all over that planet.”

“So decrypt the rest of the messages,” Quentin said. “Wouldn’t that let you see who it is?”

“We’re trying,” Froese said. “I have top sentients working on that, but the encryption is beyond military grade. We’ve been able to get bits and pieces only.”

Yolanda was a reporter. She got paid for page views, so she might be prone to sensationalizing things if she smelled a great story. But Froese? He had nothing to gain from making this up, everything to gain from ignoring it or claiming Yolanda’s information was wrong.

“Say you’re right,” Quentin said. “Say these messages are coming from the Touchback. You don’t know it’s a player, right? It could be a member of the crew, someone from the administrative area?”

Froese shook his head. “I told you we decrypted parts of some messages. Three of the messages involved information about meeting planetside, to deliver or receive material, like data cubes. Players have diplomatic immunity — the crew does not. Players, like you, Barnes, can’t be searched when you arrive at a planet, but if any crewmember goes down they are searched and their belongings are recorded. That means we can check customs records — for two of those meetings, no crewmember left the Touchback at all, and for one, the crewmember had nothing on her when she went planetside. That means if the messages came from the Touchback, they came from a player, your coach, or your owner.”

“If,” Quentin said. “If-if-if. You don’t know for sure, do you? It could be some other ship that just happened to be at those planets.” He thought of Sandoval, following the team from game to game. “It could be a fan traveling to all of our games, could be someone using us for cover—” he glanced at Yolanda, suddenly hoping she’d take a hint “—it could be a reporter assigned to the Krakens, couldn’t it?”

Froese smoothed his tie. “That’s why Whykor is here, Barnes. He knows the electronic signature of the device in question. We know messages were received on planets where the Touchback was in orbit. If Whykor can verify that those messages were sent from the Touchback, that proves someone in the Krakens organization is part of the ZG.”

“He’ll find it,” Yolanda said. “It might take him a day or two, even a few weeks, but he will find it.”

Something about the tone of her voice told him she couldn’t run the story without that verification. But if she got it tomorrow — or anytime before the playoffs, for that matter — it would destroy the Krakens’ season.

Don’t forget that sentients might have died because of this, Quentin, or that more might die if more messages are sent — maybe you should think about that in addition to football?

They wouldn’t show Quentin the proof. But he’d met with the commissioner, and he trusted the man’s intentions. This wasn’t a witch-hunt, this wasn’t a payoff — this was real.

“All I can tell you is it’s not me,” Quentin said. “So what now, Froese? You going to have your buddies over there in the powered armor drag me to your ship to never be heard from again?”

Froese walked closer. Quentin struggled to control a swirling rage, but he realized he wasn’t angry at Froese anymore, or even at Yolanda — someone on the Krakens was in league with terrorists, someone had used the organization to commit mass murder.

“Barnes, I’m going to ask you one more time,” Froese said. “Do you have any connection with the Guild?”

Quentin crossed his arms and stared down. “No.”

Froese turned to Yolanda. “We’re going with Plan B.”

“Whaf?” She pointed at Quentin. “That’s it? You’re just going to take his word for it? If he’s one of them, he can lie as easily as taking a breath. At least give him a lie detector test or something.”

“Not necessary,” Froese said. “And there’s no time — the Krakens have to get to New Whitok for this week’s game. And besides ... I believe him.”

Quentin felt justified, even more so because of the indignant outrage written all over Yolanda’s face.

“You’re worried about a game,” she said. “Unless you get some kind of proof he’s not involved, then you can’t give him a free pass, you hear me? I’ll run the story as-is, Froese. You can’t just decide that he’s innocent! There’s a terrorist on this ship, and—”

“I can decide anything I like!”

Froese’s scream even made Quentin flinch. It stopped Yolanda cold.

The commissioner then spoke softly, which in its own way was even more frightening than the scream.

“Perhaps you don’t understand who I am,” he said to Yolanda. “I am the commissioner of the Galactic Football League. My authority is given to me by the Creterakian Emperor. If someone is a threat to the league, I can make them—” he snapped his fingers “—go away.”

Yolanda’s face changed color, from a purple of flushed anger to a paler shade, almost blue. So visible was the change it reminded Quentin of a Quyth cornea.

Froese saw it, too.

“Good, you get it,” he said. “This news could do too much damage to the league — you’re not going to run anything until we find out who it is, so the public gets their bad guy and there aren’t any lingering questions. And besides, Yolanda, tell me honestly ... do you really think Barnes could be behind this?”

Still a little shell-shocked from Froese’s implied threat, she looked at Quentin, held his gaze for a moment, then sighed.

“No,” she said. “I don’t. You’re right ... Plan B.”

He wasn’t the primary suspect anymore, but something told him he didn’t get to just walk away.

“Let me guess,” he said. “I’m part of Plan B?”

“Yolanda will stay on board to do a story on you,” Froese said. “An all-access feature on the Galaxy Bowl MVP and how he goes about his daily life. That gives her a reason to be around you all the time. And that means she can keep digging. Whykor?”

“Yes, Commissioner?”

“You stay on board as Yolanda’s assistant. You’ve done that in the past, so it shouldn’t raise too much suspicion. That gives you nine days — four days there, game day, and four days back — to find what you need.”

Whykor’s fur fluffed. “But, Commissioner, it could take longer than—”

Froese wheeled on him. “Nine days. This trip is the longest time we can justify you being on board without Gredok getting suspicious. You get the info by then, end of story.”

Quentin noticed that the color had returned to Yolanda’s face, and then some. She wasn’t looking directly at anyone. She seemed ... embarrassed? Then it clicked.

“Hold on,” he said. “The story on me is a smokescreen to embed Yolanda, and embedding Yolanda is a smokescreen to keep Whykor on the ship without Gredok wondering why he’s here?”

Froese nodded. “Yes. That’s Plan B. I don’t trust Gredok, Barnes. As far as I know, he’s involved, although he wasn’t on the Touchback for all the confirmed messages.”

No wonder Yolanda was a little miffed; she wasn’t the star of this operation.

“Only one problem with your plan,” Quentin said.

The commissioner raised an eyebrow.

Quentin tapped his own sternum with the tip of a finger.

“No one asked me. What if I don’t want anything to do with your Plan B, your Plan C, your plan whatever?”

“Simple,” Froese said. “If we don’t find the culprit and word gets out — and word will get out, Barnes, because word always does, eventually — sentients in every system will wonder how many GFL players are involved with slaughtering innocents. Then, Barnes, the treatment you received when they thought you were throwing games will look like a warm welcome by comparison. We’re already struggling enough with half the galaxy thinking we’re traitors for bringing in the Prawatt. What do you think will happen to the league’s reputation if there is some unknown villain using GFL travel and diplomatic immunity to murder and destroy?”

That kind of turmoil would put the season in danger. It could take away Quentin’s chance at defending the title, and quite possibly even shut down the entire league, for good. Then he’d be out of a job. More importantly, so would his teammates and the support personnel. But, if they could find the sentient responsible and bring him — or her — to justice? The league would end up with a black eye, sure, but it wouldn’t be a death sentence.

“All right,” Quentin said. “I’ll play along.”

Froese nodded. “I thought so.”

He waved at his entourage to follow him out the door. The power-armored Sklorno and Leiba filtered out behind him. Then Froese popped his head back in.

“Barnes, you’re a good man,” he said. “You’re the only one on your team that knows. Help Yolanda figure out who it is, so we can save our league.”

With that, Froese left. The door swished shut behind him, leaving Quentin alone with Whykor and Yolanda.

Yolanda crossed her arms and looked at him. She shook her head as if she couldn’t quite handle the fact that she’d been relegated to the role of a bit player, and that somehow it was Quentin’s fault.

“Whykor and I need a room.”

“Computer,” Quentin said, “please send Messal the Efficient here, immediately.”

[I WILL CONVEY THE MESSAGE.]

Yolanda wanted to find out who it was, she wanted it bad, but Quentin couldn’t imagine she wanted it more than he did. Someone was betraying his team. Whoever it was, they would be lucky if Froese got to them before Quentin did.

IT WAS HARD TO GET THROUGH practice without screaming at everyone.

Two days to go before they reached New Whitok. Quentin found himself suspecting everyone who had been on the team for at least four seasons. Even, he was ashamed to admit, John and Ju.

The first message came from Week Seven of Quentin’s first year in Tier One, the week after they had rescued Ju from the city of Madderch. And John ... he seemed so goofy most of the time, but that brilliant strategy he’d shown in the Portath fighting pit hinted at something deeper. And, of course, John was a killer. As crazy as it sounded, it was possible Quentin didn’t know his brothers as well as he thought.

He had gone through the numbers with Yolanda. In all, there were twenty-nine players who had been with the team during the span in question. The Prawatt were out, of course, having just joined last season. Milford and Hawick were the only Sklorno possibilities.

As for the Warriors, Quentin was sure Choto wasn’t a suspect, but Virak, Kopor and Shayat the Thick were. Virak would do whatever Gredok told him to do. Shayat the Thick was a known smuggler — if he would sell drugs, was there any level to which he wouldn’t stoop?

It could also be any of the eleven Ki players on the squad. Quentin could only know them so well; they were the most alien of his teammates.

Out of the eleven Human players, only Trevor Haney was off the hook. Surprisingly little turnover among that race.

And finally the group Quentin didn’t want to think about, because it forced him to look at a player he didn’t want to think about: the HeavyG. Only four of them had been on the team long enough to be suspects: Alexsandar Michnik, Ibrahim Khomeni, Becca — and Michael Kimberlin.

Kimberlin, the man that knew sentients in the Harrah independence movement. What kind of a person would know sentients like that? Someone in the ZG, that’s who. Kimberlin, who seemed to think the Guild was behind two attacks on the Krakens, maybe even knew who those attacks were specifically aimed at.

“Barnes! Get your head back in the game! Are you going to run the offense today or should we just forfeit to the Coelacanths?”

Quentin looked up at Hokor’s floating golf cart.

“Sorry, Coach,” he said. “I’m ready. Huddle up, everyone.”

Coach was right; he needed to focus on his job. Whykor and Yolanda would uncover the Guild member. Quentin needed to make sure his team didn’t get upset by winless D’Oni.

“All right, boys and girls, we’re working I-formation now,” he said to the huddle. “Coach wants X-slant, Y-post, Z-cross, A-wheel. Kopor, stop stepping up too far. You won’t be able to pick up a corner blitz — stay home so I don’t get killed on Sunday. And Starcher, your post is looking sloppy. Make a sharper cut. Okay, let’s get to work. Run it like you mean it. Ready?”

“Break!”

QUENTIN HATED throwing up. He hated it more than anything.

“Wow,” Ju said. “If there was a Hall of Fame for heaves, that would have been a first-ballot inductee right there.”

“Classic,” John said. “Just when you think an artist has painted his masterpiece, he goes and breaks all the barriers.”

Well, almost anything; he hated listening to the Tweedy brothers make fun of his puking even more than the puking itself.

Quentin stood and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The Tweedys were with him in the observation deck, as was Yolanda, who had dutifully followed him around to keep up the illusion. She stayed a few feet back, as if that made her an impartial observer instead of a participant in the event. Kopor the Climber was there as well. Quentin was still trying to improve their connection. Kopor had never been a part of the strange punch-out ritual.

“You regurgitate,” the Warrior said. “You do this every trip?”

“Not every trip,” Quentin said.

Ju rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Q, close enough. You see, Kopor, our team leader is afraid of flying.”

Kopor’s baseball-sized eye swirled with dark red, the color of surprise.

“Afraid of flying? But punch-space is the safest form of travel. Statistically speaking, you are twenty times more likely to die in the shuttle trip to or from a planet than with a punch-in or punch-out.”

A statistic Quentin suddenly wished he had never heard.

“Gee, Kopor, that makes me feel so much better, considering we’re about to take a shuttle down and all. And I’m not afraid of flying. I just get motion sick.”

Yolanda came a few steps closer and joined the group. “But do you get motion sick because you’re afraid?”

She spoke the last word like a starving man saying the word steak.

Quentin started to deny it, then stopped. She was going to write what she was going to write; all he could do was stammer about it and give her something else to write about. Maybe Yolanda was cover for Whykor, but she certainly wasn’t lazy — she was still going to write a feature story on one Quentin Barnes. An angle like the Galaxy Bowl MVP being afraid of space travel? She wasn’t going to let that one go.

He looked out the viewport at yet another new planet, a sprawling world of pale green. Like Isis, the city of D’Oni was mostly below the surface. What looked like an island was actually the all-species urban center; the rest of the city sloped down building-covered shores and into the water. Far off from the island, miles-high shimmering metal towers jutted out from what looked like a calm surface. The tiny bits of moving white at the bases of those towers, however, made it clear the calmness was only an illusion created by elevation — D’Oni was known as the planet of perpetual storms.

“You got lucky,” Yolanda said. “A cloud-free day on New Whitok is rare. But don’t worry, the weather report says a storm is coming.”

John huffed. “Big surprise. And the stadium doesn’t have a dome.”

I HATE GETTING WET scrolled across his face.

[FIRST-SHUTTLE PASSENGERS, REPORT TO THE SHUTTLE BAY]

“Well, Yolanda, I’ll see you on the surface,” Quentin said. “I’ve got to head down.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry, Quentin — I’m on the first shuttle with you. I’m embedded, remember? Where you go, I go.”

Yolanda was keeping up the illusion, that was for sure. As annoying as it was to have her tagging along, Quentin had to admit it kept all the attention on her, and not on Whykor. Whykor stayed in Yolanda’s cabin, doing whatever the heck it was that he was doing.

And whatever that was, he was scheduled to be done by the time the Krakens came back from this game.

QUENTIN WASN’T SURE who hit him. It was hard to tell, considering that it came from his blind side. Helmet in his back, had to be. He lay on the wet plum-colored field, unable to focus on anything but the dull agony raging through his right shoulder, the cold rain pouring down, and the insane roar of 130,000 fans, most of whom were hoping to see the Coelacanths’ first Tier One victory.

He heard whistles blowing. Hokor had called a timeout, Ionath’s last.

“I killed him! I killed the godling! I am now famous!”

Quentin recognized the Sklorno’s voice: D’Oni strong safety Lubbock. He recognized it because he’d also heard it back in the first half, when she had blitzed and damn near taken his head off.

“Not ... dead,” Quentin said. “But nice ... hit.”

“Joy and happiness and also sad and I will do better next time, great and powerful Quentinbarnes!”

He heard big Sklorno feet pound the turf as Lubbock dashed away.

A hand on his helmet, the voice of a Quyth Warrior: Kopor the Climber.

“Are you injured?”

“I’m fine,” Quentin said, although he knew he wasn’t. He craned his head to glance up at the play clock — D’Oni 21, Ionath 17, ball on D’Oni’s thirty, fourth down, seven to go, thirty-two seconds left in the game. The Krakens needed a touchdown, or they would lose to the winless Coelacanths.

Quentin started to push himself up, but his right arm said no, thank you, and instead of just working, it decided to fire a bolt of pain through his shoulder and into his back.

“A little help here,” he said.

Two sets of hands grabbed him, lifted him gently but quickly. Ju had joined Kopor. Ju looked pissed. Kopor’s eye swirled with both mauve, showing sadness and disappointment, and dark-green, a color associated with embarrassment.

“I am sorry,” Kopor said. “I missed my block.”

Ju reached out a big hand and pushed Kopor in the chest. “Missed? You scrub, you didn’t even see that safety blitz! Do your damn job!”

Kopor’s heavy middle arms shoved back. He had fifty pounds on Ju and easily knocked the taller sentient stumbling over the white-lined plum field. Ju instantly regained his balance, raised a fist and rushed back in even as Kopor came forward to meet him. Quentin stepped between them and got crunched, the blow zapping his shoulder again, making him cry out in pain.

Linemen swarmed in. Kimberlin pulled Kopor back. Sho-Do-Thikit wrapped his four arms around Ju, whose face showed instant and deep remorse.

“Q! I’m sorry! Are you okay?”

Quentin grabbed Ju’s facemask — grabbed it with his left hand — and used it to yank the running back right out of Sho-Do’s arms.

“Get in the damn huddle, Tweedy!”

Quentin’s heads-up display activated. Coach Hokor’s black-striped yellow fur was matted to his face, and his little hat was soaked through from the rain.

“Barnes! I didn’t call a timeout so you could play grab-ass for sixty seconds. Get over here, and bring that worthless fullback with you!”

The rest of the Krakens moved to the huddle. Kopor started to do the same, but Quentin stopped him.

“Kopor, you’re out.”

Quentin wasn’t sure if the fullback heard the words over the crowd’s deafening roar, but he obviously understood Quentin’s intent. Kopor’s eye flooded a heavy red-orange: the color of shame.

They jogged to the sidelines where Hokor was waiting. Quentin scanned for Nancy Wolf, Kopor’s rookie backup. As he looked, he saw Becca: orange jersey wet but spotless, helmet in hand, her eyes asking the question: Am I coming in to replace you at quarterback? She was obviously worried about him, but she couldn’t fully hide her eagerness — if he was too hurt to continue, she was ready to come in and lead the team.

Not today, not while I can still walk.

Kopor strode past Hokor, shouldered through his teammates and headed to the bench.

Quentin saw Nancy Wolf and waved her onto the field. She nodded, blue eyes set with grim determination, then pulled on her helmet as she ran to the huddle.

Hokor circled a pedipalp hand inward, telling Quentin to kneel. Quentin did.

“Barnes, you look hurt.”

“I’m fine, Coach.”

“Fine as in you are my All-Pro quarterback who can run any play I call, or fine as in you’re so stubborn you’re not coming out no matter how badly you are injured?”

Quentin shrugged. “Just give me the ball, Coach.”

Hokor’s body gave a quick involuntary shake that sent water flying from his fur. “Suggestions?”

“They kicked my ass on a safety blitz, and I think they’ll try the same thing again. I say roll-right, flood all patterns right, have Nancy block the back side then fall down immediately, then when the defense comes after me, she gets up and sprints for the left corner.”

“A trick play,” Hokor said. “Did you make that up just now?”

Quentin nodded.

Hokor looked at Quentin’s right shoulder pad. Quentin realized the shoulder was hanging down: he forced it up to level, ignoring the pain.

“Just a scratch, Coach.”

“Of course,” Hokor said. “Barnes, run the play that you called.”

Quentin stood and jogged to the huddle. He called the play, happy that Nancy kept a poker face and didn’t show excitement that the game would be in her hands.

The Krakens broke the huddle and came up to the line. Quentin looked out at the defense. Their uniforms were a crazy iridescent fabric that caught the stadium lights and reflected them back in a dozen subtle colors that shifted with each player’s every move. Numbers, letters and the two parallel helmet stripes were steel blue with black piping. On each shoulder, running from the back to under the chest numbers, as well as down each leg’s armor, was a stylized white fish.

They called this stadium the Slaughterhouse. From the outside, it seemed to float in a reddish ocean like a plum jewel ringed in shimmering platinum. Sentients packed the stands, most dressed in iridescent clothes that matched their on-field heroes. There were a few Sklorno, Ki and Quyth, but most of the spectators were the dominant races of the Whitok Kingdom: Humans, Amphibs, Dolphins and — of course — Whitokians. Part of the local tradition was “the swim,” when the amphibious races partied all day before swimming out to the facility and entering the stadium through dozens of concrete ramps that extended into the water. Non-amphibious fans had to either take a boat or cross the footbridge that reached a mile out to the shore.

The noise level made the place rattle. The winless Coelacanths were just thirty-two seconds from upsetting the defending Galaxy Bowl champions. These fans knew that a win — a single win — might make the difference between staying in Tier One and being relegated at season’s end. And if the Coelacanths could beat the Krakens, they could play with anyone; one more defensive stop would probably make this place explode.

But Quentin would not allow them to have that one stop. Not today.

He slid his hands under Bud-O-Shwek. His right shoulder screamed in complaint, and his head felt full of rusted iron bolts. Something was wrong in both places — very wrong — but he ignored his body’s warnings.

“Blue, thirty-three,” he called out, shouting to be heard over the Slaughterhouse crowd. “Blue, thirty-threeeee. Hut-hut!”

The wet ball slapped into his hands. Quentin stepped back and ran right. He saw Nancy Wolf move left to block the Coelacanths Ki defensive end: the defensive end smashed her to the ground, then chased after Quentin.

Running right, Quentin looked downfield, scanning targets: Denver, covered on a flag-right; Milford, covered on a 15-yard out; George Starcher, covered on a hook. Defenders pursued Quentin from behind or angled toward the sidelines, trying to keep him from getting outside. He kept his eyes fixed on his three receivers — watching them try to find open space and watching the defensive backs react — never looking all the way to the left where Nancy would, hopefully, be sneaking up the far sideline.

Five yards from running out of bounds, Quentin planted his feet and turned. All the way on the other sideline and thirty yards downfield, the rookie fullback was all alone.

At this angle, it was a 61-yard pass to reach her (his brain flashed one of Kimberlin’s geometry lessons: a-squared plus b-squared equals c-squared ... she was fifty-three yards to his left, thirty yards downfield ...)

The pressure closed in on Quentin; he gunned the ball. The defenders slowed before hitting him, as they didn’t want a roughing-the-passer penalty to give the Krakens an automatic first down. They only bumped into him instead of laying him out — even those small contacts sent spears of agony through his right side.

Quentin had guessed wrong about the strong safety: Lubbock hadn’t blitzed. She was back in coverage, deep in the middle of the field, but she hadn’t noticed Nancy sneaking up the sidelines. The Sklorno saw the pass and sprinted for the corner, where Nancy stood just past the goal line. Lubbock’s uniform and armor shimmered in the stadium lights, an iridescent flash moving through the rain at impossible speed ... she leapt ... but was too late: the ball passed a good five feet over her outstretched tentacles to fall into Nancy’s waiting arms.

Touchdown, Krakens.

Ionath 23, D’Oni 21, twenty-two seconds left in the game.

Quentin jogged to the sidelines, unable to keep his right shoulder up any longer, waving his left arm for Doc Patah. Patah shot out onto the field to be by Quentin’s side: the Harrah’s presence sent a clear signal that the Krakens QB didn’t need helmet slaps or — especially — shoulder-pad thumps of congratulations.

Patah led Quentin toward one of the medbays. On the way there, Quentin saw Kopor the Climber on the bench, alone, the Quyth Warrior awash in misery.

THE REJUVE TANK had never felt so good. Thanks to Doc Patah’s nerve blocks, Quentin didn’t really feel anything at all, but that absence of pain counted as a genuine slice of heaven.

“I have an admission,” Yolanda said.

Quentin opened one eye. “You’re secretly a Krakens fan?”

She laughed. “You wish.”

After the game, Doc Patah had brought Quentin down to D’Oni stadium’s medical facility. Most of Doc’s initial work — cutting away the jersey and slicing off the armor, the painkillers and nerve blocks, the initial exam — was little more than a blur. Quentin had woken up in the tank, Yolanda sitting in a nearby chair.

“So, what’s your admission?”

She gestured to the training room, the holotanks and the medical equipment.

“I’ve never really seen the damage after a game,” Yolanda said. “I’ve reported on injuries dozens of times, of course, and on players trying to recover from a bad one, because that’s always of interest. But... I’ve never been there from the time a player comes off the sidelines to the time the team doc goes to work.”

Normally, Yolanda talked in a sharp no-nonsense tone. She wasn’t rude, exactly, but certainly didn’t make any effort to come across as “nice.” Now her voice sounded softer, perhaps even more ... respectful.

“This is the other part of the game,” Quentin said. “You know the flash and glory, and you know the dark side of things, but you’ve never seen the results of all that on-field carnage.”

She nodded. “Hearing someone talk about it or seeing the player after the fact is one thing. Doc Patah opened you up, showed me the breaks in your bone. He also pointed out all the other injuries you’ve suffered, wounds not even the Ionath beat reporters have written about. You ...” she searched for the words “your body, Quentin, it’s just so ...”

“Mangled?” he finished for her.

She nodded again.

“That’s the life we have chosen,” Quentin said. “We’re meat, Yolanda. Sure, we get money and fame, at least some of us do, but we’re meat and that field is a meat grinder. We get used until we can’t be used anymore, then we get tossed away.”

She shook her head. “All for money. It’s a lot of money, sure, I get that, but even if I had the size and the athletic ability, I don’t know if I’d do it.”

No, she wouldn’t; he could sense that about her. Few people understood the need to play, the internal fire that made you love a sport and would shatter your heart when that sport was eventually taken away.

“We don’t do it for the money. The players at my level would take the same risk and play just as hard if they didn’t get paid anything at all. I’d bet everything I have on that. The money is awesome, yeah, but we don’t do it for the money — we do it because we can’t not do it. We do it until they won’t let us do it anymore.”

“And then what? What will you do when your body finally gives out and you can’t perform?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. A life without football was unimaginable.

“I’ll become a comedian, of course,” he said. “I’m very funny.”

Doc Patah fluttered over. “Ah, young Quentin, you are awake. I was hoping our regular post-game meetings were a thing of the past.”

“Me too, Doc. Not like I want to be here.”

“Miss Davenport, I am afraid I must ask you to leave,” Doc said. “I need privacy with my patient.”

She stood. “No problem, Doctor. Thank you for showing me so many interesting things.”

Yolanda walked out of the room. Quentin watched her go, then turned all his attention to the sentient responsible for keeping him on the field.

“So, Doc, how is my shoulder?”

“You will be fine,” Doc said. “Your clavicle cracked in two places. The injuries were all bone and muscle related. D’Oni’s facilities are not quite up to my standards, so I programmed nanomeds to stabilize your injuries until I can get you to the Touchback, where I will operate.”

Operate: the word that made any football player’s stomach flutter.

“How long will I be out?”

“You won’t miss any games,” Doc said. “The operation will take about an hour. I will isolate the arm for a few days after that. You should be able to practice by the time we return to Ionath.”

Quentin breathed a long sigh of relief. Losing five days of practice would be almost unrecoverable except for the fact that the Krakens had a bye in Week 8 — lucky indeed. He would still get a full week’s prep for the Pirates in Week 9.

And I wonder who will get the starter’s reps at quarterback while I’m out? Zak, or is it time to give credit where credit is due and let Becca have the number-two spot?

“Fix me up right, Doc,” Quentin said. “You always do.”

Doc Patah fluttered around Quentin, adjusting more of the equipment.

They both became aware of someone standing in the doorway.

“Hello, young Rebecca,” Doc said.

She was still dressed in her uniform. Full pads, orange jersey, everything, even though the game had been over for two hours.

“How is he, Doc?”

“Nothing serious,” Doc said. “He could play next Sunday if we needed him, so that should communicate the severity.”

“Good,” Becca said. “Um ... would you mind giving us a moment alone?”

“Of course,” Doc said. “But, please, kindly refrain from that disgusting Human tendency of mashing your oral cavities together. In fact, don’t touch him at all.”

Doc made two more quick adjustments to the tank, then eased out of the room as silent as a shadow.

Becca hadn’t moved from the doorway. Why was she still dressed?

“Game’s over, Becca,” Quentin said softly. “You can go ahead and change.”

He couldn’t remember the last time they’d been alone together. High One, how he missed spending time with her.

She shifted the helmet from one hand to another, first the left fingers laced through the facemask, then the right.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Maybe I should—”

Quentin hissed suddenly at a dull stab just inside his right shoulder blade, like someone had driven a screwdriver into his back.

“Wow,” he said through clenched teeth. “I think Doc missed a spot with those nerve blocks.” He gently adjusted his position. “Sorry, Becca ... you were saying?”

She lifted the helmet slightly, using it to gesture at his rejuve tank.

“I didn’t want this,” she said.

She wouldn’t look directly at him, a tendency of hers when things were too overwhelming, or too emotional, or both.

“Becca, you’re not blaming yourself for this, are you?”

She said nothing, which answered his question.

“Becca, it’s okay. I’ve got an extra week to recover. And we won. Relax, I’ve been through worse.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not the point. The point is this was a winless team with a bad defense. In Week Nine, it won’t be the Coelacanths and Lubbock coming for you — it will be the Pirates and Ciudad Juarez.”

The name made Quentin’s stomach flutter. Juarez had the second-most kills in league history, behind only Yalla the Biter. Quentin had focused on preparing for D’Oni, and on his many other problems — he hadn’t really thought past this week’s game. But the mention of Juarez made him understand Becca’s solemn concern: had it been Juarez slipping past Kopor’s missed block, Quentin might have been facing something far more severe than a broken collarbone.

“Ciudad won’t get to me,” he said. “I’ve got her number.”

“Nice figure of speech, but she’s got a real number. That number is eight — that’s how many players she’s killed. You could be number nine.”

Eight sentients, dead; that was how hard Juarez hit, that was how good she was at being in the right place at the right time, at avoiding blocks and landing clean, devastating shots.

“You know, Becca, as far as pep talks go, yours kind of suck. I’ll be watching for Juarez. I’m not stupid. I’ll check-down on every play. If she’s coming, I’ll just throw the hot route or throw the ball away. No way I’ll let her come clean.”

“If you see her coming,” Becca said. “You didn’t see Lubbock, did you?”

Quentin fell silent. Becca was right — he hadn’t seen Lubbock, at all. That was the kind of thing that could get you killed. But how had he not seen Lubbock? He knew where everyone was, all the time. He always had. So what had gone wrong?

Becca licked dry lips. “Q, somebody has to say this ... you’re still the best in the game, but you’re not what you used to be.”

“All washed up at twenty-two, am I?” Quentin wasn’t in the mood to be lectured about his quarterbacking play. “Like I said, Juarez won’t get me. We’ll get Kopor up to speed. Don’t worry, Becca, I won’t be retiring anytime soon. You’ll just have to keep waiting for your chance to start.”

Becca stared at the floor. “I’m not talking about taking your position. I’m talking about taking mine. Juarez won’t get you, Quentin, because I’ll be at fullback.”

He didn’t know what to say. She had fought to get her way — fought against the team’s needs, fought him — and now that she had won, the thought of her giving it up made him hollow inside.

“Becca, I’m out for the next four or five days. Someone has to take starter’s reps in practice.” He couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth, but they felt natural, they felt right.

“I think that should be you,” he said. “You’ve earned it. It’s what you want, so go for it. By the time I get back, you’ll be a lock as number-two on the depth chart.”

She slowly relaxed her fingers. Her helmet dropped, clattering against the training room floor.

“If only you had made that choice when I needed you to make it,” she said. “Things would have been so different. I love you, Quentin — I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

She turned and walked out, leaving her helmet behind.

He sat in the rejuve tank’s warmth, thinking about how things had come to this point. She had a dream. He’d fought against it, yet she’d found a way to make it happen. Now that things were right there for her, she was walking away from it — not for the team, but for him.

The irony was almost as thick as the rejuve fluid: if he couldn’t play quarterback, Becca gave Ionath the best chance to win. Now that he was hurt and they might need her, she was going back to fullback — and he knew she’d be just as stubborn about that decision as she’d been when Danny Lundy had delivered her ultimatum.

But Quentin wasn’t out for good: he would be out for only a week, and a bye week at that. When he came back, the Krakens had five games left in the regular season. While part of him wanted to talk to Becca again, tell her he’d been wrong and she’d been right to chase her dream, that now was her chance, a bigger part of him wanted what was best for the team.

In press conferences he spoke of taking things one game at a time, but with seven wins and no losses, he couldn’t help but think ahead.

Five games left: with Becca Montagne at fullback, Ionath could win them all.

The Krakens could go undefeated.

GFL WEEK SEVEN ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Alimum Armada

7

To Pirates

35

Buddha City Elite

21

Wabash Wolfpack

20

D’Oni Coelacanths

21

Ionath Krakens

24

Yall Criminals

28

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

13

Orbiting Death

35

Bord Brigands

7

Themala Dreadnaughts

42

McMurdo Murderers

10

Vik Vanguard

28

Bartel Water Bugs

21

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

21

Shorah Warlords

18

Texas Earthlings

27

Sheb Stalkers

24

Bye Weeks: Isis (2-4), Jupiter (4-2), D’Kow (2-4) and Jang (2-4) did not play this week.

The violence that overtook the Ki Rebel Establishment system this week left thousands dead, including three members of the Bord Brigands organization. Defensive end Paul “Bandit” Preston died when Creterakian security forces returned fire on a group of terrorists that were using Freedom Stadium, home field of the Brigands, as cover to fire at government facilities and personnel. Two stadium staffers also died in the exchange.

The Bord defense was practicing on field at the time of the incident. Three members of the defense were injured. They are recovering, but all three were unable to travel to this week’s game at OS1 (6-0). The Orbiting Death won easily, 35-7.

Bord (3-3) requested a rescheduling of the game, but GFL Commissioner Rob Froese denied that request.

“It was a hard decision, but the game was at Orbital Station One and I felt it had to be played,” Froese said. “With our teams spread across the galaxy, the travel time involved makes rescheduling any game, for any reason, something that could cause a ripple effect across the league. This isn’t the first time a franchise has been impacted by political violence. In the GFL, we have a tradition of playing on.”

With four defensive starters out for Bord, Death rookie running back Danté Diener had a field day. Diener carried the ball 25 times for 145 yards and three touchdowns.

Bord owner Bord-Du-Will is demanding Froese be removed as commissioner. However, the commissioner is appointed by the Empire Bureau of Species Interaction, and with the Creterakian government focusing its energy on revolts in several systems, it is unlikely Froese will be removed.

“The brilliant and rather handsome Bord-Du-Will is enraged at this decision,” said a representative of the Brigands owner. “That loss drops us to fifth place and could be the deciding factor in making the playoffs.”

Bord’s loss allowed Texas (4-3) to climb back into fourth place, thanks to the Earthlings’ 27-24 win over Sheb (2-4). Texas linebacker Alonzo Castro snagged his second pick-six of the season, intercepting Stalkers QB Rubinar Kupanji and returning it 17 yards for the go-ahead touchdown.

Ionath (7-0) remains undefeated and in first place in the Planet Division after dodging a bullet against winless D’Oni (0-6). The Krakens needed a last-minute touchdown to keep their season unblemished.

“The mark of a great team is to win when you do not play your best,” said Krakens coach Hokor the Hookchest. “We did that today, despite giving up five sacks and turning the ball over three times.”

Ionath has a bye in Week 8. Quarterback Quentin Barnes required immediate post-game surgery on a broken collarbone, so the time off should allow him to heal and be ready for a dramatic Week 9 tilt against the To Pirates (5-1). To crushed Alimum (2-4) 35-7 to remain in third place in the Planet Division behind Ionath and OS1. The Planet Division’s top three teams have a combined record of 18-1.

Buddha City (4-2) won a critical conference game against Wabash (4-3). The 21-20 victory let the Elite leapfrog Wabash in the standings and move into a tie with Yall (4-2) for the final Planet Division playoff spot. The Criminals defeated Coranadillana (0-6) 28-13.

In the Solar Division, Vik (5-1) defeated Bartel (5-2) to move into sole possession of first place. The Vanguard’s 28-21 win gives them a head-to-head tiebreaker against the Water Bugs, which could be critical for determining home-field advantage if the two teams finish with the same record.

Deaths

Alimum running back Borimir Abrams, killed on a late hit by To Pirates linebacker Richard “Damage” Damge. Commissioner Froese suspended Damge for two games. The Pirates are appealing the suspension.

Offensive Player of the Week

OS1 running back Danté Diener, who had twenty-five carries for 145 yards and three touchdowns.

Defensive Player of the Week

Vik linebacker Mur the Mighty, who had three sacks and a fumble recovery for a touchdown in the Vanguard’s 28-21 win over Bartel.

41

Week Eight: Bye

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

7-0

Ionath Krakens

5-1

Vik Vanguard

6-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

5-2

Bartel Water Bugs

5-1

To Pirates

4-2

Jupiter Jacks

4-2

Buddha City Elite

4-3

Texas Earthlings

4-2

Yall Criminals

3-3

Bord Brigands

4-3

Wabash Wolfpack

3-3

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

2-4

Alimum Armada

2-4

D’Kow War Dogs

2-4

Isis Ice Storm

2-4

Jang Atom Smashers

2-4

Themala Dreadnaughts

2-4

Sheb Stalkers

0-6

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

2-4

Shorah Warlords

0-6

D’Oni Coelacanths

0-6

McMurdo Murderers

THE DOOR TO YOLANDA’S CABIN OPENED. Quentin adjusted the strap of his shoulder sling, then stepped inside.

Images of his teammates floated in the middle of the room, lines of light leading between them, or to bits of text, or to paused holos showing scenes of flaming buildings, or to sentients Quentin didn’t recognize. System police, perhaps, from various regions. Floor to ceiling and wall-to-wall, Yolanda had filled her cabin with information.

She sat in the middle of the floor, cross-legged, staring up at all of it. The furniture had been pushed to the sides of the cabin, making more space for her tangled web of data.

“Yolanda, what is this mess?”

“This mess—” she said, then reached, grabbed an image of Virak the Mean and moved it to the left, the lines connected to him moving with it “—is how I do my job, Barnes.”

He scoffed. “Give me a break. This looks like your holotank overdosed on estarex and threw up all over the place. No one could make sense of this.”

She stood, shook her head at him.

“And if you handed me the Krakens playbook, think I could figure out the offense in the first five seconds?”

“I see your point. Where’s Whykor?”

Yolanda pointed to a couch pushed up almost against the wall. “Right there. He said he’s almost done.”

Quentin walked to the couch and peered over it. Wall panels had been removed, revealing a space behind them. A computer deck lay on the floor, cables running from it into the spaces, clamped onto various conduits and fixtures within.

“Whykor? You in there?”

The Worker’s head peeked out. Dust bunnies clung to his furred pedipalps.

“Hello, Mister Barnes.”

“What are you doing to our ship?”

The Worker stood. “This is how I accessed the Touchback’s databases, Mister Barnes. This ship is old, and the internal systems are rather outdated.”

The bad lifts, and now this?

“I don’t understand how that’s possible,” Quentin said. “Gredok spends a ton of cash on this ship.”

Whykor’s pedipalps quivered. “This is a fifty-year-old vessel. It would be impossible to fully update the internal security to modern standards, if Gredok even tried, which I assure you he has not. The conduits running alongside the passenger cabins were of the highest-grade military shielding five decades ago, but now, they are easy to access. Achmed-class ships were never intended for civilian use, you see.”

Quentin again looked down at the mess of wires. “Meaning you can do ... what?”

“Access the ship’s main system,” Whykor said.

“You’re kidding.”

“I do not kid, Mister Barnes. The internal systems have a decent degree of software security, but with the budget I have from Commissioner Froese—” he pointed to the computer deck lying on the floor “—this equipment allowed me to access whatever I wanted. If I had next-generation equipment — beyond even Froese’s budget, I’m afraid — I could seize control of the ship’s internal systems right from here. Fortunately, all I needed was access to the communications logs, which I have.”

“Someone could take control of the Touchback? From anywhere on the ship?”

“From the passenger cabins, mostly, Mister Barnes. Common areas have a different configuration. As I said, it is a design flaw in the Achmed-class schematic.”

“Maybe I should tell Captain Kate about this.”

“I would recommend it,” Whykor said. “However, please do so after Yolanda and I have finished our work.”

Quentin looked around the cabin again, wondered if Yolanda’s crazy display was actually her method of working through the possibilities, or if it had just been a way to hide Whykor behind the couch.

All those floating faces: Virak, Becca, Bud-O-Shwek, Shayat the Thick ... Michael Kimberlin. Could it really be Mike? Could he have done such horrible things?

“Who are you staring at?” Yolanda said. She walked over quickly, tried to see who Quentin was eyeballing, but he looked away.

She grabbed his arm, her face alive and blazing.

“Barnes, you think you know who it is!”

Quentin kept his expression blank, used all the skills he’d learned in his mental battles with Gredok to hide his lie.

“I’m not a cop,” he said. “Or a judge, or anything like that.”

“Come on,” she said. “Every bit of information helps.”

He could tell her his suspicions, but what if he was wrong? What if he cast doubt on Kimberlin and it turned out to be someone else? Without Kimberlin at right guard, the Krakens weren’t the same team. He couldn’t jeopardize that... if it turned out Kimberlin was the bad guy, sure, Mike had to face the music. Quentin just prayed that it was someone else — and he felt no small amount of shame for hoping that someone else wasn’t a starter.

He crossed his arms. “I have nothing to say.”

Yolanda huffed in disgust.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Barnes,” she said. “Those messages did come from the Touchback. Whykor found the signature of the device in question in the ship’s outbound communication records. One of your precious friends is a killer.”

To some degree, Quentin had already accepted that eventuality. It didn’t make confirmation any less hard to hear.

“But you still can’t read the messages,” he said.

“Correct,” Whykor said.

“What about the device itself?” Quentin said. “Could we search for it, maybe room by room?”

“The work I just completed indicated the device is a Grade-7 crystalline crypto-relay, phases sixteen through nineteen, with an Edwinian processor. These devices are both rare and extremely expensive. They are small enough to be hidden in just about anything, or easily carried on a sentient’s person.”

Yolanda put her hands on her hips, glared at the Worker. “After all of this, you’re telling me we can’t even find the damn thing?”

“I did not say that, Miss Davenport,” Whykor said. “I just isolated the device’s core identifying signature — what the Quyth would call the corneal map, or what Humans refer to as a fingerprint. When we come out of punch-space at Ionath, I can send a signal containing that signature. It doesn’t matter if the device is in active or passive mode — it will recognize that signal and respond with an identifier ping, indicating it is ready to receive an encrypted message. We will instantly know the location of the device.”

Quentin waited, expecting Whykor to say more, but the Worker just stared out with his one big eye.

“That can’t be all there is to it,” Quentin said. “You just send the signal and that’s it?”

“Correct,” the Worker said.

Yolanda glanced quizzically at Quentin. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was: it seemed too easy.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Quentin said. “No insult intended, Whykor, you’re smart and all, but you don’t strike me as some kind of computer master or secret spy. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, Mister Barnes, I believe so. While I’m very good at what I do, you are saying there are those with far more expertise — and someone in the ZG should know that such experts are out there.”

Yolanda shrugged. “Well, as long as I get the person responsible, what’s the point in worrying about that?”

“The point,” Quentin said, “is that the only reason Whykor found the device is because someone has been using it for five years. If this is some secret terrorist, wouldn’t they know enough to switch things out? Know they might become exposed if they keep using the same equipment?”

“Not necessarily,” Yolanda said. “Remember, this organization regularly gets sentients to strap bombs to their bodies and blow themselves up, so some of them aren’t that smart to begin with.”

Quentin thought about his teammates, the twenty-nine players that had been with the Krakens during the time in which the messages had been sent. Some were smarter than others, sure, but offenses and defenses were so complex that a truly stupid sentient couldn’t hope to process them.

“Still doesn’t add up,” he said. “Even if a player was that dumb — which I doubt — I’d think they’d have handlers or something. An asset like a GFL player that can go from system to system with diplomatic immunity ... you’d be careful to protect that.”

“Perhaps it is due to the cost,” Whykor said. “As I mentioned, a device like this would be prohibitively expensive. Perhaps they couldn’t afford to replace it?”

“Four tactical fighters attacked us off of Yall,” Quentin said. “Plus the pocket carrier that brought them. Is this device as expensive as a fighter?”

Whykor thought for a moment. “The G-98s that protect the Regulator are a few generations behind what the Creterakian fleet has but still cost around two hundred million credits each. The device might cost as much as one fighter, possibly two, but not four, and most certainly not also a pocket carrier.”

Yolanda shrugged again. “So?”

“So the Guild has money,” Quentin said. “You’ve got an agent in a valuable position using the same device for far too long, and the Guild won’t give a replacement?”

Yolanda looked annoyed. Her attitude bothered Quentin; she spoke of how she wanted justice, how she wanted the right person caught, but it was becoming apparent that what she really wanted was her story — and the sooner, the better.

“The bad guy has an old piece of gear,” she said. “So what? He’s still using it to talk to the Guild, Quentin — what’s your point with this?”

Quentin didn’t know if he even had a point. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does blowing up innocent sentients,” Yolanda said. Intensity radiated off her. This was her moment; she wanted her story. “Send the signal now, Whykor. Let’s see who it is.”

Whykor’s fur fluffed, then quickly settled back down.

“As I said earlier, Yolanda, we have to wait until the Touchback comes out of punch-space to send the signal. We will be out in a few hours and arrive at Ionath.”

Quentin thought he saw a curling strand of red-orange on Whykor’s eye. The color of shame? What would he be ashamed about?

Yolanda threw up her hands in exasperation. “So close. I can’t wait to find out who it is. Three years I’ve been working on this. And just a few more hours until we know. It’s probably for the best anyway. Froese told us he’d be waiting at Ionath with a squad of Ionath System Police to take the jerk into custody. That will be sweet, won’t it, Whykor?”

“Absolutely,” the Worker said. “Sweet indeed, Yolanda.”

Another flash of red-orange on Whykor’s cornea, and this time Quentin was sure of it. Red-orange, a certain twitch to the pedipalps ...

Whykor is lying, no question. But lying about what?

Quentin had no idea, but the Worker’s body language told him he’d find out very soon.

QUENTIN CONCENTRATED, tried to breathe as the reality wave hit. He knew he was being watched: by two people who thought this was funny and one who thought it was a story angle.

“Dangit,” John said. “The one time I bet on him to cough up a lung, and he doesn’t even get a dry heave. I hate double or nothing.” He once again offered the golden bucket to Quentin. “Q, you sure you don’t need this?”

“I’m fine,” Quentin said. Maybe he was too distracted about what would happen after this punch-out to be sick. “You shouldn’t have bet against me, John.”

Ju grinned wide, patted his own stomach. “But he did bet against you, Q. A double-or-nothing bet. You know, John, you can still win it all back if we go quadruple or nothing when we travel to OS1 in Week Ten.”

“Puking or non-puking?” John said.

Ju shrugged. “Your choice. But choose wisely.”

QUADRUPLE SOUNDS EXPENSIVE scrolled across John’s face. He offered Quentin the puke bucket once again.

“Hey, Q, want to have lunch with me? How about a nice, greasy pork sandwich served up in a dirty toilet?”

“I eat with the Ki,” Quentin said. “You’re not going to make me ill talking about nasty food.”

Yolanda shook her head in amazement.

“I’ll never understand how grown men are so obsessed with bodily functions.”

She was just making small talk, waiting for the inevitable. She didn’t have to wait long.

Ju pointed out the viewport. “The Regulator again,” he said. “Looks like your ride is here, Yolanda. Aren’t you fancy.”

“Attention, all players, report to the shuttle bay,” Captain Kate said over the speakerfilm. “I repeat, all players.”

“Weird,” John said. “Not first-shuttle passengers only? I guess they came for your mods after all, Q.”

“Wasn’t funny before, not funny now,” Quentin said. “Go on ahead, guys, I need a quick word with Yolanda.”

John and Ju left the observation deck.

Yolanda was trying to hide her excitement — trying, and mostly failing.

“Game time,” he said. “You ready for this?”

She let out a big, long puff of air, then nodded. “Three years worth of work,” she said. “This is the moment where it all comes together.”

Quentin could relate — he remembered how he’d felt lining up in the tunnel for that first playoff game against the Wabash Wolfpack, a goal he and the Krakens had worked three years to achieve. Now one of the players who’d achieved that same goal was about to be taken away, probably for good.

“Let’s find Whykor and get to the shuttle bay,” he said. “Time to get this over with.”

QUENTIN STOOD next to Yolanda and Whykor. The entire team had gathered as well, along with Coach Hokor and Captain Kate.

The orange and black Krakens shuttle was there, but so was a white one with the blue, purple and white GFL logo covering the side.

The Krakens players waited silently. They didn’t know what this was about, exactly, but they knew it couldn’t be good.

Patah had let him take off the shoulder sling. It was nice to be free of it. Quentin hated any reminder that his career was always one hit away from being over.

The shuttle door opened on its bottom hinge, lowered to the deck. Two power-armored Sklorno stepped out first, then Leiba the Gorgeous, holding his stun-stick. Last out: Commissioner Rob Froese and Gredok the Splithead.

For once, Gredok did not speak first. He calmly stepped to the side, leaving the floor to the commissioner.

“We need to speak to one of your players,” Froese said. “Whykor, do it.”

The white-furred Worker raised a pedipalp, palm up. A single icon floated above it: a slowly spinning red star. With his other pedipalp, he reached out one finger and poked the icon.

There was a pause, then a muffled beep from among the players. The Krakens glanced at each other, then down as it beeped again. Quentin craned his neck to see who it might be. He spotted Kimberlin, who looked aghast. Another beep — only it wasn’t coming from Mike: the players closest to him were looking at someone else.

Leiba moved toward the sound, the power-armored Sklorno flanking him. Krakens scurried out of their path.

There was one more beep, then the players cleared away from the only person who didn’t move at all, a person who just stood there, head down.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Yolanda said.

She sounded almost disappointed.

Standing there, suddenly all alone, with a final beep coming out of his pants pocket, was Yitzhak Goldman.

“Shuck me,” Quentin said.

Leiba and the two armored Sklorno surrounded him.

Froese waved a little hand inward. “Come on, Goldman. Let’s go.”

Yitzhak looked around, perhaps wondering if he could make a break for it, but like Dan Campbell three seasons earlier, he knew there was nowhere to go.

“My kids,” he said. “My wife.”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Froese said. “Let’s just get you out of here nice and calm.”

John Tweedy stepped forward, nostrils flaring, muscles flexing.

“You ain’t taking him anywhere, shorty. No way Yitzhak has mods.”

Froese paused, caught between instantly responding to this challenge to his rule and obvious sympathy for John’s faith in his teammate.

“Stay back, Tweedy,” Froese said. “This isn’t about mods.”

“He doesn’t have any,” John said. He turned, looked at Quentin. “Tell him, Q! Tell Froese that Zak is clean!”

Quentin didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. John’s face creased with confusion and heartbreak — he’d expected his brother to instantly back his play.

This was wrong, all wrong. There had to be something else to this — Yitzhak couldn’t be a terrorist.

Quentin quickly scanned the players; so many expressions of anger, of concern for Yitzhak. And then Quentin saw Kimberlin, those same emotions visible but also one more: fear.

And then Quentin understood — only one of them carried the transmitter, but both of them were in on it.

Kimberlin stepped forward. “This isn’t going to happen,” he said. “Zak’s not going anywhere.”

Ju stepped out of the pack, his hands flexing into fists as he inched closer to one of the armored Sklorno.

“Zak isn’t some rookie fresh from the combine,” Ju said. “Nobody is taking our teammate.”

Other voices grumbled in agreement.

Leiba’s cornea swirled with yellow-orange: he was excited, ready to fight the entire team if he had to. The Warrior slowly spun the stun-stick as he glanced from player to player, figuring out his first target.

More Krakens started to creep forward, faces scowling, bodies leaning in with aggression.

“Stop it” Yitzhak barked with the full volume of a voice that could make snap counts heard over the din of 150,000 screaming fans. The punch of his words froze everyone cold.

“This isn’t about mods,” he said. “And it isn’t about anyone but me.” He glanced at Kimberlin. “I’m going. Everyone just stay out of it.”

With that, he strode to the shuttle and straight up the ramp, so suddenly that the powered-armored Sklorno had to scramble to stay with him.

Yitzhak stopped at the top, then looked back out.

“Froese, are you coming? I haven’t got all day.”

Yitzhak vanished inside.

Quentin stared after him. Yitzhak was in a hurry to get out of there, and Quentin knew why — he wanted to protect Kimberlin.

Froese looked at the gathered players.

“You’re all dismissed,” he said. “We’ll take it from here. Everyone, out. Except you, Hokor, I need to talk to you. And you, Barnes. You’re the team leader, you stay.”

Some of the players — the Prawatt mostly — left immediately. Others lingered for a few moments, then filed out the airlock door and into the ship proper.

Quentin watched his teammates filter past. John seethed. Ju looked like he wanted to turn and go after Leiba, stun-stick or no stun-stick. Kimberlin reeked of anxiety, doubt and internal conflict.

But one player had an expression unique among all the Krakens: relief. That player was Jason Procknow, HeavyG backup defensive tackle.

Procknow, the only other player from the Purist Nation on the Krakens roster.

Kimberlin and Procknow were both involved somehow. Quentin knew it, knew it without question.

The airlock door hissed shut. The shuttle bay seemed empty, suddenly louder with hanging echoes. The glowing sign in the arched ceiling —THE IONATH KRAKENS ARE ON A COLLISION COURSE WITH ANOTHER GFL CHAMPIONSHIP — THE ONLY VARIABLE IS TIME — seemed somehow juvenile.

Froese and Leiba stood in front of Quentin, Yolanda, Whykor, Gredok and Hokor.

“Coach Hokor,” Froese said, “I can’t tell you much, but out of respect I want you to know that this is something much bigger than mods.”

“I assumed,” the coach said. “Frankly, I do not care what is involved. You would not have gone through all this trouble for a triviality, Commissioner. What I care about now is planning our bye week so I can bring another quarterback up to speed.”

Froese tilted his head toward the airlock door. “Then you can go.”

Hokor glanced at Gredok.

“It is fine,” the black-furred Leader said. “I will handle it from here.”

Hokor turned and walked out of the shuttle bay.

Could Coach really be that heartless? Didn’t he care about Yitzhak’s life? Maybe he did but was hiding it. Then again, Hokor had lost players on the football field many times — was losing someone for a crime really any different?

Gredok stood up to his full height. “Unlike my coach, I am very interested in the details,” he said to Froese. “You have interrupted my season and compromised my roster, Commissioner. I expect to be informed of every detail.”

Froese normally puffed himself up when Gredok started dishing out orders, but this time, the commissioner simply nodded. However much Froese loved his job, at that moment he didn’t want to be the one doing it.

“That’s fine, Gredok,” he said. “I will keep you informed.”

Gredok turned to Quentin. “And you. You and I will discuss this later.”

The gangster then followed the coach out the airlock door.

Yolanda sniffed. She looked like she might cry.

Froese cocked his head. “Tears, Yolanda? For a terrorist?”

“For his friends, you jackass,” she said. “Didn’t you see how awful that was?”

The commissioner sighed. “I did. But this has to be done.”

She nodded. “Yeah. It has to be done. You have to do your job, and I have to do mine. I’ve got my story.”

“There is no story,” Froese said.

Yolanda looked at him blankly for a moment. She sniffed one more time, almost a leftover shred of the empathy she’d felt seconds before, an emotion quickly vanishing amid a slowly growing cloud of anger.

“What are you talking about, Froese? This is the story of the year. It runs tonight.”

“There is no story” the commissioner said, his voice cold and unforgiving. “I’ve already sent a message to your bosses at Galaxy Sports Magazine. I told them you have zero proof to back up your claims.”

The words stunned Quentin. Froese had helped set the whole thing up, and now he was shutting it down?

Yolanda’s breathing became ragged. Quentin could see her pulse hammering in her neck and temples.

“You know I have proof,” she said. “Whykor, tell this idiot about your ...”

She blinked. Quentin sensed her fury easing off, replaced by a growing tragic awareness.

Yolanda looked at Whykor.

“Tell him about the messages, your database, the device,” she said. “Tell him about the evidence.”

Whykor looked at Froese, and in that moment Quentin understood. Froese had used Yolanda to find the Guild plant — the commissioner had never had any intention of letting the story get out.

“Go ahead, Whykor,” Froese said. “Answer her question.”

The Worker’s white fur ruffled. “I have done all I can to find the information you sought, Yolanda, but I found no evidence to support your claims.”

Her mouth opened; a small breath slid out. Her eyes showed the pain of betrayal. Quentin’s heart broke for her.

“Whykor, you bastard,” she said. “I trusted you.”

The Worker’s eye flooded red-orange. He all but burned from total shame.

“Commissioner Froese is my shamakath,” he said. “I must do as he asks.”

Froese patted him on the shoulder. “Get into the shuttle. You don’t have to apologize to her for protecting the league.”

Whykor walked to the ramp. His pedipalps drooped, as did his middle arms; he reminded Quentin of a Human child being sent to his room for doing something bad.

Yolanda glared at Froese. “You used me, used my skills to find a player in your precious league that is a damn Zoroastrian Guild member, and now you think you can make the story go away?”

Froese held up his hands in a what can you do gesture.

“There are no Guild members in the GFL,” he said. “Such a thing would be terrible for the league. It would anger millions of sentients, and it would put players in danger wherever they go. So as I said, there is ... no ... story.”

Yolanda’s little hands balled into purple-skinned fists.

“I’ll go public anyway,” she said. “I worked on this for years, you understand me? So unless you think you’re going to take me to whatever secret torture chamber you have hidden away on your ship, unless you think you can actually make me disappear like you plan to do with Goldman, the story runs. Or do you really think you can make a member of the press just vanish?”

She was calling the bluff he’d dropped on her ten days earlier, just before the Touchback had left for New Whitok.

Froese smiled. Quentin looked away — those red teeth were so disturbing.

“I don’t have to do anything to you, Yolanda,” Froese said. “You have no proof for your story. You don’t have the message logs, you don’t have the partial decryptions, you don’t have the device itself, and you don’t have Goldman. My office has already put out a press release that he has illegal mods, which was why we took him into custody. So all you have left is your claim that twelve messages were received by Guild cells and just so happened to coincide with a Krakens away game. The BSI and NCIA will publically state that your information is wrong, that you are making it up.”

“I’m not making up anything and you know it!”

Froese shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I know. What matters is who the public believes — a reporter that gets paid for sensational stories, or the government agencies sworn to protect innocent civilians? If you run the story, everyone involved but you will deny everything. You’ll come across like a crackpot conspiracy theorist capitalizing on the tragedy of a player who made bad choices and broke the law so his career wouldn’t end.”

She sneered, pointed a finger at Froese’s face and started to talk, but he cut her off before she could get going.

“I’m not finished,” he snapped. “Your bosses at Galaxy Sports Magazine have been informed that if they run any slanderous, unsubstantiated stories about the GFL, I will block any access to the league until the reporter who filed that story is fired. I will then announce that the GFL will not work with said reporter. Seeing as the GFL is the biggest thing going in the history of sports, and seeing it entails Tiers One, Two and Three, no one will employ a reporter that isn’t allowed to cover it. So, no, Yolanda, I don’t need to take you to the Regulator. Run your story if you want. With some luck you might get a job covering the Sklorno soccer league or Harrah tribal death matches. Or, you could ship off to the Prawatt Jihad — who knows, maybe they need someone to start writing about The Game. Whatever happens, you will never cover the GFL again.”

Yolanda started to tremble, the rage inside of her so volatile it moved her body.

Quentin was both impressed and saddened. Froese knew how to play the power game as well as Gredok, it seemed, but was the commissioner placing football above justice for those killed by Yitzhak’s involvement? If so, did Quentin have any right to judge? He knew Kimberlin was involved but wasn’t saying anything — yet — because losing Kimberlin affected the Krakens’ chances at another Galaxy Bowl.

“We’re done here,” the commissioner said. “Don’t worry, Yolanda, there are other exclusives in your future. Just accept that this one didn’t go the way you’d hoped. Don’t rock the boat, and you’ll be happy in the long run, I promise you.”

“Your promises don’t mean a shucking thing,” she said.

Froese nodded. “For now. But I help those who help me, and you helped me significantly. Now get in the shuttle so we can get out of here.”

Her jaw clenched. Her lip curled up in a sneer. Quentin wondered if she might bite through her tongue.

“I’m not going anywhere with you” she said. “Or with that little cotton ball of a traitor. I’ll find my own ride, Froese.”

Quentin watched her storm out of the shuttle bay.

Froese rubbed at his face. He had won but seemed defeated. The effort of bullying Yolanda into silence had taken its toll.

“We had to do this, Barnes. You understand that, right? For the good of the league.”

Quentin’s heart hung leaden in his chest, but he nodded.

“What about Zak’s wife and kids?”

Froese shook his head. He couldn’t seem to make eye contact.

“They have to be questioned,” he said. “Local authorities are picking them up now.”

“Wait a minute ... questioned? You mean like on the Regulator?”

“No, worse,” Froese said quietly. “By the Creterakians. If Goldman’s family doesn’t know anything, they’ll be fine. If they do?”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to. Back on Micovi, Quentin had seen more than his share of kids cut down by the bats. Creterakians didn’t differentiate between children and adults.

Froese must have seen the look on Quentin’s face. For once, the commissioner’s expression softened with sympathy.

“If the wife or the kids get hurt, that’s not your fault,” Froese said. “Goldman should have thought about that before he started bombing innocent people.”

Quentin nodded again. Froese was right, Quentin knew it ... so why did this feel so horrible, so inexcusable?

“Barnes, thank you for your help. You’re sure there’s no one else on the team involved with Goldman?”

“No one,” Quentin said instantly, hating himself for it.

“Then good luck with the rest of your season,” the commissioner said. “Leiba, let’s go.”

Quentin walked out of the shuttle bay. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot. As much as all of this sucked, there were still more hard choices to be made.

“Computer?”

[YES, QUENTIN?]

“I want Kimberlin and Procknow in my quarters, immediately. Tell them they both know why.”

“YOU’RE CRAZY,” Jason Procknow said. “You know that, right?”

His massive arms were crossed on his massive chest. At seven feet, eight inches tall, Procknow was one of the few sentients that Quentin had to look up to, and at 612 pounds, the HeavyG could probably snap Quentin like a twig.

Quentin desperately wanted to believe Procknow. Watching Yitzhak get hauled away — and his brave moment to take all the blame, to protect whoever he was protecting — had gutted Quentin. The guy was a terrorist. That should have made it easy to watch his demise, but it had not. If more teammates were taken away, it would be just as hard to handle.

Maybe Quentin had imagined the emotional reactions of Kimberlin and Procknow, read into them, perhaps. Maybe the two had nothing to do with Yitzhak. Quentin’s heart told him to think that way, but his gut said something else.

“Jason, stop lying,” Quentin said. “I know.”

Quentin didn’t actually know. If he had, he might have already turned Procknow and Kimberlin in to Froese. But Quentin only had a hunch, and you didn’t ruin a person on a hunch.

Procknow made a pffft noise and looked away. “Whatever. This is nuts. I don’t have to put up with this crap just because a dainty little quarterback wants to start something.”

And yet Procknow made no move to leave. Quentin could see right through the lie, could spot the second-year player’s tells. Procknow was a bad actor — but at least he was better at it than Kimberlin.

Mike sat on Quentin’s couch, taking up most of it, head in his hands. He was a wreck; not from fear for himself, although there was definitely some of that, but rather for Yitzhak.

“You don’t know what you’ve done, Quentin,” Mike said.

“Me? I didn’t do a damn thing. Zak’s in the Guild, Mike, and so are you. So is Jason.”

Jason came forward, pointing a finger.

“You keep shooting off your mouth, you little orphan, and you’ll find out—”

“Stop it,” Kimberlin snapped. He raised his head, looked at Procknow. “Quentin knows. It’s too late to do anything about that.”

Procknow glared at Kimberlin. “Well, he sure knows now, doesn’t he?” He returned to his spot on the wall and leaned back against it.

Quentin’s gut instincts were right. He wished they weren’t.

He hadn’t been called orphan in years. The infinity symbol tattooed on Procknow’s forehead should have been a constant reminder of the man’s true loyalties, but in seeing him every day, Quentin had visually tuned it out.

“Zak was your teammate,” Procknow said. “How could you rat him out?”

“I didn’t rat out anyone,” Quentin said. “I had no idea who it was until Whykor turned on that device. He hacked into the Touchback’s systems and accessed communication records or something like that, figured it out from there.”

“Hacked in,” Procknow said. “Any ship this big has secure systems, Barnes, I’m not buying it.”

“The Touchback is old, and so is its hardware,” Quentin said. “Whykor told me he could have taken over internal systems if he wanted to. I don’t know the details, Jason, and don’t try to blame me for any of this. I’m not in the ZG, you are, all three of you.”

“Were,” Kimberlin said. “Past tense, Quentin — you have no idea what you’ve done.”

“You can go ahead and stop repeating that,” Quentin said. “I’m not the one that helped start a goddamn uprising in Bord.”

Kimberlin’s face clouded over with rage. He stood up so quickly the entire couch shot away from him, tumbling across the floor like it had been tossed by a tornado. Eight feet of HeavyG muscle eyed up Quentin.

“Zak tried to stop the uprising,” Kimberlin said. “But you didn’t bother to talk to him before you ratted him out!”

Tried to stop it? What kind of crap was Mike trying to pull?

“I didn’t rat him out,” Quentin said. “Yolanda didn’t even know who was sending the messages. We had no idea until Whykor pinged that device.”

Procknow made the pffft sound. “Yeah, but you knew somebody was sending signals, right? You knew one of your teammates was going to hang, and you still helped that little purple bitch.”

Quentin pointed at him. “I don’t need your racist crap right now, Jason. You got it?”

The defensive lineman pursed his lips, stared back with disgust if not outright hatred.

Quentin turned back to Kimberlin. “You said you were in the ZG. What the hell does that mean?”

Kimberlin said nothing for a moment. He turned, picked up Quentin’s couch with one hand, set it back in place, then sat on it.

“I was in the Guild for years,” he said. “So was Yitzhak. But we got out.”

It had been heartbreaking to see Yitzhak taken away, but to finally hear this from Mike’s mouth ... from a man that Quentin respected, even idolized.

“How could you, Mike? How could you join up with those butchers?”

“We joined because we wanted to end Creterakian rule,” Kimberlin said. “We thought it wasn’t right to have one race controlling the others. That’s not democracy, Quentin. It’s totalitarianism.”

“This isn’t a tutoring session, so spare me the civics lesson,” Quentin said. “Or are you going to tell me the only path to democracy is by killing civilians?”

“Whatever,” Procknow said, “Like the bats don’t kill civilians? Maybe all your money made you forget where you come from, what it’s like back in the Nation.”

As if Quentin could ever forget. He’d seen dozens of people cut down by the bats, sometimes for something as simple as not getting on the ground when asked, asked just one time.

“Oh, you do remember,” Procknow said. “Then maybe the question isn’t why Mike was in the ZG. Maybe the question is why you’re not. You don’t give a damn about your people, do you, champ?”

Procknow spoke with conviction and energy, but something about it rang hollow; not false, exactly, but maybe not true enough.

“My people never gave a damn about me,” Quentin shot back. “Because I was an orphan, as you just pointed out.”

“Bats kill orphans just like they kill everyone else,” Procknow said. “More of them, even. Orphan or confirmed, it doesn’t really matter — the bats kill our people like they kill people everywhere they go.”

Kimberlin stood up again, slowly this time. “That’s enough, Jason. Look, Quentin, Zak and I were in the ZG. Yes, we facilitated violent acts, but we attacked Creterakians. I never attacked anything myself, I was just a go-between, shuttling information or other resources from one cell to another. Yitzhak recruited me while I was still in Tier Three. It paid well then, that’s how he brought me in, but I quickly saw the bigger picture, the importance of true independence. The Guild was always hoping to snag someone early in hopes the player would make it to Tier One and get full diplomatic immunity. With me, that strategy worked.”

Quentin remembered being bound hand and foot to a metal X, the bats asking him if he had involvement with the Zoroastrian Guild.

“The league caught on to that,” he said. “They gave me a lie detector at the Combine.”

Procknow raised his hand. “Same here. Easy test to beat, though, unless you have the pain tolerance of a five-year-old.”

Quentin ignored him.

“Don’t tell me you only attacked bats, Mike,” he said. “I watch the damn news. I’ve seen years of attacks on civilians. The Guild is a bunch of murderers.”

Which is exactly what the Creterakians are ... so why is one better than the other?

Kimberlin shook his head. “Not when Zak ran it. The Guild changed, Quentin. New people came in, took over. Things got bad.”

The words danced in Quentin’s head.

“Wait a minute ... did you say when Zak ran it? Yitzhak Goldman was the leader of the Zoroastrian Guild?”

“A big chunk of it, yes,” Kimberlin said. “But like I told you, it changed. When Zak was in charge, we targeted only Creterakian military installations. Garrisons, barracks, troop ships, that sort of thing.” He stared at the floor. As he spoke, his words gradually became fainter and fainter. “Then new blood started coming in, around early 2675. By ’76, things got bad. The new guys weren’t patriots or nationalists, they were thugs. Thugs with money to buy loyalty. They started pushing to add sympathizers to the list of targets.”

“Sympathizers? What do you mean?”

“Like the holy men,” Procknow said. “Scumbags who win favor with the Creterakians by helping them.”

For that, at least, Quentin shared some of Procknow’s anger. Church leaders had embraced the Creterakians, used the bats to eliminate rivals. Sometimes holy men curried favor with local garrisons by publicly telling people to do whatever the Creterakians asked. Some religious leaders even went so far as to say the bats were a tool of High One himself, and that Creterakian orders should be followed without question. Those people were traitors, Quentin knew ... but to murder them for it?

“It started with sympathizers, but the new blood quickly ramped up their rhetoric,” Kimberlin said. “They claimed any target — including civilians — was justified as long as the attack damaged the Creterakian Empire. Zak tried to push back, tried to keep operations limited to military targets. The new blood then accused Zak of being a sympathizer, said that’s why he wanted to keep the attacks small. The two conflicting schools of thought turned into a genuine schism.”

“What’s a schism?”

“A split,” Procknow said. “Like when we were little kids and that group on Mason became the Purist Orthodox Church, and Butcher Smith ordered them all dead. Remember?”

Quentin did. For much of his life, he’d thought that maybe his parents had fled because of Smith’s pogrom.

“So now instead of one group killing random people, you had two,” Quentin said. “Awesome.”

Kimberlin shook his head. “No ... we killed each other.”

His voice was a husk, a dry leaf blowing on frozen ground. It held anguish, a deep pain that stabbed at the soul. Quentin’s anger and frustration receded, tidal waves frozen just before the crash.

“That guy you killed,” Quentin said. “The one you won’t talk about. It was because of this schism?”

Kimberlin nodded. “It was in a warehouse in Red Storm City. We were having a meeting to iron out the differences between the old guard, which I was a part of, and the new guys. One of the new guys, Farmar Lwazi, his name was, a backup rookie tight end for the Jacks ... he brought a gun. He started shooting. I took a bullet in the arm, but I got to him. I ...” Mike looked at his own hands, massive things as big as Quentin’s head, flexed them in and out, in and out.

“I hit him. I hit him so many times. I’m not sure which punch killed him, but I think it was one of the early ones.”

Procknow let out a long whistle. “Damn, Mike — that’s hardcore.”

Kimberlin moved his jaw side to side, gave his whole body a shake.

“Anyway, that’s what told me it was time to get out. They’ll kill me if an easy opportunity comes up, but I’m not that important and they won’t go out of their way to get me. Zak, though, that’s different. That device that beeped in his pocket? That let him talk to various cells. That’s why he kept it for so long. Zak had informers in areas of the Guild, and if he caught wind of an attack on civilians, he’d try to send out a counter message. The new blood runs the Guild now, Quentin, and they wanted Zak gone, wanted it bad.”

Quentin felt a sinking sensation.

“The parade bombing,” he said. “Zak was sitting in the same car I was. They were trying to kill him, not me.”

Kimberlin nodded. “Same thing with that fighter attack on the Touchback. They wanted Zak gone.”

“And now he is,” Procknow said. “Thanks to you, Barnes.”

Something about Procknow held Quentin’s focus. Not him, exactly, but rather the dates involved.

“I’m only two years older than you, Jason,” Quentin said. “So in seventy-six, when Mike left, you were ... what, ten years old?”

Procknow said nothing. He just stared back.

“Mike, explain that,” Quentin said. “How can Procknow be a former member if he was ten when you and Zak got out?”

“He wasn’t in it then, obviously,” Kimberlin said. “The new blood recruited him as a paid courier, just like they did with me. Zak still has contacts in the ZG. Someone tipped him off about Jason. Zak talked to Jason about the big picture, and now Jason works with us.”

“Paid courier?” Quentin said. “So much for all that talk about rising up against the occupiers.”

“I have a family,” Procknow said. “I have to provide for them. I can be patriotic and still get paid for it. I make league minimum, Barnes, not millions like you.”

So much emphasis and intensity on the word minimum. Maybe Procknow’s words rang hollow when he spoke of fighting the Creterakians, but not when he spoke about his family, and not when he spoke about money.

“So why didn’t they just pay you to kill Zak, Jason? You could get to him anytime, right?”

“Because I’m not a killer,” Procknow said. “Especially not for a guy like Zak, who is trying to fight back.”

“And they wouldn’t ask him to do that,” Kimberlin said. “A Tier One player is probably the most valuable asset they can have. Either side, old blood or new, they wouldn’t ask an active player to do anything that might get them kicked off a team or out of the league.”

So Kimberlin was “old blood.” And Jason was, what... both? At any rate, neither of them were to be trusted.

“I still don’t understand the change,” Quentin said. “You said the schism happened within a year or so of the new blood coming in. If Zak was the leader of the Guild, how did he lose control so fast?”

“Money,” Kimberlin said, as if that word explained all of the universe’s unanswered questions. “The Guild always had a decent amount of money — donations from sentients who hated Creterakian rule, mostly — but the new blood? The money they threw around ... it changed everything. So much, and in untraceable formats.”

Quentin felt a sudden chill 111 his chest.

“Untraceable,” he said. “What do you mean, untraceable.”

“Gems, mostly,” Kimberlin said. “And precious metals. Highly valuable material that could be used anywhere in the galaxy to buy arms or equipment, or to bribe officials.”

Quentin felt weak, almost boneless, like he was cold, dead meat barely above the freezing point. His legs started to give out. He managed to turn so that he fell into his favorite chair — the sudden drop made one of the chair legs snap, left him sitting at an angle.

“Q,” Kimberlin said, “are you all right?”

Quentin heard but didn’t hear.

“High One,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”

Kimberlin leaned forward. “What is it, Q? Tell me.”

Quentin blinked a few times. The room seemed to dematerialize around him.

“Petra,” he said. “She came to me again, Mike. Through Bumberpuff, I mean. She said that the Abernessia had advance agents in our galaxy. They tried to buy off Prawatt with ... with precious metals, and gems.”

Kimberlin stared. Then he, too, sat heavily, the couch groaning under his weight.

“Jesus,” he said. “The Abernessia.”

Mike didn’t need to be told all the particulars. The look on his face made it clear: he’d put the pieces together and didn’t like the end result.

Procknow looked from one to the other. “Petra? You mean Petra Prawatt? Are you kidding me? And what the hell is an Abernessia?”

Quentin shook his head. He had to focus on one thing at a time. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter right now. Look, this is a lot for me to process. It’s all ... it’s way more complicated than I thought.”

It had seemed so cut and dried, but it wasn’t. The new Guild was bad. Did that mean the old Guild was better, because they fought against the new Guild? Was Zak actually a good guy in all this? Could someone who blew up buildings and ships even be a good guy?

All of a sudden right and wrong weren’t quite so cut and dried. Quentin felt drained. He was done with all of it and just wanted to think about something else.

“You both need to leave,” he said.

Neither man did. They both stared at him, waiting for more.

“Oh, right,” Quentin said. “I’m not telling anyone about this. Froese squashed the story. No one is going to know about Yitzhak’s involvement in the Bord uprising, whatever that might have been. I’m not a cop and I’m not a soldier — If you both promise me it’s over, that you will never, ever communicate with the Guild again, I’ll let all this go. I can’t have your involvement screwing up our season. Give me your word, and we never have to talk about it again.”

Kimberlin glanced at Procknow. It was the look of an older man silently giving guidance to a younger one, Kimberlin urging Jason to accept the deal.

Procknow sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Wasn’t as if I was all that involved anyway. That whole schism thing happened when I was like nine years old. I’d rather just play football.”

Kimberlin looked at Quentin, his face earnest. “I promise, Q. I’m done with all of it.”

Quentin pointed to the door. “Then both of you get out of here. I just don’t want to deal with this anymore.”

The two linemen left. Quentin stared at his holotank for a little while. It was off, showing nothing but blank gray.

He wondered if Becca had already shuttled down. He wanted her there with him, needed her, but things were broken between them. Since their talk at D’Oni, she’d avoided him completely.

Maybe he would call her. Later, though, because he realized there was someone on board who probably needed a friend far more than he did.

THE REST OF THE TEAM had shuttled down to Ionath hours ago. Quentin didn’t feel like leaving, not just yet. Too much to process. He just wanted to stay on the Touchback for a while, have a couple of beers. And besides, he had company — someone who felt the same way he did.

Yolanda was sprawled out on Quentin’s couch, a portrait of defeat. Her right hand covered her face as if it were a shield that might hide her from the galaxy. Her left hand held a mag can of Miller Lager.

Quentin wondered if that was how he had looked shortly after the ’84 playoffs, when he’d thought he was on his way to a Galaxy Bowl title but lost in the opening round against the Wabash Wolfpack.

Quentin had never written a story, never been interested in being a journalist, and really had no idea what went into Yolanda’s job. Nor did he have any idea of how writers defined “success.” There were awards, probably, and popularity, but nothing as straightforward as a tournament bracket resulting in a clear-cut winner.

What he could relate to, though, was seeing years of work vanish in an instant.

“Yolanda, you want another?”

“I’m not some booze-swilling jock, Barnes,” she said into her hand. “A second beer isn’t going to help my mood.”

“Maybe not, but it sure isn’t going to hurt it.”

Her hand slid down a little. She looked at him guardedly. “Okay,” she said. “One more. Thanks.”

He walked to his tiny kitchen and came back with two more mag cans. He handed her one, then sat back down in his favorite chair — the leg was still broken, and he still sat at an angle. He would have to have Messal get that fixed.

They opened their cans at the same time, with a hiss of in-rushing air and the crackle of sudden frost.

Yolanda sat up and took a sip.

“That little scumbag,” she said.

“You mean Froese or Whykor?”

“Take your pick. They both screwed me over. You know what that story would have done for my career?”

He was having a hard time thinking his own career was all that important, let alone hers. Sandoval, Zak, the Guild, Kimberlin and Procknow’s involvement in what Zak had or hadn’t done, and — worst of all — seeing Petra’s claims of Abernessia corruption all but confirmed by Kimberlin. The future invaders were using the Guild to drive wedges between governments and races alike.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe there are some things more important than a news story, don’t you think?”

She paused mid-sip, lowered her can.

“Okay, I guess that’s fair,” she said. “Whatever this does to the ZG, at least Goldman isn’t using the GFL to help kill sentients.”

Quentin raised his beer. “And that’s due to your work. Cheers.”

She hesitated, then raised her own. “Cheers.”

Yolanda was relaxing a little. That was good. She’d busted her butt on that story, and he had no end of respect for that. Still, if Kimberlin was telling the truth, Zak had been trying to stop attacks, not start them. Did that excuse what he’d done in the past? No, not really, but it made things damn complicated. The older Quentin got, it seemed, the more he learned that there were no easy answers, that black and white were thin strips bordering a wide swath of gray.

The football field had rules. Life did not.

“I wonder what will happen with Zak,” he said.

Yolanda shrugged. “I don’t know. Bad things happen on the Regulator. I can’t prove that, though. Froese has that ship locked up right.”

She took another sip, sagged deeper into the couch.

“I worked so hard on this,” she said. “Now I’ve got nothing.”

Quentin nodded, wishing he could help her in some way. When he lost a game, the only thing that made him feel better was winning the next one. She’d lost a major story; to get over it, he imagined she needed a new one that was just as big.

Could he tell her about the schism in the Zoroastrian Guild? In-fighting among that group would not only make a great story, it might be an early alert to what the Abernessia were doing. But if told her about that, he would reveal that he knew more about the ZG than he’d let on.

He wished he could tell her about Jonathan Sandoval’s blackmail, about the reporter’s double-life as a CMR spy. What a story that would be, probably as big as the ZG schism. Quentin took a long pull at his beer. As long as Sandoval was threatening to tell the CMR the actual size of the CoQB, then Quentin couldn’t ...

... Sandoval ...

... the CMR ...

... schism ...

“Barnes!”

Her shout and a sensation of cold wetness spreading across his chest snapped him out of it. He’d spilled beer all down his chin and onto his shirt. He stood up, first thinking he had to grab a towel, then forgetting about it in the same instant.

It will work ... it will work!

“An exclusive,” he said. “For you, the story, an exclusive on Jona ...” he barely caught himself from saying the full name.

“On John Tweedy?”

“No, forget that part,” he said. “But an exclusive for you and it’s about sports and ... I ... and ...”

He was stammering, sloshing beer onto the floor. That was no way for a calculating leader to act. He took a deep breath, controlled his emotions and embraced the calm.

“I have a story for you,” he said. “About me, sort of, to replace the one Froese took.”

She shook her head. “My coverage of you on this trip didn’t produce any news. I hate to tell you, but other than your quirky habit of throwing up all the time? All you do is focus on football. No disrespect intended, Barnes, but you’re kind of boring.”

“Not that,” he said. “Something else, something really big. I need to get you some information, and I need to do it now. So I’m sorry, but—” he gestured to the door with his beer hand, inadvertently spilling a little more “—do you mind taking the shuttle down yourself?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is this how football players usually console their buddies after a bad game?”

“Well, no, but—”

“It’s all right,” she said. She stood, set her mag can on a side table. “I’ll go. And thank you for the beers. I can’t wait to see what your story is, Barnes, but I have a feeling it’s not quite as significant as you think.”

Quentin fought to keep still until the door hissed shut behind her.

“Computer, tell Messal the Efficient I want to see him in my quarters, immediately.”

[RIGHT AWAY, QUENTIN.]

If Messal could get Quentin and the others all the way to the Portath Cloud and back without anyone knowing, the Worker could assuredly set up a secret meeting on Ionath.

“Oh, and computer?”

|YES, QUENTIN?]

“Is the Regulator still in direct communication range?”

[THAT SHIP HAS NOT YET ENTERED PUNCH-SPACE. IT IS STILL IN RANGE.]

“Get Froese on the line, immediately. Tell him it’s urgent. Oh, and tell him he better take this call, because he owes me. Use those words exactly.”

[RIGHT AWAY, QUENTIN.]

All the pieces clicked, and clicked hard. The commissioner wasn’t the only one who could put a plan together. Quentin had team practice, sure, but things would be a little laid back during the bye week — he had enough time to make his plan happen.

GFL WEEK EIGHT ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Orbiting Death

42

Alimum Armada

3

Isis Ice Storm

27

Buddha City Elite

21

D’Kow War Dogs

10

D’Oni Coelacanths

7

Themala Dreadnaughts

21

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

10

To Pirates

21

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

28

Yall Criminals

35

Jang Atom Smashers

3

Bord Brigands

14

Vik Vanguard

35

Jupiter Jacks

14

McMurdo Murderers

3

Shorah Warlords

28

Sheb Stalkers

14

Bye Weeks: Bartel (5-2), Ionath (7-0), Texas (4-3) and Wabash (4-3) did not play this week.

Ionath’s bye ensured they would stay undefeated in Week 8 and remain in first place, but the Krakens (7-0) no longer have sole possession of that honor.

OS1 (7-0) hung a 42-3 shellacking on hapless Alimum (2-5) to move into a tie with Ionath for first place in the Planet Division. Death quarterback Condor Adrienne lit up the Alimum secondary, throwing for four touchdowns and rushing for another.

After starting the season at 2-2, Yall (5-2) has won three straight. The Criminals’ 35-3 drubbing of Jang (2-5) puts them back into the playoff hunt and into a third-place Planet Division tie with the To Pirates (5-2).

“We’re really hitting our stride,” said Criminals quarterback Rick Renaud, who threw for three touchdowns against the Atom Smashers. “I like who we are right now. A few more wins gets us into the playoffs, then we’ll get our chance for payback against OS1 and Ionath.”

Vik (6-1) stayed atop the Solar Division with a 35-14 win over Bord (3-4). The Brigands are still down three defensive starters from the violence that hit Bord last week. They could do nothing to stop running back Travis Johnson. Johnson, who scampered for 208 yards and three touchdowns, is in the running for Rookie of the Year honors along with OS1 running back Danté Diener and To quarterback Abdullahi Ba.

Jupiter (5-2) lodged a 14-3 victory against winless McMurdo (0-7) to move into a tie with Bartel (5-2) for second place in the Solar. The Water Bugs had a bye week.

Neptune (4-3) also climbed back into the playoff hunt. The Scarlet Fliers handed the To Pirates their first loss since Week 1, traveling to the blood-red pitch of Pirates stadium and dishing out a 28-21 defeat to the home team. Fliers quarterback Adam Gurri threw for four touchdown passes, all to receiver Amarillo. The pair combined for scores from 5, 12, 27 and 86 yards. Neptune is now tied with Texas for fourth place in the Solar.

The Pirates have a chance to get back on track next week when they visit undefeated Ionath.

Relegation Watch

With five games to play this year, it’s time to fire up the “Death Clock.” In the Planet, both Coranadillana and D’Oni sit winless at 0-7. It might well come down to the final game of the season, when the two teams meet in Coranadillana.

In the Solar, things look bad for McMurdo. They are two games behind Sheb (2-5) and Jang (2-5). The Murderers lost to Sheb earlier in the year, giving the Stalkers the potential tiebreaker. To finish ahead of Sheb, McMurdo would have to win three of its last five while the Stalkers would need to drop all of their remaining games.

McMurdo’s only realistic chance to stay in Tier One is to win next week’s game against Jang, then win at least one more game while counting on the Atom Smashers to lose all of theirs. That would leave both teams with 2-10 records. McMurdo would avoid relegation thanks to the head-to-head tiebreaker.

While we don’t know who will make it out of the Planet Division alive, it seems clear that McMurdo is one-and-done and headed back to Tier Two at season’s end.

Deaths

McMurdo tight end Todd Taylor, killed by Jupiter Jacks rookie linebacker Ridley Korika on a clean hit.

Offensive Player of the Week

Neptune wide receiver Amarillo, who caught 12 passes for 186 yards and four touchdowns in the Scarlet Fliers’ critical win over the To Pirates.

Defensive Player of the Week

To linebacker Izic the Weird, who had a sack, forced a fumble and also recovered it, and three pass knockdowns in a loss against Neptune.

42

Week Nine:
To Pirates at
Ionath Krakens

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

7-0

Ionath Krakens

6-1

Vik Vanguard

7-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

5-2

Bartel Water Bugs

5-2

To Pirates

5-2

Jupiter Jacks

5-2

Yall Criminals

4-3

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

4-3

Buddha City Elite

4-3

Texas Earthlings

4-3

Wabash Wolfpack

3-4

Bord Brigands

3-4

Isis Ice Storm

3-4

D’Kow War Dogs

3-4

Themala Dreadnaughts

3-4

Shorah Warlords

2-5

Alimum Armada

2-5

Jang Atom Smashers

0-7

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

2-5

Sheb Stalkers

0-7

D’Oni Coelacanths

0-7

McMurdo Murderers

QUENTIN STEPPED onto the Touchback’s bridge, already feeling uncomfortable.

It hadn’t changed since his last visit. The large holographic Touchback took up a good chunk of the small space. Just as he remembered, four crewmembers sat in their stations around it. They wore the same orange uniforms. They all saw him enter, all smiled. Even though he’d basically kidnapped them two seasons ago, some things held true: everyone loves a winner.

Captain Kate Cheevers stood by her command chair. In that chair sat Gredok the Splithead. She looked more proper than usual, perhaps because her boss was there. The left chest-flap of her uniform usually hung open, showing a low-cut T-shirt behind it, but now it was buttoned up tight. She still had those elements that made her Captain Kate, though: dirty-blonde hair tied in a ponytail hanging down her back, three small gold loops in her left nostril and two more through her right eyebrow, and the gun belt dangling against her right thigh. As far as Quentin knew, Kate was the only one with a firearm aboard the Touchback — other than Gredok’s bodyguards, that was. Bobby Brobst and the three-eyed HeavyKi stood back near the crysteel windows, silhouetted by space itself.

“Barnes, come here,” Kate said.

He did as he was told.

“Hi, Captain,” he said. “Never thought I’d be up here again.”

“Why, because the last time you were, you hijacked my ship?”

“Borrowed,” Quentin said, trying to add some humor to the situation. “And it is team property.”

“Wrong,” Gredok said. “The Touchback belongs to the sentient who paid for it. That’s me, Barnes.”

Kate held up a finger. “Except when we’re in transit, and Gredok is not aboard. Then my word is law.”

Quentin waited for Gredok to disagree with her; when he didn’t, Quentin knew he’d been brought here for a lecture that carried the team owner’s full endorsement.

“I’m in command,” Kate said. “I’m responsible for the safety of this vessel and everyone on it. So don’t you ever again allow something that could compromise my command of this vessel. Ever.”

She barely came up to his sternum. But as with Gredok, size wasn’t indicative of authority.

When Quentin had first met her, she’d hit on him endlessly, making all kinds of sexual innuendo. Clearly, that time had passed; maybe that’s what happened when you threatened someone and kicked them off their own ship, no matter how pure the intention of that act or the final results. He could argue with her, he could pull the star-card and ignore her, he could point to the Galaxy Bowl ring that the Prawatt had helped earn, Prawatt that wouldn’t have been there if Quentin had not “borrowed” the Touchback, but instead, he took his medicine.

“I understand,” he said. “I apologize about Yolanda and Whykor. I didn’t know they were going to hack into the ship.”

“And when you found out, you didn’t tell me,” Kate said.

“Or me,” Gredok said.

The two smaller sentients stared at him. He could say that Froese made him cooperate, but that wasn’t a valid justification.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said. “I didn’t think it through. Kate, I should have told you right away. I have no excuse for that. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Kate gave him a guarded look, as if she’d expected him to argue or be a smart ass. In years past he would have done both, but not anymore, because she was right: she was responsible for the safety of everyone on this ship. Quentin’s intentions didn’t matter if those intentions compromised her ability to do that job.

“Well, all right, then,” she said. “I know the commissioner was behind it, so it’s not entirely your fault. Apology accepted.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said.

She looked at Gredok, indicating her lecture was done and it was his turn.

The Leader’s little legs didn’t quite reach the floor. They kicked slightly as he talked. He played with his endless jewelry.

“Barnes, I thought you prided yourself on being a team player.”

“I do,” Quentin said quickly. “Absolutely.”

“And yet you chose Yolanda and Froese over your team.”

Quentin shook his head, started to retort, but Gredok continued.

“You didn’t tell me that one of my employees might be a terrorist,” the Leader said. “If you had, perhaps we would not be down one backup quarterback.”

Quentin didn’t know what to say. Was Gredok implying he would have kept Yitzhak on the squad? That he would have obstructed Froese’s investigation?

“Never again, Barnes,” Gredok said. “Never choose anything over team.”

Quentin didn’t think that catching a terrorist exactly counted as choosing over team, but he didn’t want to argue the point.

“What about the Touchback’s design flaw, Gredok? Whykor said someone could use it to take control of the ship. What are we doing to fix that?”

“We are installing temporary counter-measures,” the Leader said. “To properly solve the problem, the Touchback needs to be in dry dock for a month. We obviously can’t do that until after the season is complete.”

“If you’re putting her in dry dock, you should also fix the aft lift,” Quentin said. “Fix it for good, I mean, not the tinkering Kate’s crew does. No offense, Kate.”

“None taken,” she said. “This bird is old. We keep fixing things, but these problems will keep mounting up. I’ve been telling Gredok for years we need a new ship.”

“Nonsense,” Gredok said. “The Touchback is perfectly serviceable.”

Quentin thought of his tour with Trevor Haney.

“New Rodina’s ship is only a few years old,” Quentin said. “And they’re Tier Two. Weird they have a bus that’s better than the reigning Galaxy Bowl champs, don’t you think?”

Gredok’s pedipalp hands toyed with a rather obnoxious jade pendant dangling from a thick rope of silver. It took Quentin a second to realize the jade pendant looked like Gredok’s face.

“I shall consider this,” the Leader said. “Perhaps it is time for the City of Ionath to forward a bond issue in order for us to acquire a new team bus.”

Quentin frowned. “You’re rich as hell. The citizens of Ionath don’t profit when we win, you do. So why don’t you just buy one?”

“You still have much to learn, Barnes,” Gredok said. “For centuries, owners of sports teams have understood a critical element of our trade — why spend our own money when taxpayer money spends just as well? And it is free. To us, anyway.”

“A new ship,” Kate said, her voice full of longing. “It would be nice.”

Gredok’s manipulations never ceased to amaze Quentin.

“You asked me up here, and I came,” Quentin said. “Now I have to get back to preparing for this week’s game against the Pirates. I’m heading down to the stadium. Do you need anything else?”

“Just one thing,” Gredok said. “You didn’t tell me about Yitzhak, or Froese’s interest in him. With regard to this Zoroastrian Guild business, is there anything else you want to tell me, Barnes?”

Quentin had just promised he wouldn’t choose anything over team, true, but Kimberlin and Procknow were team. Quentin wanted to believe they were giving up the Guild — or anti-Guild, or whatever they called it — and focusing on football.

“No. Nothing else.”

“Then you may go,” Gredok said.

Quentin left the bridge. Gredok’s question stuck with him, though, made familiar concerns bounce around in Quentin’s thoughts.

Was Kimberlin really done? And even if he wasn’t, didn’t he need to pay the price for his previous involvement? And the big one: was Quentin finding a way to give Kimberlin a pass simply because the man was critical to the offensive line?

“The Pirates are five and two,” he said to himself as he headed for the lift. “You need to focus on that. You’re not a gangster, and you’re not a cop — you’re a football player.”

Saying that made him feel a little better. Yes, he was a football player, and Michael Kimberlin was his teammate.

Things would work out. Quentin knew they would.

From Galaxy Sports Magazine

EXCLUSIVE:
CULT OF PERSONALITY
BECOMES “CULTS”

MAJOR SPLIT IN
CHURCH OF
QUENTIN BARNES
by YOLANDA DAVENPORT

IN THE GALACTIC FOOTBALL LEAGUE’S twenty-eight seasons, it’s safe to say that the organization has consistently produced larger-than-life personalities. None of those personalities has generated quite the exposure and interest as Quentin Barnes, quarterback of the Ionath Krakens. He’s not the first player with a church named after him, nor the first with millions of followers who look upon him as a demigod — but he is the first to see that following grow so large it fractures under its own weight.

The Church of Quentin Barnes recently suffered a schism, or a splitting into multiple factions. Three factions, to be precise. This reporter has learned that Richfield, the High Priestess of the Church of Quentin Barnes and a former teammate of his, will announce that split tomorrow.

“Her Holiness Richfield will make the official announcement tomorrow,” said a CoQB representative, who requested to remain anonymous for reasons of personal safety. “This is a sad day. The differences in the factions are stark, bordering on violent. There is no way these divisions can be repaired. Richfield is a hero for taking the peaceful way out.”

As of now, the Church of Quentin Barnes has an estimated membership of 70 million. When the split occurs, some 25 million of those sentients will form the Orthodox Barnesian Separatists, and another 18 million will become the Reformed House of Quentinism.

“I will state categorically that I have nothing to do with these organizations.”

QUENTIN BARNES

This instantly diminishes the power of the original CoQB, obviously, taking it from the largest sports-based Sklorno ministry to simply a mid-sized church.

As of tomorrow, the two new churches will be officially recognized by the Creterakian Ministry of Religion.

This reporter asked Quentin Barnes for a reaction to the story and learned that he has been aware of this growing schism for quite some time.

“I will state categorically that I have nothing to do with these organizations,” Barnes said. “However, internal disagreements threatened to cause significant bloodshed. Secret meetings facilitated through Commissioner Rob Froese ensured that representatives of the three sects could meet with me. Together, we were able to avoid bloodshed. The three divisions will go their separate ways. I’m not a part of it, but I have made it clear that I will not endorse violence of any kind.”

Richfield will remain as High Priestess of the CoQB. The Orthodox Barnesian Separatists, or the BoS, will be led by the “Grand Pope,” a position filled by Hoyt Bogard, a Human. The Reformed House of Quentinism’s top position will be called “Quetzalcoatl,” held by Who-Love-Q, a Ki.

“THANK YOU, QUENTIN.”

“Thank you, Kelp Bringer,” Quentin said. “I’m sure I’ll see you again at the press conference after the Pirates game.”

The Leekee walked away from the conference room’s table. One of his symbiotes fell off, then scrambled across the carpet and jumped on his back before he walked out the door. Those spindly things were so gross.

Quentin took in a slow breath, calmed himself; he knew who was up next.

Messal entered the room. “Your next interviewer is ready, Elder Barnes.”

“Good, good, and ... the uh, other reporters, they’re waiting outside, too?”

“They are, Elder Barnes.”

“And they’ll be able to see him enter?”

“As you requested, Elder Barnes,” Messal said. “If I may be so bold, it is most unusual to see you this concerned about a reporter. I know that you are not on best terms with Gredok, but if there is a problem, he has certain resources that could be of assistance.”

Quentin was so freaked out, he actually gave that a moment’s thought: Gredok’s thugs might prove helpful. But if they were in the room, they would know, and that would end Quentin’s chance to put this behind him. That was the same reason he hadn’t brought Choto, John or Ju.

He had to do this on his own.

“Thank you, Messal, but I’m fine.”

The Worker bowed. He walked out; seconds later, Jonathan Sandoval walked in. The tall reporter sat at the table across from Quentin.

Sandoval did not look happy.

“You set up this private interview crap just to talk to me,” he said.

Quentin nodded once. “Yeah, and all those famous reporters saw you come in, didn’t they?”

Sandoval leaned forward, elbows on the table. Quentin couldn’t stop himself from leaning back in his chair, keeping as much distance as he could without standing and running.

“You better have my money,” the reporter said. “It’s been a month, Barnes. You get paid every week, I get paid every week, remember?”

“Don’t bother,” Quentin said. “I know you saw Yolanda’s story. It’s over. I’m not paying you anything.”

Sandoval tried to look confident, like he had everything figured out, but Quentin could see a hint of doubt in the man’s eyes.

“You think you’re out of danger,” Sandoval said. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

Quentin smiled. “Smart? I don’t know, but I sure ain’t dumb. At least not as dumb as you seem to think football players are.”

“This isn’t over.”

“Yeah, it is,” Quentin said. “The CMR recognizes three churches dedicated to me — not just one. Religious divisions happen all the time. The three sects have separate accounting and separate facilities. They’re even located in separate regions of space. Not one of the three churches is big enough to be of concern to the CMR.”

Sandoval leaned back in his chair and tried to look cool, like that news didn’t bother him.

“The CMR will see through it, eventually,” he said. “I know your travel schedule inside and out. You didn’t have any secret meetings like Yolanda reported in that story. If you don’t pay me, I’ll tell CMR that those meetings never happened. Then the bats will know this schism is a load of crap.”

“But the meetings did happen. Rob Froese brought Richfield and the others to a pair of them, about ten days apart, that took place aboard the Touchback. You can research the flight plans of the Regulator if you like. So if you tell the CMR that those meetings didn’t happen, who do you think they’ll believe? You, or the commissioner of the GFL?”

Sandoval stared through narrowed eyes. His payday had just vanished.

“I’d like to rip that smile off your face, Barnes.”

Quentin pointed to the wall. “Those reporters saw you come in. Messal logged the time of this meeting. You kill me, you’ll answer for it.”

“Maybe I’ll just break that left arm of yours.”

“Maybe,” Quentin said. “But then what? What do you think will happen to you if you do anything to me? The bats will be after you. And something tells me those mods you have mean they can track you no problem. So you get a moment’s satisfaction, then you’re going to prison, or to a coffin.”

Quentin watched the man. Were their positions reversed, Quentin probably would have been wondering, How bad can prison really be?

Sandoval would do the smart thing, though. Quentin was sure of it. Almost sure.

The reporter held the stare for almost a full minute. Quentin didn’t flinch. Finally, Sandoval groaned and looked at the ceiling. He’d known it was over before he’d entered the room, had just been trying to bluff his way to one last payday.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “The CMR wasn’t happy that I somehow missed this whole split coming. So guess what, Barnes? Not only is my power over you gone, I’m out of a job.”

“Both jobs?”

“Nah, I get to keep being a reporter,” Sandoval said. “The CMR is keeping their word on that, near as I can tell. But they no longer have faith in my ability to track a religion. I don’t get to do that anymore, which means the mods are coming out.”

“Bummer,” Quentin said. “Will that be painful?”

Sandoval glared. “More painful than having them put in, I’m told, and that part didn’t exactly tickle. This is your fault.”

Quentin held up both hands, palms out. “I didn’t make you go under the knife for this, and I didn’t make you try to blackmail me.”

“That’s the funny part,” Sandoval said. “If I’d just taken the CMR’s money and told them what was what, told them the real numbers, you’d be dead and I wouldn’t have to go through this. Maybe they would have kept me around for the next hotshot quarterback that drove the Sklorno crazy.”

The man’s greed had inadvertently saved Quentin’s life; but Quentin wasn’t about to give him a cookie for it.

“When do the mods come out?”

“After the Galaxy Bowl,” Sandoval said. “They promised I could keep being a reporter no matter what. Mod removal and recovery will have me totally laid up for a full month. As soon as the Galaxy Bowl is over, all these goodies go bye-bye.”

That was the best news Quentin had heard all day.

The conference room door opened. Messal walked in.

“I am afraid your scheduled time is up, Mister Sandoval,” the Worker said. “Elder Barnes’ next appointment is ready.”

Sandoval stood. He offered his hand. Quentin looked at it for moment, thought of the powerful machinery inside.

“No thanks,” Quentin said.

The reporter smiled. “So smart. Maybe you’ll find out that I’m smart, too. Later, Barnes.”

The tall man left.

Quentin wanted to collapse on the floor and go to sleep — he’d done it.

“Elder Barnes, are you unwell?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Fine. Send in the next one. Oh, and do me a favor?”

“Of course,” Messal said. “Anything in my power.”

Quentin looked at the closed door.

“Make sure Jonathan Sandoval never gets anywhere near me again. The only way I want to see him is at a post-game press conference with at least a foot of crysteel between us. Can you take care of that?”

“Of course, Elder Barnes. I will make sure that Mister Sandoval doesn’t bother you again.”

Quentin eased back into his chair. He had more problems than he could count, but at least one of those problems was gone — and that felt damn good.

For now, with Sandoval no longer a threat, he could focus on the task at hand — the To Pirates and keeping the Krakens undefeated.

• • •

DENSE CLOUDS BLOCKED the afternoon sun. A hurricane-force storm raged rain down on the Ionath City dome. Far below that dome, the Ionath Stadium fans sat in perfect comfort. The afternoon was so dark that the stadium lights had been turned on, bathing the blue field in an artificial glow, making the battle against the visiting To Pirates feel like a night game.

Ionath 28, To 21, 3:48 to play in the third quarter, Krakens’ ball on To’s 45.

Quentin dropped back five steps and planted. He sensed, more than saw, the defensive linemen attacking; he let his instincts tell him how much time he had while he kept his attention focused downfield. Before the snap, he’d seen a flash of color in the eye of linebacker Izic the Weird, a flash that told Quentin that the Warrior might come on a delayed blitz.

One beat...

Izic dropped into coverage, staying three yards behind the line of scrimmage, ready to defend against a crossing pattern or help on an inside slant.

Two beats ...

The Warrior planted his big feet, leaned forward and blitzed, accelerating toward Quentin. Stadium lights lit up his blue-stained white jersey, lit up the black-fanged red Ki skull-and-crossbones logo across the chest, lit up his blood-red leg armor and the white-trimmed black Ki skulls on his thighs. Behind the facemask of that blood-red helmet with the single white-lined black stripe down the middle, a baseball-sized eye narrowed with hate and hunger.

Quentin stood firm. He saw Crazy George break off his route: Crazy George had seen Izic’s blitz and was moving to the area Izic would have been guarding.

Izic slipped between Kimberlin and Bud-O, each of whom were losing ground against attacking Pirate defensive tackles. Izic closed to five yards from Quentin, to four ...

Quentin stood his ground.

The Warrior closed to three, to two, leaned forward to drive all his mass and force into Quentin’s chest — then got blind-sided by Becca the Wrecka. Quentin barely had to move his feet as Izic tumbled by.

George broke into the open. Quentin gunned a pass so hard he heard the air inside the ball ping when it hit George’s hands, but George held on, because that was what George did. The big tight end tucked the ball and turned upfield. He made it to the 32-yard line before linebacker Bob Merrill grabbed him from behind, slowing him enough for Ciudad Juarez to land a hard head-to-head hit.

Whistles blew; the zebe signaled a first down.

Quentin called his team to huddle up, then heard more whistles to his left: Izic the Weird was still on the ground, rolling slightly. To’s team doctor flew onto the field. Quentin jogged over to the fallen player, as did To defensive end Johnny Mushet.

“Odin’s Beard,” Mushet said. “You see that hit?”

“Sort of,” Quentin said.

Mushet shook his helmeted head. “Never seen a fullback move like that before. Montagne is a beast”

Izic sat up, weak and wobbly. The Warrior raised a middle hand out to Mushet, who grabbed it and pulled the Warrior to his feet. Izic stumbled toward the sidelines under his own power.

Quentin strode to his huddle. Becca stood in the middle of the second row, right behind Bud-O-Shwek. There was a gouge on the left side of her helmet, cutting through two of the three Kraken tentacles there. The right shoulder of her black jersey had been torn open, letting the white-lined orange numbers there hang askew. Blue Iomatt stains lined her forearm and leg armor.

Quentin hadn’t worried about the blitz, because he’d known Becca would be there to protect him. He’d taken a couple of hits that afternoon, but nothing serious. Even Ciudad Juarez herself had blitzed twice: both times, Becca had kept the lethal strong safety at bay. With Becca once again at fullback, things felt good, things felt normal.

Unlike the debacle at D’Oni, Quentin had plenty of time to throw. That — combined with the absence of Pirates outside linebacker Richard Damge, still suspended from his lethal late hit in Week 7 — made it impossible for the Pirates to stop the Krakens’ offensive assault. Ionath had marched up and down the field all afternoon.

Quentin leaned into the huddle.

“All right, Krakens, let’s put this one to bed. I-formation, wide-set, off-tackle right fullback lead. On three, on three ... ready?”

“Break!”

GFL WEEK NINE ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Wabash Wolfpack

35

Alimum Armada

10

Buddha City Elite

14

Orbiting Death

21

D’Oni Coelacanths

10

Bartel Water Bugs

17

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

14

Isis Ice Storm

17

Ionath Krakens

42

To Pirates

24

Vik Vanguard

33

Themala Dreadnaughts

7

Bord Brigands

9

Yall Criminals

48

D’Kow War Dogs

15

Texas Earthlings

17

McMurdo Murderers

14

Jang Atom Smashers

10

Shorah Warlords

10

Jupiter Jacks

12

Sheb Stalkers

28

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

24

Both OS1 (8-0) and Ionath (8-0) won their Week 9 tilts, setting up a monumental regular-season clash to determine first place in the Planet Division and possibly seal home-field advantage for the divisional playoffs. The winner of that game will lock up a playoff berth.

Ionath’s high-energy offense burned To (5-3) by a score of 42-24. Quentin Barnes threw four touchdown passes, all to different receivers. Ju Tweedy rushed for a season-high 143 yards, adding two touchdowns of his own.

“We’ve got our house in order,” Tweedy said. “The Pirates have a good D, but we have a better offense.”

This was the Pirates’ second straight loss, dropping them into a tie for fourth place with Wabash (5-3).

OS1 stayed undefeated with a 21-14 dogfight against Buddha City (4-4). The back-and-forth affair saw five ties or lead changes as the squads traded touchdowns. Death QB Condor Adrienne put up the winning score in the fourth quarter on a 35-yard TD strike to receiver Brazilia.

Yall (6-2) took over third place in the Planet, courtesy of a 48-9 drubbing of Bord (3-5). The Criminals have won four straight, averaging 37 points a game during that span. Yall has not given up a touchdown in their last two games.

“Defense is on top, and offense can’t be stopped,” said Criminals defensive tackle Anthony Meaders. “We’ll make it to the playoffs, and then, look out.”

In the Solar Division, Vik (7-1) posted a 33-7 margin on Themala (3-5) to stay in first place. Bartel (6-2) got their winning ways back against winless D’Oni (0-8), handing the Coelacanths a narrow 17-10 defeat. Jupiter (6-2) edged past Shorah (3-5) by a score of 12-10.

Texas kicker Gregg Anderson kept the Earthlings (5-3) firmly in fourth place in the Solar. His last-second field goal lifted Texas 17-16 over D’Kow (3-5).

Relegation Watch

McMurdo (1-7) actually has a glimmer of hope to stay in Tier One, thanks to their 14-10 upset over Jang (2-6). This was the first-ever Tier One win for the Murderers franchise. With four games remaining in the season, McMurdo has the head-to-head tiebreaker should the squad finish with the same record as the Atom Smashers.

Deaths

McMurdo defensive tackle Buh-Ga-Mon, who suffered a broken spinal column in a fumble-recovery pile-up against Jang. No Atom Smasher player will get credit for the kill. GFL Commissioner Rob Froese has already ruled the death legal and incidental.

Offensive Player of the Week

Ionath quarterback Quentin Barnes, who threw for 384 yards and four touchdowns against To.

Defensive Player of the Week

Sheb cornerback Fairmont, who had three interceptions against Neptune (4-4). Fairmont’s final interception of Scarlet Fliers quarterback Adam Gurri came late in the fourth quarter, sealing the win for Sheb (3-5).

43

Week Ten:
Ionath Krakens
at OS1 Orbiting Death

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

8-0

Ionath Krakens

7-1

Vik Vanguard

8-0

OS1 Orbiting Death

6-2

Bartel Water Bugs

6-2

Yall Criminals

6-2

Jupiter Jacks

5-3

To Pirates

5-3

Texas Earthlings

5-3

Wabash Wolfpack

4-4

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

4-4

Buddha City Elite

3-5

Bord Brigands

4-4

Isis Ice Storm

3-5

D’Kow War Dogs

3-5

Themala Dreadnaughts

3-5

Sheb Stalkers

2-6

Alimum Armada

3-5

Shorah Warlords

0-8

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

2-6

Jang Atom Smashers

0-8

D’Oni Coelacanths

1-7

McMurdo Murderers

SOME AWAY GAMES REQUIRED DAYS of travel. Sometimes, the round trip took more than a week. Other times, the Touchback couldn’t return home at all; it had to travel from one game straight to the next, more a troop ship carrying warriors from front to front than a team bus taking players to a stadium.

Some away games, true — but not this one.

It took only half a day to travel from Ionath to OS1.

The Krakens departed Thursday afternoon. They would practice on the Touchback, arrive at OS1 later that night, practice Friday and Saturday at the Black Hole, then gear up for Sunday’s clash.

Quentin stood on the Touchback’s 50-yard line, feet dead center in the Krakens logo. His teammates surrounded him, a ring of sentients waiting for him to begin. Ki, Quyth Warrior, Human, HeavyG, Prawatt, Sklorno, all wearing their orange away jerseys but no pads.

Quentin wasn’t much for talking, because talk didn’t mean a thing; in a brawl, words don’t make you bleed. This, however, was different, and some words needed to be spoken.

“We’re undefeated,” he said. “So is OS1.”

He didn’t need to shout to be heard. There were no spectators here, just sentients who would soon do battle on the Orbiting Death’s black field.

He turned in place, slowly, staring at each of them. Bumberpuff and Michnik, Halawa and Bud-O-Shwek, Arioch Morningstar and Rich Palmer, all of whom had a role to play.

“Everyone wants a piece of us, but we know that the Orbiting Death is our main rival,” he said. “We’re undefeated. So is OS1.”

He locked eyes with Yotaro Kobayasho and Vu-Ko-Will, with Cheboygan and Tara the Freak and Jay Martinez. He stared hard at a single eyespot on Luciano Cretzlefinger.

“We’re undefeated ... so are they. The winner of this game is in the playoffs. We win this game, this one game, and we punch our ticket to defend the title.”

Nancy Wolf and Shun-On-Won stared back at him, as did Pishor the Fang and Denver, Cormorant Bumberpuff and John Tweedy.

Quentin raised his left hand. He extended his pointer and middle fingers.

“Two-time Galaxy Bowl winners,” he said quietly, so quietly some of his teammates leaned in to make sure they caught his every syllable. “That’s what this squad can be. We’re undefeated, and so are they, but you know what they’re not?”

Wahiawa and Choto the Bright inched closer, as did Becca Montagne and Zer-Eh-Detak, Samuel Darkeye and Katzembaum Weasley.

“They aren’t the champs,” Quentin said. He lowered his hand. “We are. Sunday, they’re going to learn why. That field we’ll play on is black, not blue, but it doesn’t matter because as soon as we set foot on it, we own it. Let’s have a good practice, and every minute of it remember what our jobs are come Sunday. Be excellent as individuals, and we’ll be unstoppable as a team. Let’s get to it.”

The players jogged to their respective spots to begin practice. There wasn’t much hooting and hollering, other than the Sklorno’s constant excited squealing. The Krakens knew what had to be done.

He and his teammates got to work.

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

DAN: Hello, sports fans. This is your beloved Dan Gianni, and welcome to another edition of your favorite sports-news program, the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show. With me, as always, are Akbar and Tarat the Smasher.

AKBAR: Thanks, Dan.

TARAT: Happy to be here, Dan.

DAN: We’re coming to you live from the Black Hole. We’re here for what promises to be an amazing night — the undefeated Ionath Krakens going up against the undefeated OS1 Orbiting Death. We’ve never seen two undefeated teams going at it this late in the regular season.

AKBAR: It’s shaping up to be a great one, Dan. It’s a battle of two quarterbacks at the top of their game.

TARAT: The Death’s Condor Adrienne is having an excellent season. He has looked flawless through most of the year. He’s on pace to break Rick Renaud’s record for touchdown passes, yards per game and total yards for the season, but Barnes is also threatening those records.

DAN: Barnes is just a smidgen behind Adrienne in those three categories, Smasher. It’s funny — either one of these two could post the best regular season in the league’s history, and the other one could post the second-best regular season. It just depends on how they play their last four games. The key to winning the game for either team is to stop the quarterbacks. Akbar, how do the Krakens stop Condor Adrienne?

AKBAR: You can’t stop him, Dan, you can only hope to contain him. He and Barnes have been rivals since their Tier Two days in the Quyth Irradiated. Adrienne wants this game, bad. I think he’s going to be launching deep balls, so the Krakens have to make sure their Prawatt DBs keep a proper cushion.

TARAT: Akbar, if you give the Death receivers too much cushion, Adrienne will kill the Krakens with short passes underneath. The Krakens defensive backs have to play press coverage — hit the Death receivers as soon as they come off the line, keep them from running a clean route.

DAN: But Tarat, you know the Death receivers are going to break free eventually. Won’t press coverage let them get open down the field?

TARAT: Yes, Dan, that is a gamble the Krakens defense must take. If they play press coverage and don’t give up the short pass, Adrienne will have to stay in the pocket a little longer. If he does that, it is up to Ionath’s Mum-O-Killowe and Alexsandar Michnik to get to Adrienne before those receivers can break free down the field. I like the Krakens, Dan, but I think that if they don’t sack Condor at least four or five times, the Death will win.

DAN: And by sack, you mean tear his head off?

TARAT: I said no such thing.

AKBAR: That’s a non-denial denial, Tarat.

TARAT: Sometimes, Akbar, you confuse me.

DAN: Okay, so, the Krakens have to get to Adrienne often to win. What about the key to beating Barnes? He’s so damn mobile. He’s the league’s fourth-leading rusher, he’s second in touchdown passes, and he’s been sacked fewer times than any quarterback in the league this season. His offensive line is playing flawless football, and he’s got the best receiver corps in the game. How does the Orbiting Death beat that?

TARAT: Barnes is a perfect quarterback, Dan. I think the Death have two options. The first is to win what you Humans call a shootout. Many touchdowns will be scored this day, but I think Adrienne will score more. In a high-scoring affair, if the Death keeps Condor from getting knocked out of the game, I think they win.

AKBAR: And the second option?

TARAT: The Death have never been bashful about using Yalla the Biter in a less-than-honorable fashion. If I were the coach of OS1, I would consider using the most lethal player in league history to take Barnes out of the game by any means necessary.

DAN: Smasher! Are you saying the Death should have Yalla cheapshot Barnes?

TARAT: I said no such thing, Dan. I said I would consider it if I were the coach, but I am not the coach.

AKBAR: Thankfully.

TARAT: Did you say something, Akbar?

AKBAR: Who, me? Quiet as a Church of Quentin Barnes mouse here. You didn’t hear a word out of me, Tarat. Honest.

TARAT: That is what I thought.

DAN: We know both of these teams are a lock for the playoffs, so they might see each other again in four or five weeks. We’ll take a quick break for our sponsor, Junkie Gin, and when we come back, we’ll go through the position-by-position match-ups. Stay tuned!

THE KRAKENS WAITED IN A TUNNEL carved out of gleaming blue crystal. Ju stood at the tunnel’s mouth, Quentin on his left, John on his right, the rest of the team packed in behind them.

Two seasons ago, the Krakens had been in this same spot, listening to the OS1 crowd chant wel-come home, mur-der-er, over and over again. Three seasons ago, Ju had been the Orbiting Death’s star player, until he’d been framed for the murder of Grace McDermot. Been framed by Anna Villani, owner of the Orbiting Death.

The announcer droned on about safety in the stands, about how violence would not be tolerated, but no one was listening — especially not Ju.

Quentin had said his piece a few days ago, and his message had taken root. The Krakens were focused, confident and ready to go to work. In the tunnel, Quentin didn’t say anything at all, because today it was someone else’s moment to lead.

Ju Tweedy turned and looked at his teammates. His face revealed the fires of hatred burning within his soul. Playing OS1, playing here, it was personal. And if it was personal to him, it was personal to every Kraken about to set foot on that black field.

“We heard Q talk about how we’re undefeated, and so are they,” Ju said. “We heard Q talk about how the winner is in the playoffs.”

Heads nodded, arms clacked, Sklorno chirped and jumped.

“That’s all good and fine, but I don’t give a damn about any of that right now,” Ju said. His nostrils flared. His lips pulled back from his teeth. He slammed his left fist against his chest armor.

“What I care about is they disrespected us. Chant crap at me? At me? No, they were chanting at us.”

John tore his helmet off his head. “You tell them, baby brother! Tell ’em!”

“I want the ball,” Ju said. “When I’m running it, everyone blocks like the whole galaxy is about to go supernova!”

The Krakens roared approval. Quentin wasn’t sure why someone would run with a football if the galaxy was going supernova, but the sound of Ju’s voice was more important than the meaning of his words.

“And when we’re on defense,” Ju said, “kick the living hell out of them so I get the ball again. Tonight, the Black Hole is our house.”

“Our house!” the Krakens screamed in unison, Quentin right along with them. The Death were not ready for this. They simply were not.

Heads turned to the mouth of the tunnel as the announcer called out the magic words.

“Introducing your visiting team, the Iooooonaaaaath ... KRAAAAAA-kens!”

QUENTIN SPRINTED across the black field, running to his left while looking downfield for a target. His steps were perfect, his legs fresh and ready, and he saw everything — including Yalla the Biter.

Five yards ahead, the black-jerseyed Quyth Warrior rolled to his right, staying in front of Quentin so the quarterback couldn’t cut upfield and run. Beyond Yalla, Quentin saw Denver blanketed by Death cornerback Karachi — the receiver needed more time to get open.

Quentin took one step forward, toward the line of scrimmage. Yalla popped out of his rolling tuck and rushed in, metalflake-red helmet sparkling, flat-black-armored legs pumping, flat-black-armored middle arms spread wide to cut off any escape, pedipalp arms reaching forward, baseball-sized eye flooded solid black.

This was the moment Quentin had been waiting for: the chance to be the hammer instead of the nail.

Yalla crossed the line of scrimmage, came in fast. Quentin pump-faked: Yalla sprang up, arms spread, ready to block the pass that didn’t come. Most importantly, Yalla left his feet — as soon as he did, Quentin tucked the ball and launched his body forward, putting every ounce of his 380 pounds behind it.

His shoulder drove into Yalla’s chest. Quentin heard the crack of armor so loud and so close it was a gunshot in his ear. Yalla’s legs flew out from under him as his upper body spun backward, slamming his helmeted head against the black turf so hard it bounced.

Quentin ran left, toward the sidelines. He felt pressure from behind, but that pressure would arrive too late because Denver was pulling away from Karachi. Still running, Quentin launched a tight, high-arcing spiral. The ball seemed a precision instrument riding a perfect, wobble-free parabola. Past it, Quentin saw the stadium stands of blue crystal packed in tight with the black-clad Orbiting Death faithful. Then, the ball apexed, tilted, angled down toward the exact point Quentin had targeted: three yards past the end zone’s back-left corner.

Karachi jumped, a perfect explosion of strength, grace and athleticism. Metalflake-red helmet, flat-black jersey and armor, her number 23 blazing in blue-trimmed metalflake-red, tentacles reaching up and up and up. She was a living piece of art soaring into the afternoon sky, and she was just a bit too late; the ball cleared her tentacle tips by less than an inch.

Denver’s four black-armored eyestalks looked back even as she dove forward, her feet sliding on the block “D” of the white DEATH painted across the end zone, her tentacles stretching out and cradling the ball just before it hit the ground.

Ball firmly in her grasp, her feet slid across the top of the D, then out of the end zone before she crashed to the ground.

The black-and-white striped Harrah zebe was right there, matching Denver’s blazing streak down the sidelines. The ref leaned back, wings undulating so fast in reverse they were nothing but a vibrating blur. The Harrah slowed fast, stopped, hovered, then raised his mouth flaps into the air.

An 86-yard strike.

Ionath 30, OS1 10, with just under five minutes to play in the game.

Not only had Quentin knocked the living snot out of the game’s deadliest player, he’d thrown the ball in the one place the defender couldn’t get it, knowing his receiver and trusting her to make a spectacular catch. That play and that pass would be on highlight reels for decades to come.

Damn ... sometimes I amaze even myself.

Put it in the books, baby, this one was over. The Death defense hadn’t been able to stop Quentin, while John, Mum-O, Virak, Bumberpuff and the other Krakens defenders had shut down the much-hyped attack of rookie Danté Diener and veteran Condor Adrienne. Tonight, at least, there was no question as to which team had the better quarterback.

Quentin smiled. He knelt to one knee, plucked a few blades of black grass from the field, held them to his nose and sniffed.

Later, he’d wonder if he heard a step or two before the truck ran him over. He had a moment of consciousness to think, smells like chocolate, and then his thoughts were as black as the field beneath him.

GFL WEEK TEN ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Alimum Armada

30

Themala Dreadnaughts

17

To Pirates

16

Buddha City Elite

17

D’Oni Coelacanths

14

Yall Criminals

24

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

21

Shorah Warlords

17

Orbiting Death

10

Ionath Krakens

31

Isis Ice Storm

21

Wabash Wolfpack

20

Bartel Water Bugs

35

Texas Earthlings

14

Sheb Stalkers

17

Bord Brigands

14

McMurdo Murderers

35

D’Kow War Dogs

37

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

24

Jang Atom Smashers

7

Vik Vanguard

7

Jupiter Jacks

10

That’s the nature of the GFL: in just one week, everything can change.

Vik came into this week in first place in the Solar, with Bartel and Jupiter both just one game behind. A Bartel win along with Jupiter’s 10-7 defeat of Vik leaves all three teams at 7-2 and in a complex tie for first. The head-to-head tiebreakers among the three are meaningless, as earlier this season Bartel beat Jupiter and Vik beat Bartel.

Texas (5-4) and Neptune (5-4) are tied for the fourth and final Solar Division playoff spot.

The Water Bugs hung a 35-14 drubbing on the Earthlings. Bugs QB Andre “Death Ray” Ridley threw poorly, going 10-for-31, but rushed for 56 yards and three scores.

Jupiter’s single touchdown was enough to beat Vik. It came from a rare source: a rushing TD from veteran quarterback Don Pine, who scored from two yards out on a naked boot. Pine went in untouched, as the Vanguard defense had keyed in on running back CJ Wellman. It was Pine’s first rushing touchdown in six seasons.

“These old wheels still have power,” Pine joked after the game. “Someone tell (Ionath quarterback Quentin) Barnes and (Bartel quarterback Andre) Ridley I challenge them to a forty-yard dash. I’m not just twice as old as they are, I’m obviously twice as fast.”

Barnes’s performance against the Orbiting Death (8-1) might cast some doubt on Pine’s claim. In addition to throwing for 312 yards and two TDs, the Ionath signal-caller rushed for 113 yards. The 31-10 Ionath victory sealed up a playoff berth and at least one home playoff game for the Krakens (9-0).

The contest was expected to be close, but Ionath got off to an early 14-0 lead and never trailed. Krakens running back Ju Tweedy put in a banner day, racking up 134 yards and two touchdowns on 25 carries.

Ionath is the only undefeated team remaining in Tier One.

While the win is good news for the Krakens, it may have come at a cost. The status of Barnes remains in question after the Krakens slinger was carted off the field following a late hit from OS1 linebacker Yalla the Biter. Barnes was hit from behind following an 86-yard touchdown pass to Denver. Reports were he regained consciousness in the locker room, but there is no word if the hit will impact his ability to play against Buddha City next week. Barnes has a history of concussions and will need to be cleared by league doctors before being allowed on the field.

The blatant late hit drew sharp criticism from GFL Commissioner Rob Froese.

“The game is dangerous enough without thug tactics like that,” Froese said. “I’m suspending Yalla for two games, at least, and then basing the punishment on Barnes’s recovery. If Barnes is out for the season, so is Yalla. If Barnes’s career is over, so is Yalla’s.”

Death owner Anna Villani is already appealing the suspension.

“This isn’t touch football,” she said. “I pay my players to be aggressive.”

Krakens backup quarterback Trevor Haney finished the game, throwing only two passes, completing one for 7 yards. If Barnes cannot play on Sunday, it is unknown if Haney will get the Week 11 start against the Buddha City Elite or if coach Hokor the Hookchest will once again move All-Pro fullback Rebecca Montagne to quarterback.

The Yall Criminals’ hot streak continued with a 24-14 win over D’Oni (0-9). Yall (7-2) has sole possession of third place in the Planet.

Fourth place in the Planet is now a four-way tie between Wabash, To, Buddha City and Isis, all with identical 5-4 records. Isis defensive end Ryan Nossek blocked a last-second field goal attempt by Wabash to give the Ice Storm a 21 - 10 win and rekindle the team’s playoff hopes.

“Our destiny is now in our hands,” Nossek said. “If we win our last three games, we’re in the playoffs.”

Relegation Watch

In the Planet, Coranadillana (1-8) edged off the bottom with a 21-17 upset over Shorah (3-6), all but eliminating the Warlords from playoff contention.

With three games remaining in the season, the Cloud Killers are now one game up on winless D’Oni. The two teams will meet in Week 13.

McMurdo (1-8) had a season-high offensive output with five touchdowns, but still fell 37-35 to D’Kow (4-5). The Murderers remain in last place in the Solar Division, one game behind Jang (2-7). Should the teams finish with the same record, McMurdo has the head-to-head tiebreaker over Jang.

Deaths

No deaths reported this week.

Offensive Player of the Week

Ionath receiver Denver, who caught touchdown passes of 86 and 54 yards in a Game of the Week matchup against OS1. Denver finished with five catches for 232 yards.

Defensive Player of the Week

Wabash safety Mississauga, who had two interceptions and six tackles in a 21-20 loss to the Isis Ice Storm.

44

Week Eleven:
Buddha City Elite at
Ionath Krakens

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

9-0

x. Ionath Krakens

7-2

Bartel Water Bugs

8-1

OS1 Orbiting Death

7-2

Jupiter Jacks

7-2

Yall Criminals

7-2

Vik Vanguard

5-4

To Pirates

5-4

Texas Earthlings

5-4

Wabash Wolfpack

5-4

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

5-4

Buddha City Elite

4-5

D’Kow War Dogs

5-4

Isis Ice Storm

4-5

Sheb Stalkers

3-6

Themala Dreadnaughts

3-6

Bord Brigands

3-6

Alimum Armada

3-6

Shorah Warlords

1-8

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

2-7

Jang Atom Smashers

0-9

D’Oni Coelacanths

1-8

McMurdo Murderers

x = playoffs, y = division title, * = team has been relegated

“I WILL NOT CLEAR HIM TO PLAY.”

The cultured voice of a Harrah doctor. This time, a female.

Quentin tried to stay focused, to concentrate through the dull mud that made it hurt to even blink. All the self-control skills he’d picked up over the years, he needed them now — both to pretend he wasn’t hurting at all, and to stop himself from grabbing the GFL doctor by her wing-flaps and snapping her little body over one knee.

He and his teammates had returned home to Ionath two days earlier. Two days of this agony. He hadn’t taken any pain meds or accepted nerve blocks, because those things slowed reaction time and dulled thoughts. Cognitive tests were part of the concussion analysis, so he needed to be as sharp as he could — which wasn’t very sharp at all.

They were in the full medical facility below Ionath Stadium. Quentin sat on a med table, dressed in only an orange hospital gown. The anti-bac tile felt cold beneath his feet.

Doc Patah was there, of course, wearing his orange and black backpack, as always. But he wasn’t the only Harrah this time: two others accompanied him, a large gray-skinned male and a smaller female with a bluish-gray hue. They both wore white backpacks emblazoned with the GFL logo.

And with the Harrah, rarity of rarities: a Human doctor. You didn’t see those very often.

Patah, the three league docs, Gredok the Splithead and his shadow, Virak the Mean, Coach Hokor and — oddly enough — Leiba the Gorgeous. Leiba wasn’t here protecting Froese this time; Quentin assumed he was there to protect the league doctors, because they were the ones delivering bad news.

Gredok the Splithead did not like bad news.

“Absurd,” the gangster said to the female Harrah. “You will clear Barnes to play. Our own team doctor has examined him and said he is fit enough to function safely.”

Quentin glanced at Patah — glanced by moving only his eyes, rather than his whole head, although moving just the eyes still hurt plenty. Doc’s sensory pits vibrated slightly, and his cartilaginous ribs flexed a little more rapidly than was normal for his breathing. The team doctor said nothing ... probably because Gredok had ordered him first to approve Quentin to play, then to keep quiet.

Maybe Patah was a pushover, but the female Harrah was anything but.

“No, I will not approve Barnes,” she said. Her name was Ganagati, or something like that. Quentin wasn’t sure. He’d focused most of his concentration on not throwing up as opposed to remembering such details.

“Barnes is not fit to play this week,” Ganagati said. “Our tests show vascular engorgement and elevated intracranial pressure. This looks like SIS, meaning he probably had a concussion earlier in the season that Patah missed.”

“SIS,” Quentin said. “What’s that?”

“Secondary Impact Syndrome,” Ganagati said. “Meaning, you had a second concussion before the symptoms of your first healed. I assure you, Mister Barnes, this could have been much worse.”

Quentin forced a casual shrug. “You won’t let me play — how much worse can it get than that?”

“Try herniation of the brain through the foramen magnum, or an ischemic stroke,” she said. “Do you think that is worse?”

“That depends,” Quentin said.

“On what?”

“On what a magnum foreman ischemic stroke is. Is that like a hangnail?”

“I’ll simplify it for you,” Ganagati said. “It can lead to brain death. Do you want to be clever with that phrase, too?”

Brain death? His brain felt dead at that very moment, but Patah hadn’t told him things were that bad.

“No,” Quentin said. “I got it.”

“Be quiet, Barnes,” Gredok said. “Doctor Ganagati, this is completely unacceptable. If you think I can’t sue you for malpractice, for likely taking a payoff from Stedmar Osborne to keep Quentin out of this week’s game, then you are wrong.”

Leiba took one step closer to Gredok. Virak took one step closer to Leiba. Both Warriors were massive for their race, heavily muscled, chitin covered with enamels and etched with engravings. A fight between them would have been something to behold.

“Gredok,” Leiba said, “it would be best if you did not question the doctor’s motives. She has the full confidence of Commissioner Froese.”

Virak’s pedipalps twitched in derisive laughter.

“Froese,” Virak said, the single syllable heavy with disgust. “What’s the matter, Leiba? After you quit football, you couldn’t find a real shamakath? Had to go with a runt Human? Or was it that none of our kind would have you?”

Leiba’s baseball-sized eye remained clear. “Gredok, tell your servant to be quiet. His opinion is irrelevant.”

Gredok turned on Virak. “Cease talking,” the Leader said. “You speak as if I am in need of your assistance. Do not make that same mistake again.”

Virak’s cornea briefly swirled with color: dark red of surprise, some reddish-violet and dark red bordering on black. The Warrior took one step back and the cornea cleared. Quentin was shocked to feel sympathy for the Warrior — Virak had thought he’d been doing his job, protecting his Leader, and his Leader had humiliated him for it.

Gredok’s fur remained smooth, his eye clear. “Doctor Ganagati, you are certain in your decision?”

“I am,” the Harrah said. “Barnes is not allowed to participate in Week Eleven at all. No practice, no game against the Elite on Sunday.”

Quentin couldn’t believe it. He’d worked so hard to get here, to help his team go undefeated, only to be kept off the field by this? There had to be a way around her ruling. And yet, the words brain death rolled around and around in his thoughts, as if they’d been shouted into some deep canyon and kept bouncing out.

Clear eye or no, Quentin could see the anger radiating off the little Leader.

“Ridiculous,” Gredok said. “And what about Week Twelve, Doctor?

“We will return the day after the upcoming Week Eleven game for another review,” Ganagati said. “It is possible we will also keep Barnes out for Week Twelve. To be completely transparent, I would not rule out that he might be done for the season.”

The Harrah doctor’s floating body turned slightly, her sensory pits aimed at Patah. “Our time has been wasted here,” she said to him. “Any competent physician wouldn’t have cleared Barnes to play in the first place.”

Patah looked miserable. Had Gredok actually thought his team doctor could overrule the league physicians?

Gredok pointed a pedipalp hand to the exit. “Since you have made your decision, there is no need for you to be here.”

He said it as if he had any control over the situation, which, clearly, he did not. But to Gredok, control was everything.

Quentin closed his eyes: the pain finally won, overwhelmed him, blocked out everything else as if he’d been encased in a solid block of the stuff. He heard the footsteps of the Human, the Leader and the two Warriors, each step on the anti-bac tile a tiny nail driving into his brain.

The smallest whisper of fluttering wing-flaps told him one sentient had remained behind.

“The exam is over,” Doc Patah said quietly. “Now there is no reason you can’t take medication. I will leave these pills here for you. Take no more than two, then sleep. If you can.”

The tiny click of a plastic bottle on a metal table.

That wing-flap whisper again, fading out.

Quentin wasn’t sure how long he sat there, overwhelmed by the pain.

When he opened his eyes again, he was alone. He pushed himself off the table, picked up the bottle of pills, then shuffled to the door. When he stepped into the hallway, he found Becca, John and Ju waiting with a hover cart, the same kind used to take wounded players off the field.

Becca came to him, instantly. She looked at his face and didn’t need to ask how the league doctors had ruled. She laid a hand against his cheek — it felt like a miracle had just touched his skin.

“Let’s get you back to your room,” she said.

John reached out to slide his arm under Quentin’s shoulder, but Becca gracefully sidestepped and blocked John’s way.

“I got him,” she said, then smiled apologetically.

John looked at Becca, at Quentin, then nodded.

“Oh, right,” John said. “I might be a little rough.”

“Your muscles are too big,” Quentin said in a whisper. “You can’t help but jostle everything around you. Even the air.”

John smiled. CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS GUY? scrolled across his face.

“I got him,” Becca said. “I’ll holler if I need you guys, though, all right?”

John and Ju nodded.

“Chicken soup,” Ju said. “Ma will want to make chicken soup. We’ll go get some.”

They headed down the hall. Becca helped Quentin into the back of the hover cart. The cart would quickly take them through the underground tunnel from the stadium to the Krakens Building.

The cart didn’t touch the ground, and therefore had no impact, but the pounding in his head didn’t let up. It hurt so bad he couldn’t see, couldn’t even think, but he could smell Becca, he sensed her closeness. For once, it really was like the old Earth myth — he had fallen in battle, and here was his Valkyrie to carry him off to Valhalla.

“Quentin, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have been there.”

He laughed: the throbbing in his head instantly choked that laugh into a squeak of surprised pain.

“Oh, please,” he said. “Cheap shot after the whistle. You couldn’t have seen it coming.”

“I should have. Yalla has always had it out for you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Quentin said. “What matters now is I’m out, and you’re in. I’ll talk to Hokor, Becca — you’ll get the start against Buddha City.”

She slowed the cart, brought it to a stop. She turned in the driver’s seat to face him.

“Quentin, I’m a fullback,” she said. “I made up my mind. This is what I want now.”

He closed his eyes. He was so tired, so beaten down. He no longer had the strength to deal with all the drama.

“Honestly, Becca, I’ve had enough. You go where the team needs you to go, understand? If you don’t, it’s time for you to move on. Either you bleed orange and black, or you go play for someone else. You’re a better quarterback than Haney.”

Her wide eyes gleamed with both excitement and fear.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” she said. “I didn’t want anything to happen to Yitzhak. I want to play quarterback, but I never wanted it like this.”

“Doesn’t matter how you wanted it. It is what it is.”

Becca bit her lower lip. She spoke in a whisper. “Do really you think I’m ready?”

“Not even close,” Quentin said. “But get me to my room and let me pass out for a day. When I wake up, we’ll get you ready.”

She couldn’t quite hide her smile as she faced forward and gently accelerated the cart down the tunnel.

QUENTIN FOUND BECCA in Doc Patah’s training room. She sat on a table, fully armored and dressed for the game, her wrists taped tightly. Her black jersey, with its white-trimmed orange number 38 and the word KRAKENS across the chest above it, looked unsullied and flawless, like it would for a posed promotional picture or an advertisement.

It wouldn’t stay clean long.

For the first time in his career, Quentin wasn’t wearing his own jersey on game day. He wore black pants, a black button-up shirt with the Krakens logo on the left breast, and a Krakens logo ball cap — the Human version of what Hokor wore. He might wear those clothes any day of the week and feel fine, but on Sunday, they felt foreign against his skin.

The rest of the team had packed into the tunnel. John and Ju were leading them out onto the field. Becca should have been with them.

“Hey there,” Quentin said. “You know, it’s kind of hard to complete a pass if you’re throwing it from in here.”

She slid off the table, grabbed her helmet.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m going.”

She started to walk past him, but he put a hand on her shoulder pad.

“Wait a second,” he said. “Let me say something.”

She stopped walking. The look in her eyes worried him. This was not the confident go-getter he’d seen during the week of practice. She hadn’t set foot on the game-day field and was already second-guessing herself.

Whatever had gone down between them, whatever fights they’d had, whatever her motivations, none of that mattered right now. Quentin was the team leader; his teammate needed him to step up and do just that, lead.

“We’ve already clinched the playoffs,” he said. “And we’ve got the head-to-head tiebreaker with OS1. Tell me what that means.”

“It means right now we have home-field advantage in the playoffs.” Becca looked off to the side. “But there are two games after this, and if we lose tonight...”

“Then we lose,” Quentin finished for her. “We lose, and we’re still in the playoffs. That’s all you have to worry about, Becca. Our team needs this win, but this win is not life and death to the organization. Tell me you understand that.”

She took in a big breath, held it, let it out in a puffed-cheek blow.

“I get it,” she said. She nodded. “Okay, I get it.”

He could see some of her stress bleeding away.

“Good,” he said. “Still nervous?”

She laughed. “Of course. Weren’t you the first time you started an Upper Tier game?”

“I threw up,” Quentin said. “And I had to pee the whole time.”

Becca gave him a sideways glance. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“I swear it on Ma’s life. Almost whizzed myself the first time I got hit.”

She smiled — knowing the Great Quentin Barnes had been a nervous wreck seemed to give her strength.

“Becca, this is why you had Danny go to war with Gredok. This is what you’ve been training for. This is what you wanted. You won a Super Bowl in Tier Three, and no one gives you enough respect for that. Not even me.”

That comment hit home. No smile now, no sneer, just her need to know the truth.

“Do you mean that, Quentin?”

She had always been better than he’d given her credit for, better than he wanted to accept. Maybe that was his competitive nature, his need to be head and shoulders above other quarterbacks. Becca would never beat him out for the starting spot, true, but she was still damn good, and in the part of his brain Quentin didn’t want to accept, that had bothered him. The time for selfishness was gone, though — if he asked Becca to do what the team needed, he had to do the same.

“I mean it,” he said. “Becca, this league respects one thing and one thing only. Winning. Nothing else matters. If you want people to see you as a quarterback, you need to go out there and find a way to beat Buddha City. This is your shot.”

She nodded. They weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend at that moment, or ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend, or whatever it was they were. Right then, he was a Galaxy Bowl MVP quarterback, and she was the backup who had never started a Tier One game.

“Remember what we talked about in practice,” he said. “Who is their right defensive tackle?”

“Don-Wen-Sul,” Becca said instantly. “Twelve feet, six inches long, great reach, known for knocking down passes and bull-rushing off the snap.”

“And how to you keep him at bay?”

“Vary my snap-count cadence,” Becca said. “Never make it the same, prevent him from getting my timing down.”

Quentin nodded. “And stay mobile, ready to run, right?”

“Right.”

“Over the middle, who is weaker, their free safety or their safety?”

“Bolgusa, the safety,” Becca said. “Vertical leap has fallen off an estimated three inches since last year. I should go high to Halawa, use Halawa’s superior reach and size.”

It felt so strange to be on this side of the conversation. Pine had done the same to him years ago, as had Hokor, as had even Yitzhak. Quentin had been stubborn about learning this level of detail, but Becca didn’t seem to have an issue with it.

“Excellent,” he said. “And their free safety?”

“Stay away from Perth unless I absolutely have to go at her.”

Becca’s eyes were clear and focused. She waited for him to ask more questions, but he didn’t have to. He’d led her back to the information she knew, to the fact that she had prepared well and knew what needed to be done for the win.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome. Remember, you’ve got the best team in football around you, on both offense and defense. Don’t force anything. If you’re in trouble, throw the ball away or take the sack — the only thing that can beat us tonight are turnovers. Got it?”

Becca nodded.

He thumped her shoulder pad. “You want respect? Then take it, it’s yours.”

She pulled on her helmet and jogged out of the training room.

Becca “The Wrecka” Montagne was ready.

GFL WEEK ELEVEN ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Sheb Stalkers

38

Alimum Armada

14

Ionath Krakens

14

Buddha City Elite

13

D’Oni Coelacanths

14

Themala Dreadnaughts

16

To Pirates

28

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

3

Isis Ice Storm

14

Yall Criminals

27

Wabash Wolfpack

21

Orbiting Death

24

Bartel Water Bugs

27

Shorah Warlords

21

Jang Atom Smashers

14

Bord Brigands

28

D’Kow War Dogs

14

Jupiter Jacks

17

Texas Earthlings

21

McMurdo Murderers

10

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

7

Vik Vanguard

28

Last week, only one team had locked up a playoff berth: this week, change that number to six.

Ionath (10-0) remains undefeated and in first place in the Planet, barely holding on for a 14-13 win over Buddha City (5-5). The Krakens won the game when Arioch Morningstar kicked a 35-yard field goal as time expired, set up by a 27-yard pass from Becca “The Wrecka” Montagne to tight end George Starcher. Montagne started in place of injured starter Quentin Barnes. Montagne played quarterback for the Tier Three Green Bay Packers on Earth in the Planetary Union, but this was her first-ever start behind center in Tier One.

“It was amazing,” Montagne said after the game. “With Barnes out, we needed a team effort, and we got one. I’m so proud to be a Kraken.”

While Montagne played well enough for the win, Ionath is hoping for Barnes to return next week. Montagne functioned as a game manager, throwing just 15 times for 11 completions and 112 passing yards with one touchdown. She was intercepted twice, both times by Elite free safety Perth. Despite scrambling seven times for positive yardage, including a critical 10-yard run on a fourth-and-seven that kept the game-winning drive alive, she was sacked six times, the most the Krakens have given up all season. Ionath racked up 255 yards rushing, with Ju Tweedy carrying 20 times for 130 yards and a touchdown. Yassoud Murphy had 11 carries for 92 yards.

OS1 (9-1) and Yall (8-2) both posted wins this week, joining Ionath as confirmed Planet Division playoff qualifiers. The Orbiting Death won a 24-21 dogfight against Wabash (5-5), while the Criminals notched their sixth straight with a 27-14 defeat of Isis (5-5).

“We’re a dangerous team right now,” said Yall QB Rick Renaud, who threw for 313 yards and two TD passes. “Six wins in a row? Come on, man, that’s some tough-nosed football right there. I wouldn’t want to play us.”

To rallied from last week’s loss with a 28-3 Monday Night Football victory over Coranadillana (1-9). The win keeps the Pirates in control of the Planet Division’s fourth and final playoff spot, but they face a tough challenge next week against Yall.

The lethal uprising that took place this week in Coranadillana occurred shortly after the game between the Cloud Killers and the Pirates. No members of either organization were injured or killed. However, several thousand game attendees were casualties of the violence. It is not known at this time if the game was a specific target of the uprising.

Wabash, Buddha City and Isis are all tied for fifth in the Planet. With only two games remaining, all three teams have a chance to overtake To and grab the division’s final playoff spot.

In the Solar, three teams locked up post-season berths. Vik, Bartel and Jupiter all won to improve their records to 8-2, and remain in a three-way tie for first. The Vanguard handed Neptune (5-5) a 28-7 defeat, the Water Bugs busted up Shorah (3-7) by a score of 27-21, and the Jacks notched their eighth straight win, 17-14 over D’Kow (4-6).

Texas won 21-10 over McMurdo (1-9) to grab sole possession of the Solar Division’s fourth and final playoff spot. The Earthlings control their destiny: two more wins and they are in. However, both Neptune and Sheb (5-5) are just one game back.

Relegation Watch

Coranadillana avoids relegation if they win in Week 12 against Alimum. If the Cloud Killers lose that game, however, relegation will come down to the Week 13 matchup with D’Oni (0-10), with the loser of that game dropping down to Tier Two.

D’Oni lost a 16-14 heartbreaker to Themala (4-6) when Dreadnaughts middle linebacker Tibi the Unkempt blocked a 23-yard last-second field goal attempt. The winless Coelacanths will avoid relegation if they win their final two games against Buddha City and Coranadillana. D’Oni can also stay in Tier One with a loss against the Elite if the Cloud Killers lose their next two games: Alimum in Week Twelve and the season closer against D’Oni.

In the Solar Division, McMurdo hangs on by a whisker. Jang (2-8) fell 28-14 to Bord (4-6) but is still one game ahead of the Murderers. To guarantee their place in Tier One for 2687, the Atom Smashers have to win their final two games against D’Kow and Sheb. For McMurdo to stay in, the Murderers have to win at least one of their final two games, and the Atom Smashers must lose their final pair.

Deaths

McMurdo defensive end Rakja Knirror, killed in a fumble pile-up against Texas. GFL Commissioner Rob Froese is reviewing the game footage and has yet to determine if the death was incidental or a targeted act. Knirror is the third Murderer player to die in the last four weeks, and the second this year to die in a fumble pile-up.

Offensive Player of the Week

Jupiter Jacks quarterback Don Pine, who completed 27 of 31 passes in a tightly controlled win over D’Kow. The Jacks offense held the ball for 76 percent of the game, leaving D’Kow with less than 15 minutes of possession for the entire afternoon.

Defensive Player of the Week

Themala linebacker Tibi the Unkempt, who notched 11 solo tackles and added six more assists in a 16-14 win over D’Oni. Tibi also blocked a final field goal attempt that would have given the Coelacanths the win.

From Galaxy Sports Magazine

TERRORISM AND TRAGEDY

Independence Movement Kills Thousands in Coranadillana
by YOLANDA DAVENPORT

CORANADILLANA, SATAH, HARRAH TRIBAL ACCORD — If the tragedy following Monday Night Football was a harbinger of things to come, then the future is grim indeed.

This reporter was in Coranadillana to cover the Week Eleven game between the Cloud Killers and the To Pirates. The game was little more than a footnote to the carnage that occurred here in the days prior to kickoff, when the Ainaria tribe launched an uprising to wrest control of the city from the Irillo clan.

One thousand, seven hundred fifteen citizens of Coranadillana lie dead, along with over five hundred Creterakian soldiers garrisoned in the city. Creterakian officials would not confirm the death toll. Thousands more sentients are injured, filling local hospitals beyond capacity. Some wounded still lie in the streets, as do many corpses that have yet to be removed.

The Ainaria tribe is little known outside of Tribal Accord space. Until this week, Ainaria was a powerful element of the city of

The inner workings of the Tribal Accord are often a mystery to the rest of the galaxy.

Coranadillana, responsible for both the city’s infrastructure maintenance and its waste removal. Ainaria is subject to the Irillo clan, which owns the entire city of Coranadillana. Irillo clan is subject to the Biri tribe, which rules planet Satah.

The inner workings of the Tribal Accord are often a mystery to the rest of the galaxy. Most governance is handled by tribal vote. The base level of Harrah culture is the family unit, which is part of and beholden to a single clan. That clan is part of and beholden to a tribe. Small tribes are beholden to larger tribes, which manage a specific area of Harrah government, which are beholden to even larger tribes, and so on. The descending hierarchy of this vaguely feudal state is as follows:

- Tribal Accord

- Planet

- Nation

- State

- City or Territory

- Tribe

- Clan

- Family Unit

In matters of elections, family units get a single vote, which is passed up to the clan. Clans tally their votes, determine the result, then pass that result up to the tribe level as a single vote, and so on.

For larger policy issues that affect one or more planets, this pyramid structure can take a very long time to produce a result. Historically, however, this system has proven to be a resilient, methodical form of governance.

That is what happens when the Accord system works.

When the system doesn’t work, the result is usually violence.

The Accord has one of the most democratic governments in the galaxy, yet significant disputes and power struggles are often settled through violence. Strong tribes rule; weak tribes are pushed aside. When a tribe feels it has gained enough strength or allegiances to move up in the hierarchy — for example, to move from running a section of a city to running the city itself — it does so by attacking the tribe above it.

That is what happened here this week. The results are tragic, and the cause is alarming, because the same sentiment that launched this chaos is brewing in the floating cities and dense atmospheres of all five Accord planets.

This system has proven to be a resilient, methodical form of governance. That is what happens when the Accord system works. When the system doesn’t work, the result is usually violence.

This reporter has learned that the Ainaria sought to lead a planet-wide rebellion against Creterakian rule. They hoped to seize control of Coranadillana, the largest city on Satah, then put out a call inviting the planet’s six million inhabitants to join them in the uprising.

Members of the Irillo clan and Biri tribe banded together against this uprising. They were quickly joined by the local Creterakian garrison. After two days of fighting, the city of Coranadillana remained firmly in Irillo control, although that tribe has been significantly weakened by the violence. The Irillo clan lost an estimated four hundred members.

Once the revolt was put down and the instigators either killed or carted off to detention facilities, the Grand Tribe Master of the Yashindi herself visited Coranadillana. She brought her private guard and assigned them to garrison the city.

As the winds of independence sweep through the inhabited galaxy, what government will next suffer this problem?

The echoes of this clash resonate across the planet. Reports have come in of additional, smaller-scale revolts, some of which are still going. Sources say this is nothing more than lower-level tribes using the violence as an excuse to finally make their move on the tribes above them, but this reporter is not convinced.

The Ki Rebel Establishment uprising on planet Ol last month was also a fight for independence from Creterakian rule. Now the Harrah Tribal Accord is facing similar violence. As the winds of independence sweep through the inhabited galaxy, what government will next suffer this problem?

The Creterakian Empire has ruled for over forty standard years. Entire generations of sentients have been born under Creterakian control have never known any other way of life. Perhaps more importantly, those born under that rule do not remember the almost constant state of war that existed before the Creterakians forced peace upon the galaxy.

45

Week Twelve:
Ionath Krakens at
Wabash Wolfpack

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

10-0

x. Ionath Krakens

8-2

x. Bartel Water Bugs

9-1

x. OS1 Orbiting Death

8-2

x. Vik Vanguard

8-2

x. Yall Criminals

8-2

x. Jupiter Jacks

6-4

To Pirates

6-4

Texas Earthlings

5-5

Wabash Wolfpack

5-5

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

5-5

Buddha City Elite

5-5

Sheb Stalkers

5-5

Isis Ice Storm

4-6

D’Kow War Dogs

4-6

Themala Dreadnaughts

4-6

Bord Brigands

3-7

Alimum Armada

3-7

Shorah Warlords

1-9

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

2-8

Jang Atom Smashers

0-10

D’Oni Coelacanths

1-9

McMurdo Murderers

x = playoffs, y = division title, * = team has been relegated

• • •

NO MORE HEADACHE, not even a trace.

Quentin sat on the exam table, once again in the presence of Doc Patah, the three league doctors, their escort Leiba the Gorgeous and Gredok the Splithead. This time Gredok had brought Bobby Brobst in addition to Virak the Mean. Apparently Gredok wanted a higher intimidation factor than just Virak alone. Still, Quentin would have put his money on Leiba — something about that guy just radiated mean.

The gathering didn’t really hold Quentin’s attention, though — it should have, they were deciding his fate for Week 12 — because Doc Patah had put a news channel on one of the holotank medical monitors. A Harrah battle cruiser assigned to the planet Yarah had declared itself independent of the Creterakian Empire; the Empire, and the rest of the Tribal Accord fleet, were less than pleased.

The GFL docs were heavily into their discussion with Patah and Virak. It surprised Quentin that he didn’t really care: they were going to decide what they were going to decide. He’d taken the tests and done his part. Now it was out of his hands. And while he still breathed and bled the sport, at that moment football didn’t seem quite as important as watching distant footage of what looked like a fighter battle.

“Anything new?”

Quentin glanced right: Bobby Brobst, Gredok’s big Human bodyguard, had slipped away from the discussion and was staring into the holotank.

“A squadron of Creterakian fighters tried to escort a troop ship full of bats to the battle cruiser,” Quentin said.

“How’d that work out?”

“The troop ship got destroyed, apparently. So did all the Creterakian fighters.”

“Harrah small attack craft,” Bobby said. “Nothing can touch them. This is getting nuts. First Bord, now this ongoing thing in the Accord. I wonder what’s gotten into sentients.”

Quentin wondered, too. Wondered if the Zoroastrian Guild was behind the Harrah revolt, wondered if “untraceable” money was involved, wondered if the Harrah Kimberlin knew had participated.

Had the ZG caused this?

You’re dividing us ... you’re trying to turn us against each other, make it easier for you ...

Bobby and Quentin both became aware of a black-furred jewelry-encrusted Quyth leader standing only a few feet away, staring at them.

“Brobst, I do not pay you to watch the news.”

“Sorry, boss,” Bobby said and walked back to stand next to Virak.

“As for you, Barnes, perhaps you could join us,” Gredok said.

“I’m kinda busy right now, Gredok. Just tell me what they decided.”

The Leader’s cornea swirled with sudden curls of dark red: pure surprise.

“Barnes, are you telling me that you don’t care if—”

“Gredok, am I in or am I out?”

The red swirled again, then faded. “You are in.”

Quentin slid off the table. “Great. I’ll let Coach Hokor know. See you later, Gredok, I’m going to watch footage of Wabash.”

He walked out of the medical facility. He should have been elated; he was happy, sure, but not as much as he would have thought. That battle cruiser was a single ship against the Creterakian navy, and it was going to burn. No question about it. The bats wouldn’t stand for anything else. How many Harrah on that ship? Five hundred? A thousand?

There was no question that the battle cruiser’s crew knew rebelling would mean their death, yet they rebelled anyway, probably to become martyrs for a greater uprising.

Such sacrifice. He couldn’t get his head around it.

Maybe he’d give it some thought later, maybe talk to Becca about it, maybe Jeanine.

And, maybe, Michael Kimberlin.

But for now, he had a job to do.

Gloria Ogawa, you already hate the Krakens. Come Sunday night, you’re going to hate us even more.

HE DIDN’T JUST SEE everything, he saw more than everything.

Quentin tried to stay calm. That was hard to do, because he felt like the universe had just opened up all of its secrets. He’d always been good at monitoring the defense as the game progressed. He looked for tells, mentally cataloging bits of data: the position of feet to the bends of knees; the way some linebackers flexed their fingers before a blitz; the tendency of Sklorno defensive backs to look away from their receivers with three eyes instead of two if they were in zone coverage; visually clocking the speed of every player and processing the rate at which they slowed down as the game wore on ... all those data points and a thousand more. He’d been good at it, sure, but this?

On the last play, something had happened ... something wonderful. He saw the entire field in front of him; not a spot or an area, but all of it, a hundred eighty degrees of full awareness. He saw the players, knew their state of exhaustion by how fast they breathed in and out, knew which ones still had gas in the tank and which ones were spent. He saw the turf itself, a hundred chewed-up divots his feet needed to avoid so he could maximize his speed.

His brain re-ran the sixty-two offensive plays the Krakens had run that evening, re-ran them all at the same time. It should have been an avalanche of information, of hallucination, a data overload that should have had him drooling and screaming in insanity, but it wasn’t like that. He processed all those plays at once, he saw the motion of his team and the way the defense moved in response. Plays weren’t even plays — they were choreographed dances: I move, you move, I step, you step.

Xs and Os ceased to exist. He saw movements as paths of light, where players were going and when they would arrive, possible branches flaming to life or fading out based on that constant I move, you move dance. He saw patterns, he saw tendencies, he saw probabilities.

Even when the defense tried to be unpredictable, they did so in a predictable way. Football wasn’t a random, chaotic clash of elements; it was science ... science with reproducible results.

A lifetime of practice and repetition and games, of endless study and analysis, it all coalesced, became a dense mass of knowledge that ignited in a Big Bang of ultimate understanding. He had transformed — Quentin had become a living computer the likes of which Petra Prawatt could only dream.

“Q?”

Becca was at his side, her helmet battered, her orange jersey bloodied. Quentin realized he’d been just standing there, staring up into the stadium lights and the stars in the night sky. There was no noise, just the humming of the universe and the voice of the woman he loved.

“Q,” Becca said, “snap out of it.”

Ju leaned in, face scowling, steam wafting up from his sweaty face.

“He’s high,” Ju said. “Like, mega-high. Nice timing, Q. Ma’s gonna be so disappointed.”

“Shut up,” Becca said. “He’s not high.”

Quentin knew he wasn’t high because he didn’t do drugs, hadn’t taken any painkillers. Had he been smacked in the head too many times? Was he crazy now, like George when the tight end was off his meds? No, not crazy, either, because the lines of power that Quentin saw, the way his mind processed so much data all at once, it worked. He wasn’t imagining this. He couldn’t explain it but it was real, and it was pure power.

Becca reached up and gripped Quentin’s facemask, gently forced him to look at her.

“Q, time to come back from la-la land. Right now, or I’ll have to call a timeout.”

A timeout? No, they needed those.

Reality slammed back home, and with it came the constant roar of the crowd. They were standing on the black-lined cream-colored field of Wabash Stadium. The Wolfpack was up by three, sixteen seconds to play in the game. First down and ten on the Wolfpack 28-yard line. Quentin had just scrambled for 32 yards. But the game wasn’t over, not yet, not until he put that ball in the end zone.

“Huddle up,” he said.

Becca pointed to her left. The huddle was already formed. Eight more Krakens were watching him, waiting, shifting in place, wondering what was going on.

“Oh, right,” Quentin said.

His heads-up display popped out of his helmet.

“Barnes! Will you stop grab-assing out there? Here’s what we’ll—”

Quentin reached up, snapped off the display and tossed it aside. He liked Hokor. The coach was crazy, but Quentin liked him. Quentin didn’t need Coach’s little voice distracting him at that moment, because (the patterns, I can still see the patterns, I step, you step) he knew exactly what to do.

“Pro-set spread-right shotgun, X streak, Y hook, Z slant-and-go. Denver, on that slant-and-go, you’re going to draw double-coverage from Gladwin and Mississauga, stay on your route — they’ve been tracking my eyes and I’ll look them both off. On three, on three, ready?”

“Wait,” Becca said. “Q, you didn’t give Ju a pattern.”

“He won’t need one.”

Ju looked confused. “You want me to block?”

“Yes, just block. On three, on three, ready?”

“Break”

Quentin lined up five yards behind Bud-O, Becca a yard to his right, Ju a yard to his left. He was aware that if he wanted a blocking back, he should have called for Yassoud, but there were glowing lines on the field and Quentin knew exactly how long this would take — the defense wouldn’t have time to get past even Ju’s crappy blocking.

Lines radiated from each and every Wolfpack player, showing Quentin where they would go at the snap of the ball.

I step, you step.

Behind black masks, Wabash faces blazed with intensity and promised violence. The black-and-white-trimmed snarling red wolf heads stared out from either side of their red helmets. Like Becca’s uniform, the Wolfpack’s black jerseys showed the marks of battle: rips and tears, blood and dirt on the red-trimmed, pearlescent-white numbers and letters, the same stains on white-trimmed red wolf head logos snarling on their right shoulders. Dirt, blood and scratches marred once-pristine pearlescent leg armor and shoes.

The Wolfpack was hungry for the win against their main rival, had to have it to stay in playoff contention.

Too bad for them.

They had lined up in the perfect defense to counter Quentin’s play, but he didn’t need to audible; he knew where the defenders would go, knew how they would react.

“Blue, sixteen! Blue, sixteeeeeen. Hut-hut... hut!”

The ball flipped back to him, glowing like a miniature sun. It hit his hands. He felt every pebble of leather, the grain of the laces. He could almost feel the air trapped inside.

Lines of power vibrated across the field, every player, every path, every possibility.

Quentin looked downfield, saw Denver angling from right to left on her slant pattern. As he’d predicted, she was double-covered by cornerback Gladwin and safety Mississauga, but that didn’t matter ... Quentin knew exactly where his friend would run, how she would turn, how she would jump.

He locked on, watched, glanced left (Halawa on the left side, streaking downfield on a route as straight as an arrow) then right (Starcher hooking up fifteen yards downfield).

When Quentin glanced at Starcher, Gladwin, the corner, turned her shoulders ever so slightly toward the tight end, just enough to make her fall a quarter-step behind Denver at the exact moment Denver changed her pattern from a slant to a slant-and-go.

Quentin’s friend and favorite receiver cut downfield, parallel to the sidelines, burning past Mississauga and leaving Gladwin behind. The ball came out of Quentin’s hand with barely any arc, a blistering straight line that punished the air around it.

Denver’s eyestalks looked back a yard before the goal line. Gladwin saw her looking, turned back for the ball, but it was too late. Mississauga didn’t even have time to do that.

The ball slid between the two defenders, through a closing hole of bodies and tentacles that wasn’t more than a millimeter wider than the ball itself. It hit Denver so hard that she fell backward across the goal line, her tentacles gripped tightly around the pigskin.

Touchdown.

Most of the crowd booed. Ionath 27, Wabash 24, eight seconds to play with the extra point still to come.

Quentin stood there, feeling the voice of each fan, the footsteps of each player. He was a part of the universe; the universe was a part of him. He jogged off the field, a wide smile pulling at his eyes and making his cheeks rise up.

“Q,” Becca said, falling in at his left, “you sure you’re okay? Is it your head?”

“As a kite,” Ju said, falling in at his right. “I told you — so high.”

“My head is fine,” Quentin said. “In fact, I’ve never felt better.”

GFL WEEK TWELVE ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Alimum Armada

14

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

13

Buddha City Elite

35

D’Oni Coelacanths

3

Wabash Wolfpack

24

Ionath Krakens

28

Shorah Warlords

21

Isis Ice Storm

7

Themala Dreadnaughts

14

Orbiting Death

27

Yall Criminals

42

To Pirates

10

Sheb Stalkers

21

Bartel Water Bugs

17

Jupiter Jacks

14

Bord Brigands

10

Jang Atom Smashers

14

D’Kow War Dogs

17

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

21

McMurdo Murderers

7

Vik Vanguard

21

Texas Earthlings

24

With only a single game left in the 2686 regular season, there is one playoff spot remaining, two teams still to be relegated, and one division title up for grabs.

Only one title, because Ionath (11-0) locked up the Planet Division and moved one game closer to a perfect regular season, thanks to a 28-24 win over archrival Wabash (5-6). Quentin Barnes returned at quarterback after missing Week 11 with an injury. Barnes threw only 20 times for 180 yards with two touchdown passes, the second of which was a game-winning 28-yarder to Denver. Ionath coach Hokor the Hookchest used Barnes sparingly, opting instead to utilize a power running game with the twin-back assault of Ju Tweedy and Yassoud Murphy. Tweedy rushed for 112 yards and a touchdown. Murphy picked up 97 yards and a TD on the ground, along with 42 receiving yards and a touchdown reception.

The victory gives the Krakens home-field advantage for the two games of the divisional playoffs. OS1 (10-1) is a game behind Ionath, but since the Krakens beat the Death in Week 10, Ionath owns the head-to-head tiebreaker should both teams end the regular season at 11-1.

OS1 and Yall (9-2) both notched wins, increasing their momentum as they head into the post-season.

The final spot in the Planet playoff picture grew muddier. The To Pirates (6-5) lost 42-10 to Yall, allowing Buddha City (6-5) to move into a tie for fourth place following the Elite’s 35-3 win over D’Oni (0-11). Buddha City’s Week 10 victory over the Pirates gives them the head-to-head tiebreaker, which means the Elite are in the playoffs if they win next week against Alimum. To needs to win their regular-season finale against host McMurdo, and also needs Buddha City to lose to the Armada.

If Buddha City loses, To wins and either (or both) Isis (5-6) and Wabash win, it will create a more complicated tiebreaker due to a convoluted head-to-head situation. This means that Isis and Wabash are not yet mathematically eliminated.

In the Solar Division, Jupiter moved into sole possession of first place with their ninth straight victory, 14-10 over Bord (4-7). If Jupiter wins its Week 13 game against Texas, the Jacks clinch the division and secure home-field advantage for the divisional playoffs.

Texas (7-4) upset Vik (8-3) by a score of 24-21 to lock up the fourth and final Solar Division playoff spot. Vik has already qualified for the playoffs.

Even if the Earthlings lose their Week 13 game, they have beaten both Sheb (6-5) and Neptune (6-5) earlier in the season. This gives Texas the head-to-head tiebreaker.

“We’ve reached the playoffs for the second year in a row,” said Earthlings linebacker Alonzo Castro. “That’s an accomplishment, but we’re not done. Last year we lost in the first round. This year, we have to get past that.”

Relegation Watch

The two last-place teams in the Planet and the two last-place teams in the Solar lost their Week 12 outings, which means everything comes down to the final regular-season game.

In the Planet Division, Coranadillana (1-10) hosts D’Oni — the winner remains in Tier One, the loser gets relegated.

In the Solar, if Jang (2-9) wins at home against Sheb, the Atom Smashers remain in Tier One. If Jang loses and McMurdo upsets visiting To, the Murderers will survive their first season at the top and be back next year, while the Atom Smashers will fall to Tier Two.

Deaths

No deaths reported this week.

Offensive Player of the Week

Buddha City tight end Rick Warburg, who had 11 catches for 113 yards and three TDs against the Themala Dreadnaughts.

Defensive Player of the Week

Ionath defensive back Cormorant Bumberpuff, who had two interceptions and six solo tackles against Wabash.

46

Week Thirteen:
Themala Dreadnaughts at
Ionath Krakens

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

11-0

y-Ionath Krakens

9-2

x-Jupiter Jacks

10-1

x-OS1 Orbiting Death

8-3

x-Bartel Water Bugs

9-2

x-Yall Criminals

8-3

x-Vik Vanguard

6-5

Buddha City Elite

7-4

x-Texas Earthlings

6-5

To Pirates

6-5

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

5-6

Isis Ice Storm

6-5

Sheb Stalkers

5-6

Wabash Wolfpack

5-6

D’Kow War Dogs

4-7

Alimum Armada

4-7

Bord Brigands

4-7

Themala Dreadnaughts

4-7

Shorah Warlords

1-10

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

2-9

Jang Atom Smashers

0-11

D’Oni Coelacanths

1-10

McMurdo Murderers

x = playoffs, y = division title, * = team has been relegated

THERE WERE THINGS MORE IMPORTANT than football. Quentin knew that now in a way he’d never really understood before. But one game from an undefeated regular season? Most of those “more important” things could wait just a little while longer.

One of those things, however — family — was easy to handle even while preparing for the game. All it took was a big old mess of delivery food and an apartment packed full of people.

John and Ju had brought Ma to Quentin’s place in the Krakens Building. Fred had come as well, thanks to Gredok living up to the promise that the man could come and go as he pleased. Jeanine just had to take the elevator up a few floors.

“Quentin,” Ma said, “how’s the head?”

He finished chewing his mouthful of spiced clickerbugs before speaking.

“Ma, I keep telling you, I’m fine.”

Her little shoulders shrugged. “You never know. I love you, Quentin, but when it comes to staying in the game, you lie just like your brothers.”

“Aw, Ma,” John and Ju said in unison.

“Shushit,” Ma said. “Anyway, I hope you’re smart enough to put your brains ahead of your football. Besides, if you can’t play, your girlfriend did a hell of a job against those punks from Buddha City.”

Becca blushed, chow mein dangling from her paused chopsticks. “Thank you, Missus Tweedy.”

“Call me Ma,” Ma said with a wave of her hand. “After the Galaxy Bowl, I think I’ll be seeing more of you. Because Quentin will be coming over for dinner at least once a week, right, Quentin?”

“Yes, Ma,” he said.

“And you two are done arguing because you realize you love each other, right, Becca?”

“Yes, Ma,” Becca said. She was still blushing, but glanced at Quentin, one of those small smiles pulling at the corner of her mouth.

He hoped Ma was right, because having Becca back was also one of those things that was more important than football.

John leaned closer to his mother. “Ma, you really think we’re going to the title game again?”

John was an All-Pro linebacker, one of the best at his position the league had to offer. He had a Galaxy Bowl ring on his finger at that very moment, yet he asked his tiny mother that question with the wide eyes of a pilgrim visiting a holy relic.

“I know so,” Ma said. She looked at Quentin. “And if you doubt me, just ask your brother. Something has changed in you, Quentin. I’m not sure what it is, but you’ve grown up in a way I didn’t see coming.”

Now it was Quentin who blushed. “Thank you, Ma.”

Jeanine nodded. “I noticed it, too. I can’t put my finger on it, but you seem ... different. In a good way, I mean, but different”

Ju rolled his eyes. “Girls talking emotions and whatnot, done with that.”

Fred shook his head sadly as he spooned mashed potatoes onto his plate. “So sayeth the man who didn’t bring a girlfriend.”

“That sayeth saideth by the man who didn’t bring a boyfriend,” Ju said.

Fred laughed. “Okay, you got me there.”

“I thought so,” Ju said. “Back to the subject of football. We’re totally going to the title game. Look, no one can stop our offense right now. Quentin is playing out of his ass.”

“Julius!”

“Sorry, Ma,” Ju said. “As long as we don’t give up thirty points or more, we beat Themala this week and roll into the playoffs undefeated.”

John scoffed. “Ha. Not likely. Imma make me a Gavin Warren barbecue sammich.”

QUARTERBACKS ARE DELICIOUS: PRESENT COMPANY EXCLUDED, OF COURSE scrolled across John’s face.

“That’s nice, dear,” Ma said. “The defense has gotten quite a bit better as of late. Especially since you stopped drawing kitty noses on your face.”

John’s eyes went wide. He looked at Ju.

“Why’d you tell her!”

Ju shrugged. “Wasn’t me.”

The Tweedy brothers started arguing. Ma tried to shush them into silence. Quentin glanced at Becca. She smiled, an aggressive smile, a hungry smile that showed the same simmering intensity he felt roiling in his own chest.

Kimberlin and Procknow, the Guild, Petra, the Abernessia, Yitzhak ... so many problems.

At that moment, Quentin made a decision: to focus on football, and nothing but football. Did he owe the galaxy something? Maybe, and maybe he’d pay that debt, but not now — he was just four weeks and four wins away from making history: a perfect season, a second GFL title.

And that final stretch began with a win against the Dreadnaughts on Sunday.

GFL WEEK THIRTEEN ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network

Home

Away

Alimum Armada

7

Buddha City Elite

24

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

28

D’Oni Coelacanths

0

Ionath Krakens

45

Themala Dreadnaughts

10

Isis Ice Storm

10

Orbiting Death

30

McMurdo Murderers

21

To Pirates

17

Wabash Wolfpack

24

Yall Criminals

21

Bartel Water Bugs

28

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

21

Bord Brigands

7

Shorah Warlords

10

Vik Vanguard

28

D’Kow War Dogs

21

Jang Atom Smashers

12

Sheb Stalkers

28

Texas Earthlings

10

Jupiter Jacks

13

If you wanted heart-pounding drama, Week 13 of the GFL regular season was the place to be.

Ionath (12-0), the GFL’s defending champion from 2685, completed a perfect regular season with a 45-10 thumping of Themala (4-8). Quentin Barnes showed no sign of the injury that kept him out Week 11. If his four-touchdown, 316-yard passing performance against the Dreadnaughts is any indication, he’s ready to lead his Krakens to a title defense. Ionath hosts Buddha City (7-5) in the opening round of the playoffs.

The Elite snagged the final available playoff spot with a 24-7 win over the Alimum Armada (4-8). The victory moved Buddha City one game clear of fifth-place finisher To (6-6). The pirates were upset 21-17 by McMurdo (2-10).

The Murderers had to win to stay in Tier One and also had to get help from a Jang loss — that’s exactly what happened. The Atom Smashers (2-10) fell 28-12 to Sheb (7-5). Due to McMurdo’s Week 9 win over Jang, the Murderers stay in the top tier due to the head-to-head tiebreaker.

“We needed everyone to play the best game of their careers, and that’s what they did,” said McMurdo team owner Michelle “Muffy” Evans. “We had one goal, and that was to stay in Tier One. We lost three good players this year, but their loss isn’t in vain, because mission accomplished. Next year, we’ll be more competitive.”

Jang is relegated to Tier Two. The Atom Smashers have been in Tier One since winning the T2 Tourney nine seasons ago, in 2677. With seven centuries of history — first as the New York Titans, then the New York Jets, then Jang Atom Smashers, the franchise’s players and personnel are trying to cope with the relegation.

“This sucks,” said Jang linebacker Mike Dowell. “We’re heading back down to the League of Planets Conference and, well, it just sucks.”

D’Oni finished a winless 0-12 campaign. After just one season in Tier One, the Coelacanths head back down to the Tier Two Whitok Conference.

“We did our best, but we fell short,” said CB Harvey, the D’Oni’s star middle linebacker. “I don’t think sentients really understand the level of play in Tier One. There’s never been anything like it in history. We’re a damn good football team, but not good enough.”

The other Planet Division playoff match sees OS1 (11-1) host Yall (9-3). The Orbiting Death’s only loss this year came at the hands of undefeated Ionath. Yall has won seven of their last eight games.

Jupiter (10-2) clinched the Solar Division with a 13-10 win over Texas (7-5). The Jacks started the season 0-2, then rattled off ten straight wins to claim the division tide and clinch home-field advantage throughout the playoffs. Galaxy Bowl XXVIII will be played in Red Storm City at Jupiter’s Rolling Rock Stadium.

Texas and Jupiter go at it again next week, when the first-seeded Jacks host the fourth-seeded Earthlings in the first round.

Texas finished tied at 7-5 with Sheb but get the head-to-head tiebreaker thanks to a 27-24 win over the Stalkers back in Week 7.

The other Solar Division playoff game sends Bartel to Kin-Shal-An Trade Guild Stadium to face host Vik. Both teams wound up at 9-3, but the Vanguard beat Bartel earlier in the season and get the home game due to the head-to-head tiebreaker.

Deaths

Neptune receiver Fanning Springs, killed on a late hit by Bartel safety Alpharetta. GFL Commissioner Rob Froese has suspended Alpharetta for the duration of the playoffs. Alpharetta was suspended for a playoff game two seasons ago, also due to a Week 13 late hit.

Offensive Player of the Week

Ionath quarterback Quentin Barnes, who threw for four TD passes and 316 yards despite playing only the first half against Themala. Although he missed Week 11 altogether, Barnes set single-season records for yards (3,812) and TD passes (34).

Defensive Player of the Week

Buddha City defensive tackle Don-Wen-Sul, who had three sacks against Alimum. Don-Wen knocked Armada QB Kirill Gomelsky out of the game on his first sack, then backup QB Skeetch Baganda on his second.

BOOK FIVE

The Postseason

Final Regular-Season Standings

PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION

12-0

y. Ionath Krakens

10-2

y. Jupiter Jacks

11-1

x. OS1 Orbiting Death

9-3

x. Vik Vanguard

9-3

x. Yall Criminals

9-3

x. Bartel Water Bugs

7-5

x. Buddha City Elite

7-5

x. Texas Earthlings

6-6

To Pirates

7-5

Sheb Stalkers

6-6

Wabash Wolfpack

6-6

Neptune Scarlet Fliers

5-7

Isis Ice Storm

5-7

D’Kow War Dogs

4-8

Alimum Armada

5-7

Shorah Warlords

4-8

Themala Dreadnaughts

4-8

Bord Brigands

2-10

Coranadillana Cloud Killers

2-10

McMurdo Murderers

0-12

D’Oni Coelacanths*

2-10

Jang Atom Smashers*

x = playoffs, y = division title, * = team has been relegated

47

Playoffs Round One:
Buddha City Elite at Ionath Krakens

QUENTIN STOOD TALL in the pocket, eyes tracing the paths of power that had guided his throws and runs all day long. Seeing Milford about to break open far downfield, he stepped up and gunned the ball.

He knew he was imagining it, knew there weren’t any actual lines of energy. His best guess was that his mind had found a new way to show him information that could not be put into words. But just because he was imagining it didn’t make it any less real.

The ball glowed and pulsed like a flying heartbeat made of pure life. A perfect spiral, a perfect arc, a hypnotizing thing of beauty that might only be rivaled by a star igniting for the first time.

He saw where Milford would jump before she left the ground, saw where the ball would meet her.

Forty-five yards downfield, trailed closely by Perth, Milford went airborne — her black-uniformed body an image of fluid grace. Perth, Quentin’s former teammate, looked beautiful, emerald green helmet sparkling in the afternoon sun, a white-lined black stripe down the middle and a black-trimmed white infinity symbol on either side. On the back of her white jersey, the word PERTH in black-trimmed emerald green, her number 45 done in the same style, only larger. Emerald green armor graced her powerful legs, a wide black-lined white stripe ran from her hips down to her emerald green armored shoes.

Perth was a vision, but she wasn’t Quentin’s target, which meant try as she might, there was nothing she could do. The lines of energy coalesced, a perfect union between quarterback and receiver — Milford’s tentacles cradled the ball of light and energy, brought it to her chest, and she came down in the black end zone of Ionath Stadium for six.

The crowd’s passion flowed into Quentin, damn near made him levitate.

A pair of hands grabbed his jersey, and a man with a braided beard laughed.

“Good god, Q!” Yassoud had to scream to be heard, but scream he did. “What’s gotten into you? You’re making this look like a video game!”

“Team effort,” Quentin said.

Yassoud threw back his head and roared. “Whatever you say, oh yep!”

They ran toward the sidelines. Before they got there, Quentin’s heads-up display popped down.

“Barnes, go ahead and take a seat,” Hokor said. “You’re done for the day. I think six touchdown passes is enough — I do not need another starter getting injured at this point in the game.”

“Okay, Coach.”

Quentin didn’t want to come out, didn’t want to leave that lovely energy behind, but Hokor was making the smart move. Up 45-7 with five minutes to play, there was no point for the starters to be in. And besides, Trevor Haney needed some playoff reps.

The Tweedy brothers waited on the sidelines, faces beaming, mouths screaming and arms spread. As Quentin ran off, they wrapped him up in a big Tweedy sandwich. He gave them their moment of craziness, then thumped each of them on the shoulder pads and pushed past to the med pods.

There he found Choto the Bright. The Warrior lay on the table, leathery eyelids squeezed shut in agony. Doc Patah buzzed around a leg sheeted in blood.

Quentin knelt next to his friend.

“That doesn’t look good, Choto.”

“That is because it is bad, Quentin,” the Warrior said, his words forced, clipped. “The pain is extraordinary.”

Quentin glanced down at the wound. The chitin looked cracked all the way around the left foreleg, and he could see muscles and ligaments inside — those, too, were torn. He glanced up at Doc Patah.

“Four weeks,” Patah said. “At a minimum.”

That meant Choto was done for the season: no Planet Division final, no Galaxy Bowl.

Quentin gripped Choto’s middle arm. “So sorry, my friend.”

The Warrior’s eye opened. His cornea was flooded purple. “As am I, Shamakath. I am sorry to let you down.”

“Shushit,” Quentin said. “Don’t you worry, I’m going to get you that second ring.”

He sat with Choto for a few minutes, until Tommyboy Snuffalupagus picked off a Gary Lindros pass to give the Krakens the ball once again. Then Quentin moved to the sideline to watch Trevor Haney at work.

If it had been a close game, Becca would be taking those snaps. Just one drive would give Haney invaluable playoff experience. Injuries could take anyone at any time. One had taken Choto, one could take Quentin and one could take Becca — if that happened, the title rested on Haney’s arm, and Quentin wanted him to be ready.

From UBS Sports

Thrilling First Round Capped Off by Jupiter’s Double-OT Win
by
PIKOR THE ASSUMING

RED STORM CITY, JUPITER NET COLONY, PLANETARY UNION — The wily old veteran did it yet again. Don Pine led the Jupiter Jacks to a 16-13 double-overtime victory against visiting Texas and one game closer to playing for a GFL title on their home field.

Jupiter (11-2) led early, scoring a touchdown on their opening drive when Pine connected with Beaverdam for a 55-yard strike. On the Jacks’ second possession, an 84-yard run from CJ Wellman put them in range of an easy 17-yard field goal for Jack Burrill. After that, however, the Texas defense shut Pine down for most of the game, picking him off once and sacking him to force a fumble. Wellman, who finished the day with 186 yards on thirty-two carries, was the go-to solution for Jupiter but couldn’t break off another big run.

The Earthlings got on the board in the second quarter with a 45-yard Gregg Anderson field goal. Anderson hit again from 51 yards in the third quarter to trim the lead to 10-6. Late in the fourth, a 12-yard Case Johanson to tight end Bates McGee touchdown put Texas up 13-10.

Jupiter got the ball back with two minutes to play. Pine completed five straight passes to get the Jacks into field goal range, where Burrill nailed a 35-yarder as time expired to send the game into OT.

Neither team could advance the ball in the first overtime. In the second OT, Pine hit Beaverdam on a simple out pattern that turned into a 63-yard gain when Prawatt cornerback Macklestink Gooberman missed the tackle. Burrill hit a 12-yard field goal for the win.

The Jacks host Bartel in the semi-finals.

Bartel (10-3) won 17-14 on a franchise-record 61-yard last-second field goal from Eddie Jones. The Water Bugs scored touchdowns on runs from Robert Shonfelt and quarterback Andre Ridley. Vik quarterback Rich Barchi and receiver Gouroch combined for two TD strikes, one from 35 and one from 7 in the loss.

In the Planet Division, the Orbiting Death dominated their first-round game, defeating Yall 30-17. OS1 slinger Condor Adrienne threw for three TD passes and 231 yards in the win. Linebacker Yalla the Biter sacked Yall QB Rick Renaud in the end zone, forcing a fumble and recovering it himself for the Death’s other TD.

The OS1 defense largely bottled up Renaud and the high-flying Criminals offense. Renaud was sacked three times, twice by Yalla and once by rookie defensive end Brian Kane.

“We got after Renaud,” Kane said. “We got our win. Now we get another shot at the Krakens, and that’s what we’ve been working toward for the past month.”

In the Planet Division side of the bracket, Ionath obliterated Buddha City 48-14. Krakens QB Quentin Barnes — who was just named the 2686 League MVP — threw for a playoff-record six TD passes, each to a different receiver. Kicker Arioch Morningstar was a perfect two-for-two, hitting from 46 and 44 yards.

Buddha City’s first-ever trip to the Tier One playoffs did not turn out the way the Elite had dreamed. The only bright spot was tight end Rick Warburg, who had two TD receptions and caught nine balls for 98 yards.

“We didn’t have an answer for Barnes,” Warburg said. “Frankly, no one has an answer for that kid right now. He’s on another level. As long as he’s running Ionath, no one is going to beat the Krakens.”

Ionath hosts OS1 in the Planet Division final. Jupiter hosts Bartel in the Solar final. The winners of those games meet in Red Storm City for Galaxy Bowl XXVIII.

48

Playoffs Round Two:
OS1 Orbiting Death at Ionath Krakens

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR COULD MAKE. A season ago, Quentin had fought hard to be named the League’s Most Valuable Player, but had been passed over when that honor went to Yall’s Rick Renaud. This season, it was Quentin’s turn to be named the best in the sport — and he didn’t give a damn about it.

All-Pro, MVP, this honor or that honor, none of it mattered anymore. He and his teammates were two wins from a second-straight league title — wins that would be far harder to grab now that one of their starting linebackers was out of the picture.

On the Touchback’s practice field, John Tweedy tore off his helmet and slammed it into the turf so hard that parts broke off and spun through the air.

The entire team stopped their drills and turned to watch. Quentin held the ball, waiting for John to do his version of coaching. Quentin said nothing, Hokor said nothing: the defense belonged to John Tweedy. Ju and Becca stood next to Quentin, waiting until it was time to run the next play.

In a way, it was no different than a regular-season practice — offense in orange, defense in black, quarterbacks in red — but everyone was on edge, knowing that one more win put them into the Galaxy Bowl.

John stood in front of Samuel Darkeye, who had taken Choto’s place at right outside linebacker. Sweat sheened Samuel’s face and matted his black hair to his head.

“Dammit, Darkeye. You have to scrape, not over-penetrate!”

“Sorry,” Samuel Darkeye said. “I know that. Sorry.”

John stepped to the linebacker, his brow furrowed deep, his lip curled.

“If you’re taking Choto’s place, you have to play right,” he said. “What’s the matter, Sam? Don’t you want to win another title?”

GET ME SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO WIN scrolled across John’s face.

Darkeye leaned back, almost as if he’d been slapped.

“Yeah, of course I do! I got it, John, honest.”

John’s face twisted into something horrible. He reached down, picked up his helmet by the facemask and whipped it to the turf again. This time the facemask snapped, coming clean off the helmet.

“I don’t want honest! I want proper technique! I want a gangster that delivers a proper pizza on time and learns how to shucking scrape to the ball!”

Wild-eyed, John turned in place, looking for something, then found it.

“Pishor! Get in here, and don’t make a molehill mountain out of a skinned cat! Darkeye, get off my field!”

Ju nudged Quentin.

“Your brother is crazy,” Ju said. “You should be ashamed of your family.”

“You’re the one that shares his genes,” Quentin said.

“Nah,” Ju said. “I got all the good genes. John is all junk DNA.”

Becca laughed, shook her head.

Darkeye looked up to Hokor’s floating golf cart, silently asking the coach if he had to obey John’s demand.

“You heard him,” Hokor said, the cart’s speakerfilm amplifying his voice. “In fact, while Pishor gives it a try, you should run laps for your total incompetence, and think about the fundamentals of your position while you do.”

“Laps? How many laps, Coach?”

“Until I get tired of watching you! Now run the laps that I called!”

Darkeye cursed under his breath and jogged to the sidelines, kicking John’s broken helmet when he passed it.

Pishor was Virak’s backup at left outside linebacker, but the second-year player was smart enough to handle switching sides. He was also 400 pounds, same weight as Choto, and significantly larger than the 310-pound Darkeye. Quentin felt bad for Samuel, but after two days of watching the man not get the job done, truth was Quentin had hoped John and Hokor would make that change sooner.

Choto’s injury was a big problem, but it wasn’t the end of the world. The rest of the defense was just too strong, and it would take a Creterakian frigate to stop the offense. The Orbiting Death would go after Darkeye, Pishor, Shayat the Thick or whoever lined up in Choto’s position, handing the ball to their hot rookie running back Danté Diener and also passing to that area — the Krakens would just have to overcome.

Live feed from UBS GameDay holocast coverage

“Hello, football fans, and welcome back from commercial break. I’m Masara the Observant, here with Chick McGee for UBS. Planet Division finals. With time ticking away in the fourth quarter, Ionath is ahead of OS1 35-16 and has the ball. OS1 is out of timeouts. This game looks all but over. Chick, if the Krakens play like this in the Galaxy Bowl, do you think there’s even a chance they won’t repeat as champions?”

“Well, Masara, there’s always a chance of that, just as there’s a chance you’ll stop eating whatever arthropods you’re eating that completely disagree with your digestive system, as evidenced by the hanging cloud of green death filling the broadcast booth.”

“Chick! Do you know how many sentients are watching this—”

“Sorry, Masara, sorry, folks at home. Masara, you’re right to say that whoever wins the late game between Jupiter and Bartel is going to have their hands full with the Krakens. As if Quentin Barnes wasn’t enough of a challenge by himself, just look at the way Ju Tweedy is running the ball against his old team.”

“Tweedy is a wrecking ball with legs, Chick. He has one hundred twelve yards rushing and two touchdowns on just seventeen carries. Ionath coach Hokor the Hookchest has really utilized ball control in this one, keeping it mostly on the ground with runs by Tweedy, Yassoud Murphy and fullback Becca Montagne. The Orbiting Death can’t seem to stop the Krakens’ ground game.”

“Well, they can’t stop the air attack, either, Masara. Three touchdown passes today from Quentin Barnes — one to George Starcher, one to Becca the Wrecka and one to the veteran Hawick. Two hundred seventy yards passing on a twenty-two of twenty-six performance. And another key stat — zero dropped passes. Those Ionath receivers catch everything thrown their way.”

“Chick, it seems the only weak spot for the Krakens might be on defense. The season-ending injury to starting outside linebacker Choto the Bright has really impacted them, hasn’t it?”

“Right you are, Masara. Pishor the Fang, Samuel Darkeye and Shayat the Thick have all rotated in at that position today. While they haven’t been blown out of the water, none of them are up to Choto’s level, which is why Death running back Danté Diener rushed for almost two hundred yards today. The Krakens’ D, however, has been bend but not break. In the red zone, the Ionath defensive secondary just will not give up a touchdown pass. OS1 has been in the red zone five times and had to settle for just one Diener touchdown and three field goals.”

“Back to the action on the field, Chick. As expected, the Krakens line up in the victory formation. Barnes takes the snap ... and takes a knee. That’s going to do it, folks. The Ionath Krakens are headed to their second straight title game. For Chick McGee and all of us at UBS Sports, goodbye from Ionath City. Chick and I will be back next week to call the play-by-play for Galaxy Bowl Twenty-Eight. See you at Rolling Rock Stadium.”

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

DAN: Boys, we’ve got a heck of a show lined up, but we all know what we want to talk about — what an amazing win by the Jupiter Jacks to get into the Galaxy Bowl against Ionath, a rematch of last year’s title game!

TARAT: It was a spectacular come-from-behind victory, Dan. I find it hard to reconcile Don Pine’s age with his performance against Bartel.

AKBAR: Yeah, man. Three fourth-quarter touchdowns that came out of nowhere. I mean, Jupiter was scoreless through three quarters, then boom, Pine goes off like a punch drive and the Jacks win 21-20. All those people who thought Pine was old and washed up? I wonder what they think now.

DAN: Well, Pine is old, Akbar, no question about that. He was awful in the first three quarters. Let’s see, here ... ah, yes — ten for thirty, sacked three times, one fumble and one interception.

TARAT: Dan, perhaps you do not understand the concept of the GFL. The point is to win. Don Pine played poorly in the first three quarters, but for the second playoff game in a row, he led the way to victory.

DAN: Come on, Smasher ... Pine’s a shell of his former self. It took him three quarters to remember that Bartel’s free safety Alpharetta wasn’t in the game due to suspension.

TARAT: Pine did score all three touchdowns on post patterns thrown at backup safety Millbrook, that is true.

DAN: Exactly. Bartel is a good team, don’t get me wrong, but if Pine has three bad quarters against Barnes and company, there aren’t enough fourth-quarter miracles in all the universe to bail Pine out of that one. Ionath has defense.

AKBAR: And Jupiter has magic.

DAN: Little buddy, what the hell are you talking about?

AKBAR: Have you been smoking something during our commercial breaks? This is the third straight Galaxy Bowl appearance for Jupiter and their fourth in five seasons!

DAN: And they’ve lost two of those! And if they lose next week, they’ll have lost three of four\

TARAT: Dan, you seem overly agitated.

AKBAR: They’ve been to four of the last five Galaxy Bowls, and you’re saying that’s a bad thing? What the hell is wrong with you, Dan? Pine just wins, baby.

DAN: Look, Pine isn’t a bad quarterback, but he’s lucky to be in a good system. He can barely move anymore.

TARAT: Dan, your ignorance of football fills me with shame that I am a part of this show. Don Pine has won sixteen of his last nineteen starts for Jupiter. He is four-and-one in the playoffs since he rejoined the Jacks last season, the only loss coming to the Krakens in last year’s Galaxy Bowl. His overall playoff record is ten wins and two losses, and he has two Galaxy Bowl titles.

DAN: Yes-yes-yes, he moves that wheelchair of his around like a pro, I know. Let’s not forget that six of those ten playoff wins and both of the championships came ten years ago.

AKBAR: Pine will be playing for his third title in front of a home crowd at Rolling Rock Stadium. If he wins, he retires, goes out on top tied for the most Galaxy Bowl wins ever. That’s so magical it might as well be in a storybook.

DAN: Let’s talk about a quarterback that’s in his prime now, not last decade. Barnes is just lights-out the last two games. Tarat, in all your days on the gridiron, did you ever see anything like it?

TARAT: Dan, I did not. Barnes’s last three games were the best football I have ever witnessed, and I should point out that I played against Frank Zimmer, Don Pine in his prime and Hittoni’s three-time Galaxy Bowl champion Sam London. What Barnes is doing at the position is unprecedented. What’s more, it is obvious to anyone with football experience that his leadership is extraordinary. I believe that every player on that team — offense or defense, from any species — would take a bullet for Barnes. That is a quality that can’t be coached and can’t be taught. He is a true warrior. He would rather die than lose.

DAN: Whoa, Smasher ... that’s quite a statement.

AKBAR: Yeah, Tarat, why don’t you just marry the guy?

TARAT: Your infantile attempts at humor in no way impact my statement. Barnes is the best player in the game. He will lead the Krakens to a 31-17 win.

DAN: Hold on, there, Tarat! Just jumping right to the predictions, are you? Well, fine — Akbar, our Hall of Fame co-host just made his pick, you ready to put your Don Pine money where your mouth is?

AKBAR: Like there’s any question, Dan. Pine gets his third ring. Jupiter 24, Ionath 21.

DAN: Tarat, I have to say I’m with Akbar on this one, and from what I’ve seen, so are the majority of football fans. The Old Man upstages The Kid, goes into the Hall of Fame with three titles. Jacks 27, Krakens 24.

TARAT: The emotions of the fans have zero impact on the games. Your decision-making process is flawed.

DAN: We shall see, Tarat, we shall see! Let’s find out what the callers think. Caller Two from Shorah, you’re on the space, go!

49

Galaxy Bowl XXVII
Ionath Krakens vs. Jupiter Jacks

Red Storm City, Jupiter Net Colony, Planetary Union

THE REALITY WAVE COURSED through the ship. Even though the entire team — including Hokor, Messal and Gredok — was packed into the observation deck, watching him, Quentin couldn’t force his body into submission. He held the golden bucket close — at least he’d been smart enough to have only a small lunch before the final punch-out.

Embarrassed but unable to stop himself, he threw up.

“Dadgummit,” John said. “Q, I would really appreciate some consistency in your vomiting.”

A few of the Krakens laughed, but most were busy staring out the floor-to-ceiling viewport windows.

“Sorry, John,” Quentin said as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

“Octuple payout for me,” Ju said. “That’s a lot of money, John.”

“I hate math,” John said.

Virak the Mean reached down, lifted Gredok the Splithead up to his shoulder so that everyone could see the Leader. The team fell silent.

“Krakens, the observation deck is not designed to hold this many sentients, and from the accumulated odor, it is clear some of you are not utilizing the nannite showers as often as you should,” Gredok said. “Barnes, if you would finish with that mess, I have something to say.”

Quentin set the can down and tied off the bag. As he did, he fixated briefly on the new Jupiter Jacks sticker John had put on the side.

I’m coming for you, Fine ... no way you get a third ring.

“Krakens, I will make this brief,” Gredok said. “I wanted us to be together to see this.”

The black-furred leader pointed a pedipalp finger out the window toward the mass of Jupiter, toward the floating, domed spectacle known as Red Storm City, home to over a million sentients. Through that dome, a packed urban landscape of tall buildings and — clearly visible in the city’s center — Rolling Rock Stadium with its classical white-lined dark-green field.

“There lies your destiny,” Gredok said. “Only two teams have repeated as GFL champions, the Hittoni Hullwalkers and the very same Jacks you will face in three days. While the Jacks expanded their stadium to add more seating, the field itself hasn’t changed — it is the same field we won on three years ago. We will win here again. Your Galaxy Bowl victory will not only be historic, it will be legendary, because you will defeat Jupiter in their own house.”

Heads nodded, sentients grunted in agreement. Ionath was the better team on paper, but the drama of Don Pine going for his third title on his home turf had captured the galaxy’s imagination. Quentin loved it: he’d been worried about his team being overconfident, but the perception that most fans were pulling for Pine made the Krakens feel disrespected — which was exactly how Quentin wanted them to feel.

“History is yours for the taking,” Gredok said. “Plus, substantial financial bonuses if you win. Coach Hokor has a few things to say.”

The yellow-furred Leader slipped through the press of bodies to stand next to Virak. Heads craned to see him.

Quentin reached down, picked Hokor up and sat him on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Barnes. Krakens, we are heading into the final game of the season. Gredok and I fear that there is too great a risk of attack from those that want to modify the outcome of the game, so we will stay on the Touchback for the next two days.”

Quentin expected a groan of disappointment from John, Yassoud, Cliff Frost and the other typical bar-going crew, but the men said nothing. Everyone understood: they were on the brink of a second championship, and giving up a couple of nights on the town was a small price to pay.

“Normal practice today,” the coach said. “Tomorrow is the mandatory pre-Galaxy Bowl Media Day, an unfortunate tradition that we must suffer through. However, due to those same security concerns, Commissioner Froese has agreed to allow us to host Media Day on the Touchback instead of in the stadium. You will all spend two hours on the practice field, taking questions from reporters. Due to the high demand for Barnes, he will be taking scheduled interviews in the Kriegs-Ballok virtual practice room.”

There were overly dramatic boos and jibes like fancy pants! and too important to be with the team?, but it was all in good fun. Everyone understood that if Quentin was on the practice field, he’d be completely surrounded the entire time — although that wasn’t the real reason for the isolation. Still, Quentin’s face flushed: even in jest, he hated anyone thinking he was above the team.

“Enough grab-assing,” Hokor said, silencing the jibes. “On Saturday, we will shuttle down to Red Storm City under heavy Creterakian escort for a walk-through practice at the stadium. Then, on Sunday, the utter destruction and humiliation of the Jupiter Jacks. Dismissed.”

Quentin set the coach down. The players, Gredok and Hokor filtered out of the packed observation deck. Quentin waited for them to leave, until he stood alone with Messal.

“Elder Barnes, I have accommodated your request,” Messal said. “Tomorrow, Jonathan Sandoval will be here with the media, but he will be limited to the practice field. Armed guards will be at the VR room’s entryway to ensure that only properly scheduled media personnel can meet with you.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said. “And you didn’t tell Gredok about my request?”

“I did not,” Messal said. “I suggested that — this close to the game — perhaps he wanted to take all available precautions to protect you while still allowing you to perform your leaguerequired media duties. He concurred.”

Messal the Efficient, subtly manipulating once again.

Quentin would have rather banned Sandoval from coming to the Touchback at all, but doing so would have raised questions. The man still had to make a living. Sandoval kept Quentin’s secret, and Quentin would keep Sandoval’s.

“Messal, you are the best,” Quentin said.

“Of course, Elder Barnes. Oh, one more thing. Coach Hokor has scheduled a position meeting in the VR room after the media has left. Quarterbacks and fullbacks.”

Quentin nodded. “Understood. Thank you.”

Messal bowed, then walked out.

Quentin turned to take one last look out the viewport windows. The sprawling mass of the gas giant in the background, Red Storm City in the foreground, and in all directions, thousands of ships and constructs that made up the Jupiter Net Colony.

Destiny.

Gredok had said it well.

Tomorrow’s position meeting would be a big deal to Becca. Hokor would name her the starting fullback and the backup quarterback. It would be hard on Trevor Haney, but Becca was just that good, and when it came to winning the Galaxy Bowl, “fair” and “nice” weren’t words to be considered.

Quentin looked at the championship ring on his finger. He decided the ring looked lonely — it needed another one to keep it company.

“Three days,” Quentin said. “Three days, and I raise that trophy again.”

• • •

WHILE HE FELT BAD about not being on the practice field with his teammates, Quentin had to admit that a guy could get used to this.

He stood in the middle of the Touchback’s VR room. Up above, through the room’s clear dome, the void’s blackness sparkled with twinkling stars and the occasional fire-flutter from one of Jupiter Net Colony’s endless ships. Instead of fielding questions from a dozen reporters packed around him like a violent mob, he had just one interview at a time: relaxed, calm, easy. Occasionally, being a star had its privileges.

“This is our biggest test of the season, Kinizzle, but we’re up to the challenge,” Quentin said. “We’re here to win.”

The Creterakian’s leathery wings shuddered, a sound that was hard to miss considering Kinizzle was perched on Quentin’s shoulder. Quentin had come to learn that twitchy wings meant annoyance in that species.

“Barnes, I did not travel all the way to Jupiter so you could say the same thing to me you say to every other reporter.”

Quentin shrugged, perhaps a little more than necessary; Kinizzle had to flap a bit to keep balanced.

“If you think I’m going to give you something that will motivate the Jacks two days before the game, you’re mistaken,” Quentin said. “This is my tenth interview in a row, so forgive me if I sound a little repetitive.”

Coach Hokor entered the VR practice room, followed by Nancy Wolf, Kopor the Climber and Trevor Haney. Like Quentin, the three players wore their black game jerseys, the same ones they would be wearing come Sunday. Kopor was all business: he’d been through the Galaxy Bowl media circus before. Nancy and Trevor, on the other hand, were bleary-eyed and looked exhausted.

“Interviews are over,” Hokor said. “Reporters, leave.”

Quentin smiled apologetically to Kinizzle, then pointed to the VR room entryway.

“Sorry, time’s up.”

“Very well,” the Creterakian said. “I am not supposed to take sides, but I hope you win.”

“Oh? You’re secretly a Krakens fan?”

“No, I do not like Don Pine — he strikes me as disingenuous.”

In the past, Quentin would have loved to know more about that, but if he kicked Pine’s ass a second time, the lies and the cowardice wouldn’t really matter anymore. Regardless of what the future brought, Quentin would go forward knowing that he’d won.

Kinizzle fluttered to the entryway and out of the VR room. The guards posted there — Bobby Brobst and the three-eyed HeavyKi Fon-Ga-Kal — watched him carefully as he left.

Hokor called everyone to the center of the 50-yard-diameter room.

“Gather up,” he said. “Gredok is on his way. We have to go over some things.”

Quentin joined them. “Coach, where’s Becca?”

“Still on the practice field, busy in an interview,” Hokor said. “She is not needed for this meeting.”

Gredok strolled in, followed by Virak the Mean wearing his black 58 jersey. They joined Hokor. The players gathered around. Usually, Gredok did the talking, but this time he stood to the side, waiting for his coach to speak. He was there to show that there was to be no disagreement — what Hokor was about to say was official team policy.

“I have made a decision,” the coach said. “Some of you will not like it. Everyone, take a knee.”

Even kneeling, the players surrounding him were still taller than he was, yet Hokor commanded absolute authority.

“Barnes is the starting quarterback, obviously,” he said. “Montagne is the starting fullback. Should Barnes be unable to play, Montagne will take his place. That makes her the numberone fullback and the number-two quarterback.” He turned to face Trevor. “This may be difficult for you, Haney. Montagne is the best choice, even if she’s already played part of the game at fullback.”

Haney’s black and white face couldn’t hide the disappointment, but he nodded. “I understand, Coach. Whatever is best for the team.”

Quentin wondered how Becca might have felt if she’d heard Haney say that.

“Kopor is number two at fullback,” Hokor said. “Any questions?”

The players shook their heads.

The speakerfilm crackled briefly.

“This is Captain Kate. Gredok, are you in the VR room?”

She didn’t sound panicked, exactly, but something had her on edge.

“Of course I am,” Gredok said. “You can see that I am.”

“Cameras are out,” Kate said. “All over the ship. Bad news, boss, I think someone hacked into the Touchback again.”

“Impossible,” Gredok said. “Do you have any idea how much I paid to have that temporary protection hardware installed?”

“Well, someone spent more than you did, because I’m blind up here. And ... wait a minute, your new hardware located the source of the hack ... Jason Procknow’s cabin.”

Virak stepped closer to Gredok, loomed over the Leader like a shield.

“Captain Kate, this is Virak the Mean speaking. I am assuming command of the ship. Where are the reporters?”

“Reporter shuttle just departed,” Kate said. “There’s a few stragglers still on the practice field. We ... dammit, we have forced takeover of multiple systems ... blast doors sealed on practice field ... I think the entire team is trapped in there, and—”

Quentin felt a vibration under his feet, one that hearkened back to the pirate attack of two seasons ago.

“Detonation detected on Deck Two, repeat, detonation detected on Deck Two.”

Virak scooped up Gredok in one middle arm.

“Virak, get us out of here,” Gredok said. “Barnes, Hokor, you come with me.”

What, they were just going to leave Nancy and Trevor? No way.

Before Quentin could say anything, the world exploded around him.

QUENTIN ROLLED to his back. His right ear rang with a constant piercing tone; he wasn’t sure if his left heard anything at all. He coughed, and when he did he felt a stabbing pain in his left forearm. What had happened? VR room ... interviews ... then Hokor ... then Captain Kate, saying someone had hacked ... then ...

A bomb.

The dome ...

He coughed again, peered up through the thin smoke at the stars above. If the VR room’s crysteel dome had cracked, he was dead, as was everyone else around him. He saw glimmering chips of light, the ships of the Jupiter Net Colony moving back and forth in the distance ... but no cracks.

It would hold, at least for now.

Becca ...

Quentin rolled to his hands and knees. Smoke and scattered debris, sentients laying everywhere, some moving, some not. He tried to push off his left hand and stand up, but that jagged ache in his left forearm made him switch to his right. He stood, wobbling, looked at the wound — a thin shard of metal jutted out of it.

What did first aid dictate? Was he supposed to pull the shard out or leave it in?

A voice distracted him.

“Hold on, Nancy, I got you.”

Quentin turned to the sound of that voice — Trevor Haney, blood sheeting the black and white skin of his face. He pressed blood-covered hands down hard on Nancy Wolf’s thigh.

Virak stood up, Gredok once again cradled in his middle arm. Blood matted the Leader’s black fur, but Quentin couldn’t spot the wound. Even in the dim light, the Leader’s jewelry still glimmered. Virak’s jersey was torn and wet in places, but he didn’t look hurt.

Bobby Brobst stumbled in, his fancy suit ripped and smoldering, spotted with blood. Flames had scorched the right side of his face. He held a pistol with both hands, tight to his chest, the barrel pointed down and away.

“Brobst, I am not seriously injured,” Gredok said. “Where is Fon-Ga-Kal?”

“Dead,” Brobst said. The Human reached behind his back and drew a second pistol, this one larger and bulkier than his own. He offered it to Virak.

“Here’s his piece,” Brobst said. “The poor bastard, he got all tore up.”

The HeavyKi was dead? What the hell was happening?

Virak stuffed the pistol into the waistband of his black pants.

Hokor stood, little furry pedipalps vibrating in time with his coughs.

“What happened? Did we get attacked by another ship?”

The question cleared away the last of Quentin’s confusion. No, they hadn’t been shot by another ship; they’d been bombed — bombed by someone with access to the VR room, someone with the money to acquire equipment even better than what Gredok could afford.

Someone in the Zoroastrian Guild.

“Procknow was in the Zoroastrian Guild,” Quentin said. He didn’t know why he only said Procknow — and not Kimberlin as well — but those were the words that came out.

Virak and Gredok looked at Quentin, their expression identical and obvious: how do you know that, and why didn’t you tell us before?

Quentin saw Virak and Gredok’s gaze shift slightly to their right, Quentin’s left. Gredok’s eye remained clear, but Virak’s instantly swirled with blacks and purples; colors that, together, revealed fear and sadness.

Quentin turned — there on the floor lay Kopor the Climber in a growing pool of his own blood, his middle right arm gone along with most of his midsection. The Warrior’s half-lidded eye stared lifelessly, the energy that used to be there faded and gone forever.

Gredok looked to the ceiling. “Captain Cheevers, come in.”

Everyone waited: there was no response.

“Comms are out,” Gredok said. He pointed at Kopor’s body. “That death is on your hands, Barnes. I will address your lack of communication later. We have to move before the attackers come to finish you off.”

“Me? Why do you think they’re after me?”

“Perhaps for assisting Yolanda Davenport with her story on Goldman. Perhaps someone in our organization took a payoff from the Jacks or someone who bet heavily on the game.”

“No way,” Quentin said. “Our teammates and the staff wouldn’t betray us.”

“Money always wins out over loyalty, Barnes, but the reason does not matter right now. If the attackers wanted to destroy the Touchback, they would have targeted the punch drive. Everyone in the organization knew you would be in the VR room this afternoon. Hence, the bomb was for you. This was obviously the work of an amateur, or we would all be dead.”

Haney scooped up the unconscious Nancy, cradled her in his arms. He’d torn off a shred of his own black jersey and tied it tight around her thigh wound. Hokor stood close, squeezing down on the impromptu bandage with his pedipalp hands to provide additional pressure.

“We must leave, now,” Gredok said. “If I were the one ordering a hit, I would make sure my employees confirmed the job was complete. Systems have been compromised, which means we cannot trust escape pods. The shuttle is the most logical way off the Touchback. We will go to the landing deck. If our shuttle is undamaged, we will board and exit the Touchback.”

“Wait,” Quentin said. “What about the rest of the team?”

“Captain Cheevers told us they are locked in the practice field,” Gredok said. “The attacker has no interest in them, just you. I need to get you to safety, Barnes. Brobst, lead us to the aft lift. We’ll take that or the emergency stairs down to Zero Deck and see if we can go through the locker room to the loading dock.”

Smoke everywhere, the VR room a wreck, Kopor and the HeavyKi dead, Nancy wounded and unconscious, yet Gredok sounded calm as could be — obviously, this wasn’t the first time the Leader’s life had been in danger.

The burned Brobst kept his pistol at his chest as he walked to the entryway. Virak followed a few feet behind.

Quentin thought about the Touchback’s layout. The VR room was on Deck Eighteen of the aft section. All decks but One and Zero ended at the practice field’s black end zone. If the practice field was locked, the only way to the forward section was underneath it, on Deck Zero.

He reached out to take Nancy, but Haney shook his head.

“I got her, Q. If they’re coming after you, you need to be able to move.”

Haney and Hokor followed Virak and Gredok out.

Quentin was the last one in the VR room, save for the body of Kopor. He took another look at the corpse of his friend and teammate.

Kopor had just wanted to play football. There was no church that worshiped him, no massive contract, no endorsement deals ... he had just wanted to play. Now he was gone.

That death is on your hands, Barnes.

Rage came; Quentin didn’t fight it. He wanted a weapon. He found a jagged pipe, something that had probably once been part of the VR room’s magic. He held it in his right hand. It felt solid and good in his grasp.

As he exited the room, he saw the remains of the HeavyKi — black blood and entrails splattered across a bulkhead, his insides torn from his long body like someone had skinned a twelve-foot-long alligator. Fon-Ga was his name? He’d had only three eyes left, because Quentin had ruined two of them in a bar fight years ago.

Now he was dead, too.

Quentin jogged to catch up with the others.

Brobst led the group down the high-ceilinged corridor’s orange walls, over its black and white carpeting. Holoframed players, the stars of Ionath’s past and present, looked out, oblivious to the situation. Bobby Adrojnik was one of those framed players: would Quentin wind up just another dead Krakens quarterback cut down in the prime of his career?

The long hallway ended at the small lift lobby. The emergency stairwell door was on the left, and just past it, the lift doors. Across the lobby were the doors to the Krakens administrative office: shut, hopefully locked. Dozens of staff members were in there, probably — Quentin hoped they were smart enough to hide under their desks and stay put.

A beep sounded: the lift was on its way up.

Gredok was right: the killers were coming to finish the job.

“The stairs,” Quentin said. “Move!”

Brobst ran to the stairwell door. He pushed it open, aimed in at the same time.

“Clear,” he said. He held the pistol at his chest, barrel angled at the floor, held the door open with his body.

Virak carried Gredok onto the stairwell’s metal-grate landing. Virak held Gredok with his middle arms, aimed the dead HeavyKi’s pistol with his pedipalp hands, barrel leading the way down. They descended the metal stairs.

Haney went next, struggling to carry Nancy’s 320 pounds.

As Coach Hokor followed them in, the lift door beeped again, and opened.

The killers were here.

Quentin couldn’t put Hokor, Haney and Nancy in further danger by following them down. He had to buy them some time.

Jason Procknow walked out of the lift. He seemed surprised to see Quentin just ten feet away; he stared at the thick pipe Quentin held like a club.

I can take him out, he’s big but not that fast, I can—

Out of the lift behind Procknow, skinniness exaggerated by the HeavyG’s wideness, stepped Jonathan Sandoval.

Quentin froze: he was so screwed.

Sandoval smiled wide.

“Hello again, Quentin.”

“Sandoval, what are you doing?”

“I wanted to cash in on my extraordinary abilities before the bats took them away,” the reporter said. He thumped Procknow on the shoulder, let the hand linger. “Turns out I lost one job, but got another, thanks to this racist piece of garbage.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin saw Bobby Brobst waiting just inside the stairwell door, holding it open with his shoulder, the gun at his chest. He stood still, watching Quentin, waiting for a signal or an opportunity. Quentin wanted to buy Trevor a little more time to get Nancy out of there, for Hokor to get away. Quentin’s body tensed, ready to jump into the stairwell landing at the first hint of Sandoval’s movement.

Quentin gave the smallest shake of the head: no, not yet. Brobst nodded.

Stall, buy them time ... maybe this is about you, but they’ll take out anyone else they can to cover their tracks ...

“You’re something else, Sandoval,” Quentin said. “How did you go from working for the bats to working for the people who want to destroy them?”

“When I saved your life on Neptune, the guys who were trying to kill you recognized me,” Sandoval said. “They came to my place a few days ago. They wanted to kill me, but we got to talking and worked out another solution.”

Kimberlin had been right ... the thugs on Neptune had been Guild.

“Let me guess, Sandoval — they paid you in gems?”

“Cashable all over the galaxy,” Sandoval said. “I’ll buy me a little ranch on New Rodina and live out my days in comfort. I told you I was going to get paid, you moron. Too bad it has to be this way.”

Just a few moments more ...

Sandoval had been paid in gems, which meant the Abernessia were involved ... it didn’t take much to connect the dots.

Quentin glared at Procknow.

“You told your new-blood Guild handlers about what Petra wants me to do. I’m so stupid — I talked about it right in front of you, and told you what Whykor said about the Touchback’s old systems. It never crossed my mind you’d use that info to sell out a teammate.”

“I have kids,” Procknow said quickly, as if having children excused any and all actions. “I know Hokor would have cut me next year, so I’m out of Tier One — no salary, no courier pay. I had to put money away for my family while I still could.”

“And that’s worth murdering your teammates?”

Procknow’s brow furrowed with confusion, then he shook his head.

“No one is going to die. You get roughed up enough that you can’t play on Sunday, but we’re not going to kill anyone.”

He actually believed what he was saying. Behind him, Sandoval smirked.

“Kopor is dead, Jason,” Quentin said. “Your bomb killed him.”

“What?” Procknow shook his head harder. “Don’t try and mess with me, Barnes, that was just flash-bangs.”

“He’s dead. So is one of Gredok’s bodyguards. Just flashbangs?” Quentin held out his left arm, showed the bloody shard sticking out of it. “Do flash-bangs make shrapnel like this?”

Procknow stared at twisted bit of metal. He turned to face Sandoval.

“You told me they were just flash-bangs! You said no one would get hurt! You said we had to make sure Barnes didn’t play!”

Sandoval made a face like the news surprised him. He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Oh, dang, that’s right — I did say we were just going to hurt him. I forgot I told you that. But it all works out, big guy, because as forgetful as I am, there’s something that I do remember. Know what it is?”

Procknow shook his head.

Sandoval smiled. “Where you keep the gems they paid you.”

The reporter’s right arm snapped out, the hand a flat blade, the motion so fast Quentin barely saw it. The tips of his fingers jabbed into Procknow’s thick throat: a surprisingly delicate crunch, the sound of a glass lamp falling only far enough to crack, not shatter.

Procknow was as good as dead. Quentin knew it instantly.

The HeavyG’s knees wobbled. Just as he started to sag, Quentin swung the pipe in a vicious right-to-left arc. Procknow dropped in a heap, the pipe blurring right over where his head had just been and clonking Sandoval in the left temple. The reporter fell to his right, back into the lift.

Quentin stepped to the open lift door, ready to rush in and hit Sandoval again, but stopped — the man was already struggling to his feet. Sandoval’s body wasn’t fully obeying his commands, but his eyes were angry, sharp and focused. The shot he’d just taken should have killed him. Did the mods make him unbeatable?

The lift doors slid closed.

The doors, they get stuck ...

He jammed the pipe into the space between the door and the housing. He shoved it in as far as it would go, then gripped the free end with his right hand and leaned back with all his weight. The pipe groaned, metal against metal, then bent. Quentin let go: the pipe didn’t move, it remained jammed in the door.

Maybe that would buy a few seconds. A slam against the inside of the lift doors made him jump in surprise. He ran into the stairwell.

“Bobby, come on!”

The burned-faced man shook his head. Pain pinched his features, but he was ready to do his job.

“Gredok told me to stay, Mister Barnes, make sure he wasn’t followed. Go!”

Quentin started to protest, but if Bobby made the decision to stay, there wasn’t time to argue about it: Quentin wasn’t going to die for the man.

“Just run,” Quentin said as he started down the stairs. “That guy is modded all to hell!”

Bobby nodded — thanks for the concern — then looked to the stairwell door, ready to shoot.

The pounding from inside the lift reverberated through the stairwell as Quentin descended. His limp left arm messed with his balance. First aid or no first aid, he needed to pull that shard out of his forearm.

He stopped, grabbed the bit of metal with his right hand, and yanked it free with a fast tug. Blood flowed freely. He tossed it aside, metal skittering on metal, then held the wound tight as he started down again.

Quentin reached Deck Zero. Hokor was waiting for him, holding open the stairwell door. Blood covered the black-striped yellow fur of his hands and arms.

Gunshots from above, echoing down the stairwell from eighteen flights up. Quentin paused for a moment, hoping it was over.

Then, the sound of footsteps on metal stairs — footsteps that moved too fast to be from a normal Human.

Quentin nudged Hokor into the corridor, stepped in himself, then quietly shut the stairwell door. Maybe Sandoval would guess wrong and get off on Deck One. Anything to buy some time.

He and Hokor ran down the long hall toward the locker room. Hokor couldn’t hope to keep pace, so Quentin scooped him up with his right arm and sprinted. They were directly under the practice field; Quentin wondered if Becca was above him, if she was okay.

They passed by Doc Patah’s training room on the right and reached the locker-room door, which was closed. Quentin slowed, not knowing if the automatic door was shut off, but it hissed open, half sliding right, half sliding left, and they ran through into the central locker room.

Inside waited Virak, still effortlessly holding Gredok, and Haney, still struggling to carry Nancy’s mass. Haney’s chest heaved from exhaustion.

They stood by the holoboard. Past them was the forward entrance to the locker room. That door opened to a short hall ending in a single flight of metal stairs that led up to the Touchback ’s main corridor, which ran from the practice field’s orange end zone to the loading dock.

“Barnes, put me down,” Hokor said.

Quentin did.

Gredok hopped down as well. He pointed at Haney.

“Get Wolf to the loading dock.”

Haney readjusted Nancy’s weight, then lumbered to the forward door. It hissed open and he went through.

Gredok quietly said something to Virak.

“Yes, Shamakath” the Warrior said, then walked toward Quentin. Quentin didn’t understand what was happening until Virak brushed past, headed for the aft door.

Quentin grabbed his middle arm, stopping him.

“Virak, don’t go back there! It’s Jonathan Sandoval. He’s modded and dangerous. I think he got Bobby — we all have to get out of here.”

Virak looked back to Gredok.

“Follow my orders,” the gangster snapped. “Barnes, you will come with me. Virak will buy us time to get to the shuttle.”

“But he doesn’t stand a chance!”

Quentin’s left arm dangled, limp and useless but still loaded with ripping pain, specks of fire tingling through his bones. He and Virak together might take Sandoval, but with this arm, Quentin was useless in a fight.

“Virak, go,” Gredok said. “Your cowardice shames us both.”

That was all the motivation the Warrior needed: he yanked his arm free. He took three steps toward the aft door, then another Leader’s voice boomed through the locker room.

“Virak, stop!”

For years, Quentin and Virak had followed their coach’s commands; Hokor’s voice had an automatic effect.

Virak stopped.

Hokor stepped face-to-face with Virak.

“Shamakath, Virak needs to come with us,” the coach said. “We can all make the shuttle.”

Gredok’s middle right hand shot up, a stubby fist smashing into Hokor’s sternum. The coach let out a little whine, then fell in a heap on the floor.

“You dare tell me what to do? Get to the loading dock, now! And Barnes, come here. You are irreplaceable. Virak will do his job. Virak, go take care of that yakochat.”

“Don’t do it,” Quentin said. “Ignore this shamakath nonsense. If you go back there, you’re dead. You’re a sentient being — make your own choices!”

Virak’s eye swirled black. He pulled the bulky pistol from his waistband, then sprinted out the aft doors and into the long corridor. The door hissed shut behind him.

Would the gun be enough? Bobby had had a gun, and Sandoval had obviously gotten past him ... did Sandoval now have Bobby’s gun?

Virak was in danger, and it wasn’t his fault ... Quentin had to help him.

He stepped toward the aft door.

“Barnes, I told you to come here” Gredok said. “Virak is doing his duty so that we can escape. I order you to come with me!”

The door hissed open. Quentin stopped.

What are you doing, Quentin? Go to the shuttle, get away. Virak hates you. He’d beat you senseless if he could. What’s it going to help if you die, too?

It wouldn’t help anything, and going after Virak was just plain stupid, but Quentin couldn’t help it.

He turned to face Gredok. Hokor was struggling to his feet; the blow must have really done a number on him.

Quentin pointed to the locker-room’s forward door. “Gredok, run if you want, or—” he pointed right, to the open entrance to the HeavyG dressing room, then left, to the open entrance of the Sklorno dressing room “—just hide if you don’t think you can make it, but either way? You’re a coward. Shuck you.”

Quentin turned and ran down the corridor after his teammate.

QUENTIN HADN’T TAKEN FIVE STEPS before he heard a flurry of gunshots coming from the training room on his left. Something heavy crashed into something heavier, then Virak the Mean stumbled out of the open entryway, hit the wall opposite, and slid down into a heap, leaving red blood smears trailing down the white surface.

The Warrior rolled, slightly, side to side, fresh wetness spreading across two spots on the chest of his black jersey. The big HeavyKi pistol was still held loosely in a pedipalp hand.

Out of the training room stepped Jonathan Sandoval. The tall reporter’s left temple — where Quentin had hit him with the pipe — bled badly, oozing from an already-swollen, split lump. He held Bobby Brobst’s pistol.

Before Quentin could move, the reporter aimed the gun at Quentin’s face.

“You really are a dumbass after all,” Sandoval said. “You should have just run. Not that I wouldn’t have found you anyway.”

Quentin took a step backward.

“Don’t,” Sandoval said. He bent and took the gun out of Virak’s pedipalp hand, then tucked it into his belt.

“I’ve got an idea, Quentin. How about we do this the old-fashioned way? Big, strong kid like you ... maybe you can beat me hand-to-hand. If you would have just paid me, I could have kept these mods. I want to kill you with them before I have some underground doc cut them out of me because, after this little endeavor, I can’t exactly go to a real hospital. I want you to know the pain I’m going to feel. But if you come at me, at least you’ve got a chance, right?”

Quentin calmed himself and read his opponent. There was no hope of beating Sandoval in a straight-up fight. Sandoval’s anger permeated his tall body, made his nostrils flare and — more importantly — made his hand tremble. He wasn’t experienced with firearms; he’d taken out Brobst and Virak, true, but this was still new to him.

Quentin took another step backward. The locker-room door hissed open behind him.

Sandoval leveled his aim.

“Dammit, pretty boy, are you gonna make me shoot you?” He sighed, took a step away from Virak toward Quentin. He was trying to be clever, but Quentin could see something else — the man was terrified. Maybe he had actually thought the bombing would be easy, that he could slip in, find Quentin’s corpse, then slip out... but it had all gotten away from him.

Other than pull that trigger, Sandoval had no idea what to do next.

And neither did Quentin. He had to draw Sandoval into the locker room, maybe grab a helmet and use that as a weapon.

Why didn’t you just get on the shuttle, why did you come back here, why why why ...

Now or never.

Quentin turned and dove in the same motion, knowing he was probably going to get shot but not having any other choice. The gun went off behind him, once, twice, then he hit the locker-room floor and rolled over his right shoulder, tucking into a ball, driving his powerful legs down hard and launching himself to the right, away from the door.

The gun went off again: this time, Quentin felt a burning impact on his right shoulder blade.

He landed hard but was up in an instant, sprinting the ten feet to the HeavyG locker room. The gun went off again as he ran through the open door. He heard something crack to his left — he turned a hard right, getting out of Sandoval’s line of sight.

“Damn, you’re fast,” the reporter called out behind him.

Quentin reached into the first locker he found and grabbed the helmet hanging there. The same shape as his, but wider, heavier, built to fit the larger HeavyG head. He tucked his back into the shallow locker, the wooden sides touching either shoulder. Maybe he could get one hit in when Sandoval entered the room, maybe knock him out.

Quentin stayed perfectly still. He’d learned to control his rage; he discovered the same emotional mastery let him push the terror to the back of his mind, hold it at bay while he did what he had to do. He held the helmet in his right hand, up high near his ear, arm cocked and ready to strike.

He saw the gun. Just the barrel, but he swung instantly. The helmet snapped down on the weapon, knocking it out of Sandoval’s hand: it clattered against the hard floor. Quentin stepped out of the locker and reared back for another swing — a fist drove into his mouth, knocking him backward. The helmet dropped out of his hand. He tried to get his feet under him but couldn’t move them fast enough.

He fell hard on his ass.

Through watering eyes, he stared up at Sandoval, who was shaking his right hand.

“Man, that hurt” Sandoval said. “I’ve about had it with—”

Quentin popped to his feet instantly, came forward hard to put a shoulder into the skinny man’s stomach.

Sandoval’s foot kicked out, caught Quentin full in the face, knocking him to the right. Quentin’s own momentum rode him into a locker; he smashed into the wooden panels, snapping them off the wall — quarterback, helmet, pads and panels alike crashed to the floor.

The world faded out for a moment, then back in. Quentin reached down, tried to push himself up but his left arm screamed and gave up instantly, while his right arm felt like it was made of cold meat.

“Yeah, you’re fast,” Sandoval said. “But not faster than me. Maybe I should try out for the GFL, huh? Oh, that’s right, I can’t because I’m not a genetic freak like you damn monsters.”

Quentin wouldn’t give up, couldn’t give up. He got to his knees, put his right foot flat, started to rise ...

... and from that position, through the seven-foot-tall Sandoval’s legs, he saw Hokor the Hookchest, HeavyG helmet facemask held in the fingers of his left-middle arm. The coach swung the helmet like he was bowling: the rounded crown almost brushed the floor as it passed between Sandoval’s feet, then arced up and hit Sandoval dead in the crotch.

The tall man grunted in surprise and pain; he half folded, knees buckling, face pinched tight, then he twisted back and to the left: the side of his fist smashed into Hokor’s head, knocking the little Leader to the floor and sending his tiny Krakens ball cap tumbling away.

The reporter turned to go after him, walking awkwardly with his legs pressed together, his expression of agony shifting to one of rage.

Quentin got his other foot under him, pushed his back against the wall and used it to help him stand.

Then he saw it... Bobby’s gun, sitting just right of the entrance, only a few feet away.

“You scumbag Quyth,” Sandoval said. “You hit me in the balls!”

The reporter launched a snap-kick that drove into Hokor’s little body with a muffled crunch — the Leader flew across the floor, landed and flopped, furred body convulsing.

Quentin took one step toward the gun; his leg gave out instantly—

BLINK—

It was like being on the football field ... no noise ... no nothing, only movement, pure and natural and effortless. He fell toward the gun, reaching his right hand out like he was stretching a ball over the goal line.

Sandoval heard him and turned, seemed to move with the same agonizing slowness Quentin felt. Sandoval’s eyes, first locking on Quentin, then on the gun.

Sandoval’s hand shot to his waist to draw the HeavyKi’s pistol.

Quentin’s body hit the floor; his right hand landed on the gun, his fingers closed around the cool metal.

BLINK—

Quentin rolled to his right shoulder, right arm stiff and straight, gun pointed at Sandoval.

Sandoval froze, the HeavyKi’s pistol in his hand but still pointed down.

Quentin hurt all over, far worse than any game he’d played, but he could hide the pain like he’d hid it a hundred times out on the field. There was a man holding a gun, a man who had come to kill him, yet Quentin felt as calm as he did while standing in the pocket.

“Put it down, Sandoval.”

The reporter’s wide eyes revealed much. He knew he’d made a mistake, knew he should have just shot Quentin earlier, and now he had a gun pointed at him. The turmoil of that decision — choosing to punish Quentin instead of just finishing the job — roiled across his face.

“Put it down” Quentin said again.

Sandoval shook his head. Fear on that face, sure, but also a cold determination, and an all-powerful, underlying confidence in his modded abilities.

“I don’t think so,” Sandoval said.

“Know what the difference between us is?”

The reporter slowly shook his head.

“I’ve got a steady hand,” Quentin said.

Sandoval glanced down involuntarily, saw his pistol’s slight shake. His eyes flicked up to Quentin’s weapon. Despite the punch, the bullet wound, the kick to the head, the crash into the locker and using the wrong hand, Quentin’s gun might as well have been forever fixed in place for all it moved.

“Just drop it,” Quentin said, his voice calm and even. “Then get on the floor, face down.”

“What, and lace my fingers behind my head? You watch a lot of movies, Barnes?”

“Enough to know how this one ends.”

Quentin saw Sandoval’s nostrils flare, saw the locker-room lights reflecting off the pulse in his neck. The man was panicking. He was desperate.

“I can’t,” Sandoval said. “You know what they’ll do to me?”

“Whatever it is, you deserve it, and more. Final warning — the next sound you make will be your last.”

Sandoval forced a smile. “You ever killed anyone before, Barnes? You know what that feels like?”

Quentin pulled the trigger.

The gun jumped in his hand.

Sandoval’s head snapped back, then lolled forward. He fell face first, right cheek on the locker room’s tile, eyes wide open and staring. Blood oozed out of a spot in the middle of his forehead. He didn’t move.

Quentin stared into those lifeless eyes.

“I know now,” he said to the dead man. The dead man didn’t answer.

Blackness swept over Quentin, a welcome, much-deserved, much-beaten-into-him drop into unconsciousness, but a wet, rattling sound brought him back.

He tried to stand, still couldn’t manage it, so he crawled instead, crawled across the floor to Hokor the Hookchest.

“Coach, I’m here. Hold tight, I’ll get some help.”

The Leader shivered uncontrollably. Blood coated his black Krakens jacket. His pedipalp and middle arms were drawn in tight to his sides, making him look like a bumblebee that had just rolled to its back and was about to die.

Hokor started coughing. He stared straight up at the ceiling. For a moment, Quentin expected the coughs to kick out droplets of blood. When they didn’t, he felt a quick surge of hope — a hope that was dashed when spots of blood appeared somewhere else: inside the softball-sized cornea.

Quentin had no idea what to do. He put a hand lightly on Hokor’s chest.

“Coach, come on”

The lids blinked once, twice, a third time. Through the cornea, Quentin could see the little discs that lined Hokor’s eye cone, the cone that seemed to go back much farther than the head would allow.

“Barnes, are you out of danger?”

“Yeah, Coach, I’m fine.”

“Your face ... Humans are ugly to begin with, but now ... how unfortunate.”

For a moment, Quentin saw a reflection of himself in Hokor’s cornea: face sheeted with blood; nose broken, resting more on the side of his face than the front; lower lip swollen horribly; tooth missing, again, but he didn’t care about that now.

“Barnes, I am afraid I will not be able to coach you in the Galaxy Bowl.”

“Shut up,” Quentin said. He felt the tears coming, felt a hammer twisting in his chest. “Doc Patah will fix you up. All I have to do is get you to the rejuve tank — there’s got to be first-aid steps in the computer. Just hang tight.”

Quentin reached under Hokor, lifted him gently, but even that slight motion made the Leader squeal in agony.

“Sorry, Coach! Just hold on.”

Quentin forced his legs to obey. He carried Hokor into the central dressing room; Hokor cried out with each step. Quentin could feel the broken parts of his coach (how could any living being be this light?) beneath the Krakens jacket and the fur.

The aft doors open and he carried Coach into the corridor. Virak was still down, still in a wide pool of blood: Quentin had to help him as well. Yes, help Virak, but Coach first, he couldn’t lose Coach ...

Into the training room. He carried Hokor to the first rejuve tank.

“Barnes, set me down.”

Quentin carefully rested Hokor on a training bed, then examined the rejuve tank’s controls.

“Barnes ... too late for that.”

A sense of utter finality to those words — inarguable, unavoidable.

Quentin turned back to the table. Hokor lay there, battered, broken, bloody and shivering. More blood flecks inside his cornea now, making it a red color that Quentin wouldn’t have associated with any mood or emotion, because that color meant only one thing.

Quentin couldn’t stop the tears from coming. He didn’t sniffle, his swollen lip didn’t quiver, but tears flowed down his face all the same.

“Dammit, Coach ... you should have listened to Gredok. You should have gone to the shuttle.”

“I had to come help you,” Hokor said, his voice a paper-thin hiss of air. “Gredok is a criminal ... he is not a true leader. He is not like you and me — he will never understand what it means to be part of a team.”

Quentin took Hokor’s hand in his own. The fur was cold with blood. No strength in that hand, just enough to squeeze lightly, just enough to say: you are my friend, and I will miss you.

“You saved me, Coach. If you hadn’t come, Sandoval would have killed me.”

Hokor’s body shuddered again. More blood splattered inside the cornea. Then, he stopped shivering, seemed to relax.

“Football was my life, Barnes. Whatever it takes ... get me my second championship.”

Coach Hokor the Hookchest convulsed one last time; he lay still.

The gleam in his eye faded, darkened, then went out forever.

“YOUNG QUENTIN, I have to consult with the doctors on the Regulator,” Patah said. “I will be back momentarily.”

Quentin nodded once, his chin dipping into the rejuve tank’s pink fluid when he did.

Patah fluttered out of the training room.

The tank’s warmth soothed Quentin’s shoulder, but it did nothing for his soul.

He had taken a sentient’s life. Hokor the Hookchest was dead. So was Kopor the Climber. So was Procknow. So was Gredok’s HeavyKi bodyguard. Bobby Brobst, too, courtesy of a bullet in his brain: Sandoval had stood over him, shot him from only a few feet away.

If Quentin had told Gredok about Sandoval, or told Froese, would the Coach still be alive? Would Kopor? Or, would Quentin be the one who had died?

Thinking about the possibilities was driving him crazy.

And that wasn’t the only thing grinding at his thoughts: there was something wrong with his left arm. Something very wrong. This wasn’t a shattered pinkie, a broken bone, a cut artery or torn skin ... this was a kind of pain he’d never felt before.

Three of the medbay’s five rejuve tanks held occupants: one with Quentin, one with Nancy Wolf, one with Virak the Mean.

Froese’s white-suited shock troops, Creterakians included, had come in hard, responding to Captain Kate’s distress call. They had swept the ship for explosives and weapons. As far as Quentin knew, Froese’s goons were still onboard — which was interesting, because Gredok the Splithead was not.

Quentin had heard the team owner was on the Regulator, but he didn’t know for sure. The little coward. Was the overall situation Quentin’s fault? Sure, but was that last bit of what went down Gredok’s fault?

Yes. Absolutely.

Nancy Wolf was still unconscious. She was going to be fine, apparently, but it had been close. Patah had patched up her wound. In a few days, she would be okay, as long as she didn’t do anything too strenuous too soon.

Virak sat deep in his tank’s pink fluid, only his head visible, his half-lidded eye staring out blankly. He was taking Hokor’s loss hard.

Quentin stared abstractly at the holotank screens showing the wounds and vitals of the three patients, but he didn’t really see those things: he saw that dead look on Sandoval’s face, the way the man collapsed on the floor like he had no bones at all. Quentin knew he’d see Sandoval’s face over and over again, maybe for the rest of his life.

Procknow had betrayed the team. What was Kimberlin’s role in all of this? Maybe he had nothing to do with this attack, but if Quentin had turned in both Procknow and Kimberlin, Coach would still be alive. And why, after all the death, after everything that had gone down, was Quentin still not telling anyone Kimberlin’s secret?

“It is my fault,” Virak said.

Quentin laughed, a dark thing.

“Hardly,” he said. “You had nothing to do with this.”

“My fault,” the Warrior repeated. “If I had shot Sandoval before he shot me, Coach Hokor would be alive. You would not be in that tank. And Gredok would be here, with us, instead of abandoning us.”

There was plenty of blame to go around, but none of it belonged to the linebacker.

“You tried,” Quentin said. “You were brave. You followed your orders.”

“Which you told me not to follow. I wanted to listen to you ... but I had to obey.”

Choto had once tried to explain to Quentin about a Warrior’s need to protect his Leader, his shamakath. Quentin understood logically, if not emotionally. That instinct wasn’t like a Human dutifully following orders: with the Quyth, it was much more an obsession, even a biological compulsion.

Virak’s eye swirled with red-orange: shame. Even beyond the loss and the crushing feeling of emptiness, Quentin’s heart broke for his teammate.

“It’s not your fault, Virak. None of it is. You have to trust me on that.”

“I am upset for another reason,” the Warrior said. “I have been ... cruel to you. And yet, you came back for me.”

Quentin’s choices had gotten sentients killed — he couldn’t handle any kind of praise.

“We’re teammates, Virak. You would have done the same for me.”

“No, I would not have.”

A moment of silence followed. Quentin knew Virak was telling the truth. The Warrior worked for a liar, and yet didn’t have it in himself to lie at all.

“Not unless Gredok ordered me to,” Virak said. “That is why I am struggling to understand. I would have left you, Quentin, yet if you had not come back for me, Sandoval would have put a bullet in my head as he did with Brobst.”

Doc Patah fluttered into the training room, ending the conversation. His skin looked paler than normal, clung tightly to cartilaginous ribs that moved in and out with irregular, stressed breathing.

Quentin’s left arm twinged, a bright stab that shot from his forearm to his armpit.

Please tell me I’ll be fine, please ...

“Young Quentin, I have consulted with my colleagues from the league, and they agree with my findings. I know you have been through an ordeal this afternoon, so perhaps we could discuss it later.”

Quentin sank a little lower in the pink fluid. It covered his chin, his jaw.

“Just say it, Doc.”

His own voice sounded distant, hollow.

“Perhaps later is better, young Quentin. In private.”

“Virak is my teammate,” Quentin said. The words seemed to come from somewhere else, from someone with barely enough energy to breathe. “Just say it, Doc — I won’t be able to play in the Galaxy Bowl, even if it’s postponed.”

Doc hesitated, unsure of what to do.

“It is worse than that,” he said finally. “You have ... it is better if I show you.”

Quentin had a moment to wonder what could be worse than missing the Galaxy Bowl, then the significance of what that might be set in.

No ... this couldn’t be happening.

Doc Patah flew to a holotank, moved it closer so Quentin could see it without sitting up. Doc called up an image, a representation of Quentin’s left arm: no skin, muscle done in translucent red, bone in translucent white, dense threads of nerves in shades of yellow. Some of the nerves, however, were orange.

“You have severe nerve damage in your left arm.”

“So fix it,” Quentin said. “That’s your job.”

“I cannot. No one can.”

Quentin felt cold. Cold and furious. He wanted to shoot Jonathan Sandoval all over again.

“Young Quentin, if there was anything that could be done, I would do it. Please understand that I am an expert on these types of injuries.”

“Like you’re an expert on concussions?”

Patah’s sensory pits pinched tight, held that way for a moment, then relaxed.

“No, not like my so-called diagnosis of your concussion,” he said. “I have not discussed this with Gredok. I’m not saying this because of pressure from him, Quentin, or from anyone else. This is real. If you doubt me — which I would fully expect, considering my past behavior — the league doctors will come to the Touchback and confirm what I am telling you.”

Maybe instead of wanting to shoot Sandoval again, Quentin wanted to shoot Doc Patah. Maybe he wanted to shoot anyone. This wasn’t happening, Patah was a hack, he—

Another blast of pain rocked Quentin’s arm.

“Doc, you got to fix me up. Drugs, nerve blocks, cut the damn thing open if you have to, but fix me — this is the Galaxy Bowl we’re talking about.”

“And you will not be playing in it,” Doc Patah said. The mechanical voice coming from his backpack grew more analytical, firmer.

“The damage to your arm involves the palmar branch of your median nerve,” Doc said. “It was severed by the shrapnel. I have repaired it, but it will never be the same. You will regain normal range of motion, perhaps even tomorrow.”

“So if I’m all better tomorrow, what’s the damn problem? Why are you scaring the hell out of me?”

“You will not be all better,” Doc said. “I am one hundred percent convinced that your fine motor control will be severely compromised. Your throws will have no accuracy. Your hand strength will also be reduced to the point where you will be likely to fumble if hit. I’ve seen similar damage before, Quentin — no one comes back from an injury like this.”

No one comes back. Quentin looked at the holotank. The angry orange nerves glared, blazed a message of doom. His chest felt empty. His stomach wasn’t there at all.

“I’m different,” Quentin said. “I always come back from injuries. I can play, Doc.”

A ripple washed over Doc’s taut old skin. His wings stopped undulating. He started to drift toward the floor. Then, the wings flapped, with purpose, and he rose back up again.

“Quentin, I am not making myself clear. This is more than the Galaxy Bowl. There is no recovery from an injury of this kind. You will never again throw with any degree of accuracy, let alone the pinpoint targeting that made you what you were — your career ... is over.”

From down the hall came the sound of the aft locker room doors hissing open. In case there was any more danger, the locker room had been declared off-limits to anyone other than Patah, the patients, and Commissioner Froese.

“Doc, say nothing about this, to anyone,” Quentin hissed. “Virak, same for you. You both give me your word.”

“You have my word,” Virak said instantly.

Quentin glared up at Patah.

“Young Quentin, I have responsibilities to—”

“Say nothing. Cross me and I’ll kill you.”

Patah fluttered backward a few feet, an automatic reaction.

“I promise,” he said. “I promise.”

Quentin had threatened Patah’s life and had meant it. He was turning into something awful ... because, perhaps, that’s what he needed to become.

Commissioner Rob Froese walked into the training room, followed closely by Leiba the Gorgeous. Froese took in the tanks, eyes lingering on Nancy, then Virak and, finally, Quentin.

“I’m sorry about your coach and teammates,” Froese said. “Coach Hokor the Hookchest will be missed.”

The sincerity in Froese’s voice and eyes made Quentin remember just how great Hokor had been. The psychotic rage that had made Quentin threaten Patah vanished in an instant, washed away in a sudden, overpowering wave of grief.

“Thank you, Commissioner,” Quentin said. “Did Gredok mention anything about a service for Hokor and the others?”

Froese’s face hardened at the mention of Gredok.

“He hasn’t,” Froese said. “Seems he’s upset that Hokor disobeyed him. I’m handling the service arrangements — personally. I ordered their remains taken to the Regulator, in hopes of returning the Touchback to whatever passes for normal following a thing like this. After the Galaxy Bowl, there will be a service for Hokor and Kopor.”

Quentin thought of Bobby Brobst, standing at the top of the stairwell. Hired hand or not, the man hadn’t run.

“What about the two bodyguards?”

“What about them?”

“They died, too. Are their lives any less important than Hokor and Kopor’s?”

“They were gangsters, Barnes,” Froese said. “We’re not going to celebrate them like they were heroes. You want to do that on your own? Be my guest.”

Maybe Quentin would do just that. If it hadn’t been for Brobst buying some time, the service might well have been for Quentin, too.

Froese looked up at Patah.

“Doctor, hit the road.”

“I beg your pardon? I am treating my patients.”

“I need five minutes,” Froese said. “If you’re gone that long, will any of these three die?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then get out.”

Patah hovered in place for a moment, then silently flew out of the training room.

“We need to talk,” Froese said to Quentin. “There isn’t any time to wait, so we’re going to do this right now. Virak, are you listening?”

The Warrior’s eye glanced over, only slightly, but enough to show that he was paying attention.

“Good,” Froese said. “Barnes, we found two bags of gems on Sandoval, upwards of ten million credits’ worth. We also found a few loose gems hidden in Procknow’s room. We’ve pieced it together — someone paid Procknow to plant explosives. He smuggled them in on his person. Really advanced stuff, small but powerful.”

“Procknow didn’t think the bombs would kill anyone,” Quentin said. “I think Sandoval lied to him.”

“Possibly,” Froese said. “What matters, though, is that someone paid Procknow to not only plant bombs, but also sneak Sandoval deeper into the Touchback during the Media Day craziness. In Procknow’s room, we found the gear Sandoval used to hack into the ship’s systems. It’s high-grade stuff, Barnes — my people haven’t seen anything like it. Neither have our Creterakian military liaisons. I have people trying to find out how much it cost and where it came from, but it’s safe to say the word expensive doesn’t begin to cover it.”

So much for Gredok’s temporary fix. Yet another reason that Hokor was dead — because the team owner was too cheap to do things right.

“Barnes, if I had known that Sandoval was modded up like a damn shock trooper, he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near this ship,” Froese said. “Did you already know about Sandoval’s mods, Barnes?”

Quentin stayed quiet.

“Fantastic,” Froese said. “I know there’s only one way Sandoval could have gotten away with those mods, how the scans ignored him, and that’s if he was working for the Creterakian government. If you know which department he was working for, Barnes, you better tell me now.”

“And if I don’t say anything?”

“Then you never play football again,” Froese said. “I’ll know you’re a danger to my league, and I will kick your ass on down the road.”

Quentin studied the commissioner but didn’t have to do it for long — Froese meant every word.

“The CMR,” Quentin said. “That’s why I called in that favor and had you tell Yolanda you met with Richfield.”

Quentin quickly told Froese about the CoQB’s numbers, Sandoval’s blackmail attempt and the schism ploy.

Froese sighed and shook his head. “You should have come to me sooner. I could have done something. But you didn’t, and now—”

“And now Coach is dead,” Quentin said. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

Quentin had studied the commissioner. Now the commissioner studied him.

“I’ve talked to the CMR since Yolanda’s story, and they are fully convinced your church is no longer a threat,” Froese said. “They didn’t order Sandoval to attack you. That means someone else wants you dead in a bad way. Do you know who, and do you know why?”

He did know. The Abernessia had corrupted the Guild. They had given Procknow and Sandoval an insane amount of money to take Quentin out. Quentin had inadvertently told Procknow about Petra, and Procknow had told the Guild. How the Guild knew to hire Sandoval, Quentin didn’t know. That part didn’t really matter at the moment. What mattered was an obvious and frightening fact: Petra wasn’t the only one who thought Quentin could stop the invaders — the invaders did, too.

He’d been stupid to mention Petra’s visit in front of Procknow and Kimberlin. Procknow was dead; Kimberlin was not. Mike was still a suspect in all of this. But, this nightmare started because Quentin hadn’t thought about what he said — or who he was saying it too — before he spoke. He wasn’t about to make that same mistake again.

“I don’t know who would want to kill me. Sandoval didn’t say, neither did Procknow.”

The commissioner eyed him, trying to gauge the truth, but Quentin had hid his emotions from better players than Froese.

“Whoever paid them is still out there,” Quentin said. “You better make sure I’m protected, that we’re all protected, both while the Galaxy Bowl is postponed and during the game itself.”

“I’m not postponing anything,” Froese said instantly. “I’ve already informed your team owner, but that’s part of why I came down here, to tell you in person. The Galaxy Bowl is in two days, as scheduled.”

Quentin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Two of our players died. Our coach was murdered, our team bus bombed, our starting outside linebacker shot — twice — and our starting quarterback with a ...” Quentin almost said dead arm, but caught himself. “All beat to hell. You have to postpone the game, Froese.”

“What I have to do is preserve the integrity of this league.”

“The league? Integrity? You’re just as much a controlling thug as the gangsters you constantly whine about. You bully, you manipulate — you’re not the commissioner of the GFL, you are its dictator. What you say goes, so just say the word postponed. Are you that disrespectful to Hokor, to the entire damn sport?”

Froese had seemed sympathetic; any shred of that sentiment faded away.

“Never question my commitment to football,” he said. “Never. When the city of Bord was in revolt, civilians and players alike dead from the violence, I didn’t postpone anything. Thousands of civilians died in Coranadillana, battles raged through that system, and I didn’t change one damn thing about the Cloud Killers’ schedule for the Cloud Killers. Those were normal, regular-season games — this is the Galaxy Bowl. This will be the most watched event in the history of civilization. Do you understand that, Barnes? This sport reaches across all species and all cultures, the only positive thing that does that. If I do anything that lets sentients think attacking the league will draw attention to whatever shucking cause they believe in, then everyone in the league becomes more of a target. I can’t let that happen. As long as I can guarantee the safety of the players in that stadium, the game goes on.”

“We have three sentients dead, Froese. Good job guaranteeing safety.”

Froese aimed a stubby finger at Quentin’s face.

“Those deaths are on you, Barnes. You could have come to me, but you didn’t. After the game, you and I are going to have a long talk and all of this is going to come out, but not now. There are three Creterakian cruisers nearby, in addition to the Regulator. A Creterakian carrier is en route. A company of Creterakian soldiers is in the stadium, and a division of Union marines is patrolling Red Storm City. The Galaxy Bowl will be safe, and it will be Sunday.”

“If you won’t postpone the game, we won’t play,” Quentin said. “I’ll tell Gredok we should protest.”

The little Human nodded. “Gredok said the same thing, so I’ll tell you what I told him. Come the scheduled kickoff time, if Ionath isn’t on that field, Ionath forfeits. Sunday, one way or another, a champion gets crowned.”

A memory flashed of Sandoval kicking Hokor so hard the Leader flew, and Quentin suddenly wanted to do the same to Froese.

“We worked too hard for this,” Quentin said. “We sacrificed too much. We can’t play Sunday ... it’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” Froese said. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

Doc Patah fluttered back in. “Your requested time is up, Commissioner. Are you finished harassing my patients?”

Froese gave the edge of Quentin’s rejuve tank a quick double-tap.

“I am, Doctor. Barnes, Virak, good luck on Sunday. May the best team win.”

The commissioner and Leiba walked out.

Virak finally spoke.

“We have to win. For Coach.”

Quentin closed his eyes. He felt the same way. Froese wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t compromise. There was a way to win. Had to be.

“I’ll play,” Quentin said. “I can make it work.”

“No, you can’t,” Doc Patah said. “I am telling you, young Quentin, that if you play quarterback, you will guarantee an Ionath loss. You can’t throw, and if you carry the ball, you will fumble.”

Patah treasured the championship as much as anyone in the organization — he wouldn’t exaggerate about such a thing.

“You have Montagne,” the Harrah said. “She started at quarterback and we won. Play her.”

Quentin huffed. “With Nancy out and Kopor dead? We’re out of fullbacks. We can’t run the offense without a fullback, not with only one day to make adjustments.”

“We will use Haney,” Virak said. “He is not a good quarterback, but at least we will have a chance. Montagne will give him protection.”

Was that worth a try? Becca was better than Trevor, and she’d already led the team to a win. The Krakens needed Becca behind center — that meant they needed someone at fullback who knew the offense, someone big, someone strong, who could hit ... like Yassoud, maybe?

Or ... maybe there was another player who could fill that role.

“Doc, go get Becca, John and Ju,” Quentin said. “Bring them here.”

“Right away, young Quentin.” The Harrah shot out of the room.

Quentin saw the field in his head, saw the lines of power.

Hokor was gone; he couldn’t count on Coach’s guidance anymore.

Gredok had bailed.

All leadership fell to Quentin.

There was an answer: whatever it was, he would find it.

Live feed from
UBS GameDay holo-cast coverage

“Hello, football fans, and welcome to UBS Sports coverage of Galaxy Bowl Twenty-Eight. I’m Masara the Observant, and with me, as always, is Chick McGee.”

“Hello, Masara, hello, folks at home.”

“Chick, what a matchup we have tonight for the championship of the Galactic Football League.”

“Right you are, Masara. A rematch of Galaxy Bowl Twenty-Seven, and a rematch of two quarterbacks that are both already promised permanent places in the history books. The living legend Don Pine leading his Jupiter Jacks up against the young gun Quentin Barnes and his defending GFL champion Ionath Krakens.”

“Chick, Barnes actually survived a bombing onboard the Touchback only two days ago, a bombing that took the lives of fullback Kopor the Climber and coach Hokor the Hookchest.”

“Masara, a sadder moment the league has never known. UBS Sports has prepared a piece covering the career of Hokor, from his start with the Harlon Headhunters right up through his Galaxy Bowl title with the Krakens. Let’s take a look.”

• • •

THE VISITING LOCKER ROOM of Rolling Rock Stadium.

Quentin stood in the central area, looking at his hard-faced teammates. The holoboard was off. They’d gone over pregame prep, done all they could to get ready for the battle to come. He knew what he was going to say — speaking those four words wouldn’t take long.

Black armor, black jerseys. Ironic that they wore home jerseys when playing on Jupiter’s field, but the Galaxy Bowl was normally in a neutral site and the “home” team was the one with the best regular-season record. The Krakens had gone undefeated, so that honor fell to them.

The players held their helmets in their hands or tentacles. The black jerseys were the same as they had been all season, with two exceptions. One, Messal’s crew had sewn a “Galaxy Bowl XXVIII” patch on the left shoulder. On the right shoulder, they had sewn a small orange rectangle with the letters “HH/KC” in white.

HH/KC: Hokor the Hookchest, and Kopor the Climber.

George Starcher had painted his face yellow with black stripes: a tribute to Coach Hokor. It might have looked ridiculous at any other time, but this day, it was perfection.

The Warriors carapaces bore fresh engravings of the Quyth-language names of both Kopor and Hokor. Choto, Pishor, Shayat and Tara had all lost fellow players on the field, but to lose a Leader? That was far more difficult for all of them to take.

Quentin’s gaze lingered on Kimberlin. Other than in practice, he hadn’t spoken to the man since the bombing. Was Kimberlin friend, or enemy? Quentin didn’t know. What he did know was that, to have any chance of winning, the team needed Kimberlin on that offensive line — good or bad, right or wrong, that trumped turning the man in.

Were there things more important than football? Yes, but not today.

Quentin turned in place. He looked at each of his teammates, one at a time, saying nothing. Aside from Nancy — who wouldn’t play that day—Josh Athanas, Trevor Haney and backup safety Dimitrovgrad, the players had all done this dance a year earlier: the veterans knew was at stake.

He raised his right fist, careful to tuck his left close to his body. The players moved in, pressed around him, reached up to his hand, elite athletes unified in purpose and spirit.

Quentin waited until everyone joined, until the soft clacking of pads and armor faded out.

“For Kopor,” he said. “For Coach.”

There wasn’t a sound of agreement as much as there was a vibration, a collective buzz that even though this was the Galaxy Bowl, more was on the line than ever before. It wasn’t about a perfect season anymore. It wasn’t even really about the championship, at least not for themselves. Death dulled the game’s sheen, but not its edge: this win mattered.

“John, Ju,” Quentin said, “take them out.”

Quentin caught John’s eye, gave a slight tip of the chin. John nodded. He understood. The Tweedy brothers walked to the tunnel, the rest of the players following along, a column of orange and black marching to battle.

Only one remained.

Becca sat on a bench next to the wall, as if she might hide there, shrink away until no one could see her. She stared at the floor.

Quentin waited for the locker room to empty, then stood in front of her. Becca saw his armored feet. She looked up; he saw fear in her eyes.

“Hey, Q. Come to give me a pep talk?”

He shook his head. “Too late for that. At this point in the season, you’re either ready or you’re not — you’re ready.”

She extended her fingers, stared at them. Her hands were shaking.

“Becca, I don’t know what you’re worried about. You are undefeated as a starter, after all.”

He’d hoped she might laugh, but she didn’t.

“This isn’t the regular season,” she said. “This isn’t a game that doesn’t really matter because we’ve already qualified for the playoffs. This is the Galaxy Bowl. This is it. Everyone on the team is counting on me. What if I can’t handle the pressure? What if I screw up?”

Quentin thought about telling her what she wanted to hear, that she would excel, that everything would come natural. He wanted to tell her that after the first hit, it would be just another game. He wanted to tell her that she was a Valkyrie, that she had been born for this moment. He wanted to tell her a hundred other things that would have sounded nice and showed his confidence in her.

Instead, he told her the truth.

“You will screw up,” he said. “You’re starting at quarterback on only one day’s practice before the biggest game of the year, before the game that makes legends. You’ll screw up, and when you do, we’ll correct it on the sidelines, just like Hokor used to do with me.”

She hadn’t expected him to be blunt. She’d expected sugar, but Quentin was all out.

“What if I can’t correct it?”

Quentin shrugged. “Then I sit your ass down and I put Haney in. Someone is going to win me that Galaxy Bowl, Becca.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Remember when you told me I suck at pep talks? Well, you’re worse.”

“This is reality,” he said. “You want to hear more of it? You’re slow. You don’t have the strongest arm. Your accuracy isn’t what it needs to be to cut it in Tier One. On paper, Becca, you’re a terrible quarterback. But we don’t play on paper. You are one of the nicest people I have ever met in my life, and you are so good to me, but when you step on that field, you know what you are?”

She shook her head.

“You’re mean” Quentin said. “You are a nasty, dirty, brutal, mean player. Just like me. That’s what matters tonight. History doesn’t remember that you won ugly — history only remembers that you won. If I didn’t think you could do this, you’d be lining up at fullback. Go out there and shock the galaxy. Tonight, this is your team.”

The last of the fear faded from her eyes. If he had told her she would play a flawless game, she wouldn’t have believed him.

“Mean” she said. She stood up. That killer look was back in her eyes. “You know what? I don’t care how we got here. Tonight, I couldn’t give a damn why I’m starting in the Galaxy Bowl. I want that ring. And if anyone gets in my way, I’m going to make them hurt.”

Quentin’s heart hammered, his pulse raced. Was this what it felt like when he swaggered his way in front of the team and told them they would find a way to win? If so, he now understood why people followed him, because as surprising as it was, he wanted to follow the Wrecka.

“For Coach,” she said.

Quentin nodded. “For Coach. John held everyone at the tunnel for you. Go lead your team onto the field.”

JUST INSIDE THE MOUTH of the tunnel, Quentin Barnes stood alone. He heard the crowd burbling, waiting for the game to begin. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, taking in the scents of the night.

He wore his helmet, knowing it might be the final time he did that, the final time he wore the Orange and the Black of his beloved Krakens.

Not just his Krakens ... any football uniform.

This was his last game.

On Saturday, the day before the game, he’d spoken with the league docs. Doctor Ganagati had reinforced Patah’s diagnosis: Quentin was done as a quarterback. Maybe he could prove them wrong, maybe not, but if they were right, it meant he had one chance — one chance only — to help his team to another league tide.

But if the docs were wrong, if there was any opportunity of beating the odds and lining up at quarterback again, going out on that field tonight, taking damage tonight, would probably end that chance forever. So, he faced a truly impossible choice: protect himself or do what was best for the team.

Quentin chose team.

He’d joined the Micovi Raiders at the age of fifteen. Four seasons there, during which Quentin won twenty-three games, lost four, and brought home two PNFL titles. He remembered each and every contest. He remembered every play, the smell of the grass on every field.

Then the glory of going to Tier Two, of being signed to the Ionath Krakens. That amazing rookie season when he’d helped his team earn promotion.

His second year with Ionath, when he became a starter — a starter — in Tier One. His childhood dream writ large: seeing the galaxy, being paid to play football, building a team that could someday compete for a title.

His third year, coming to accept just how good he was, how good his team could be. The late-season run that put the Krakens in the playoffs. A first-round loss, sure, but he’d learned much from it, as had his teammates; they grew closer, a band of soldiers melding together in the heat of battle.

Then last season, when all his fantasies came true and they were all beyond his wildest expectations. Another late-season run, but this time a first-round playoff win, a second-round playoff win. Facing Don Pine and the Jacks in the Galaxy Bowl.

And winning it.

Four seasons for the Raiders.

Five in the Orange and the Black.

The wins, the losses, the injuries, the deaths. Good friends gone forever. That sense of team, that knowledge that when you stepped on that field, you were not alone.

All of that... about to end.

But not yet.

One more game.

One last game.

He couldn’t throw. He couldn’t carry the ball, couldn’t catch it, either. But he knew the offense better than anyone, knew the duties of every player at every position on every play.

He was big.

He was strong.

And, he could hit.

The rage he’d carried through his life, born of oppressive conditions and a daily fight to survive, that hadn’t gone away. He’d pushed it down, locked it up, forced it into submission.

Not anymore.

Tonight, he would unleash every last shred of it, and High One help whoever stood in his way.

Quentin Barnes looked out onto the field: green with white lines. How fitting that his final game would be on the same color field as used by the ancients.

He closed his eyes. He put his hand on the tunnel wall, felt the vibrations of the stadium, felt the energy of the spectators gathered for the spectacle.

They wanted carnage?

Carnage they would get.

He opened his eyes and ran onto the field.

EVERYONE WAS WAITING for him on the sidelines.

He saw by the looks in their eyes — a combination of pride, admiration, solidarity and sadness — that some of them knew this was probably his last game. He, John, Ju and Becca had kept things quiet, so as not to let anything potentially slip to the Jacks, but even so, word had obviously gotten out.

The team formed a semicircle for him, then he understood — he had told Becca to lead the Krakens in the pregame chant, so the team would feel her leadership, but she had ignored that command.

She, John and Ju had made sure he would get to do it one last time.

A pinch formed in his throat, grew larger, both down to his heart and up to his eyes. He used the skills he’d learned from Gredok and shut those emotions down; this was the Galaxy Bowl, and his team needed strength, not tears.

He walked into the semicircle. It closed around him, his friends and teammates pressing in, an endless wall of orange and black.

Quentin Barnes raised his right fist.

Everyone reached out and up, becoming one massive sentient rather than fifty-three individuals. He breathed deeply, then screamed louder than he ever had before, only to be answered by his championship-hungry family.

“Whose house?”

“Our house!”

“Whose house?”

“Our house!”

“What law?”

“Our law!”

“Who wins?”

“Krakens!”

“Who wins?”

“Krakens!”

Quentin nodded, his smile wide and full of confidence, full of the swagger that had carried him through nine seasons of professional football.

“Be excellent as individuals, and we’ll be unstoppable as a team. Let’s bring that trophy back home where it belongs, to Ionath!”

A final single roar sounded from the six species wearing the Orange and the Black, then the circle broke up.

Quentin heard the whistle from midfield: it was time for the coin toss.

THE GAME HADN’T EVEN STARTED, yet the Stadium shook. Since the last time the Krakens had played here three seasons ago, an entire deck had been added. Old seats had been narrowed to fit more of them into existing rows, and every remaining available open space with a view of the green field had been turned into standing-room spectator areas. Rolling Rock Stadium had a maximum capacity of 62,500: the announcer had just declared today’s attendance at 64,213.

At least seventy-five percent of those fans wore the silver, gold and copper of the Jupiter Jacks. Black jerseys didn’t matter: the championship was truly an away game.

Quentin, John and Becca walked to the blue, white and purple Galaxy Bowl XXVIII logo painted at midfield. There waited Jacks cornerback Morelia, running back CJ Wellman and — of course — quarterback Don Pine.

Copper helmets with gold facemasks, the Jacks logo on the sides. Gold jerseys with silver sleeves and black-trimmed copper numbers. Copper leg armor and shoes, the team logo gleaming on the upper thighs. The Alimum Armada might boast the league’s ugliest uniforms, but the Jacks definitely had the loudest.

Don smiled wide.

“Hey, kid,” he said. “So glad we could meet like this again.”

“Thrilled,” Quentin said. He wanted to blast Don with his best glare, but the man’s smile was infectious. For all the bad blood between them, there was deep respect as well, and — Quentin had to admit — at least some degree of friendship. They were quarterbacks who had won a Galaxy Bowl: part of a very small, very select group.

John pointed at Pine. “I never liked you, Donny. You have an ugly potato nose.”

Wellman laughed. “Like you’re a pretty boy, Tweedy?”

John moved his pointing finger to Wellman. “When I get done with you, even a blind man could tell which of us is better looking.”

Wellman nodded an exaggerated nod. “That’s right, keep talking. I’ll see you in a few minutes, boy.”

The floating zebe gave a short blast on her whistle, telling the players to calm down. Quentin glanced at Becca. She looked calm, cool and collected. She gave no indication of the role she would soon play.

The zebe floated between the two lines of players, reached a mouth-flap into her black- and white-striped backpack and retrieved a coin.

“We are here for the championship of the Galactic Football League,” the zebe said, her voice echoing from the stadium’s massive sound system.

“To celebrate the heritage of football, this coin is a relic from ancient Earth. It was used seven centuries ago for the coin toss of Super Bowl Twenty in the year 1986. This is heads.”

She held out the mouth-flap. The coin showed two helmets facing each other, one from the ancient Chicago Bears and one from a team Quentin didn’t recognize.

The zebe flipped the coin. “And this is tails.”

It showed a stylized “XX” in the middle, with the words “New Orleans, LA, January 26, 1986” curving across the top.

John nudged Quentin. “That thing is mega-old.”

“Jupiter is the visiting team,” the zebe said. “Who will call it for Jupiter?”

Don raised his hand. “I will.”

“Call it in the air.” The Harrah tossed the coin high. It spun, strobe-flashing in the stadium lights.

“Tails,” Don said.

The coin landed on the white of the Galaxy Bowl XXVIII logo: heads up.

“Ionath, you have won the toss. Do you want the ball, do you want to kick, or do you want to defer until the second half?”

“The ball,” Quentin said. “We want the ball.”

The Jacks elected to defend the south end zone. The north was packed with Jupiter fans: bottom to top, left to right. If Ionath was in position to score at the end of the first half, or at the end of the game, they would be heading into that end zone. A minor advantage for Pine’s team, but at this level, every advantage mattered.

Quentin, John and Becca jogged back to the sidelines. Since the Krakens got the ball first, Quentin would get one last snap under center.

Hopefully, he and Becca could catch the Jacks sleeping.

THE JACKS LINED UP for the opening kick.

Quentin stood on the sidelines, unable to stop himself from looking up at the crowd. His home field at Ionath Stadium sat 180,000, more than twice as many as Rolling Rock Stadium, but when engineers had updated this place, they had built it for noise. If sound could be a living thing, Jupiter’s home field would be a planet-eating dragon, a living devourer of worlds and destroyer of reality. The air seemed to blur from the concussive effect of tens of thousands of screaming Jupiter fans.

The ref’s whistle blew. Quentin took one last glance up at the crowd that wanted to see him crushed, beaten and broken.

My last game ... and I am going to tear your beating hearts from your chests.

He looked out to the field.

Jacks kicker Jack Burrill ran at the ball, his line of metallic-clad comrades running with him, and then the ball arced high into the night: Jupiter fans cranked the volume up just one more notch.

The ball dropped down. Niami stood a yard deep in the end zone. Her tentacles hauled it in, and she was off and running. A wall of orange, black and white slammed into a wave of copper, gold and silver.

There were no words, because no words were needed — a clash of two clans fighting for dominance, a language as old as sentience itself.

Niami cut left, but she didn’t get far before a Jacks Sklorno brought her down.

First-and-ten on Ionath’s 18-yard line.

Quentin took the time to close his eyes, to take one breath. He tasted the air. He tasted the noise and the cold and the night itself. He swallowed it down and burned it into his brain: this moment, this last moment before his final snap, he wanted to know the memory would be there on his deathbed many years from now.

For you, Coach.

He opened his eyes and jogged onto the field, Becca Montagne at his side.

SO LOUD IT
HURT.

Quentin walked up to the line. He stared over his wall of orange-numbered black jerseys, black arm and leg armor, black helmets sparkling under the stadium lights. And beyond them, five sentient species decked out in gleaming metallics.

Behind Quentin, Becca and Ju lined up in an I-formation. George Starcher at right tight end, Milford wide right, Denver wide left.

It was too loud to hear a snap count, but the Krakens had expected that, prepared for it. He’d called two plays in the huddle. If he lifted his left leg, they went with the first play, a dive-left to Ju. If he lifted his right, they went with the second, the play that they had worked on with the single day of practice available to them.

Quentin looked over the defense, one of the best the GFL had to offer. Cornerbacks Morelia and Xuchang, free safety Luxemborg and safety Matidi. Linebackers Katan the Beheader and Ridley Korika, defensive tackle Kal-Gah-Het, rookie standout defensive end Tony Jones. If they weren’t the top defense in the game, they were second only to Ionath.

The Jacks lined up in their usual 4-3. Korika and Katan played aggressively, often overly so: both were hungry to prove their worth against Ju Tweedy, the best running back in football. They tracked Quentin, but only with cursory glances.

They had eyes only for Ju.

Here we go ... one chance, Quentin, make it count.

The Krakens players were all looking at him, waiting to see what signal he would give.

Quentin lifted his right knee high, then set it back down. As they’d practiced, Bud-O waited for a single count — one one-thousand — then snapped the ball at the very same moment the well-disciplined Krakens shot off the line.

The ball slapped into Quentin’s hands, sending a lightning bolt of pain up his left arm. He gripped the ball tightly, mostly with the three fingers and thumb of his right hand. He stepped back with his left foot and pitched to Ju, who was running right with Becca in the lead. Quentin ran left, away from the play, hands up at his helmet holding an imaginary ball in the worst play-fake in league history.

Kimberlin pulled from his right guard position, intending to lead-block for Ju but stumbled as soon as he took that first lateral step. Jupiter defensive tackle Kal-Gah-Het shot through the line and hit Kimberlin, knocking the HeavyG on his side, then scurried after Ju in a six-legged sprint. Becca stopped short: instead of leading Ju, she turned and put a shoulder into Kal-Gah — Kal-Gah bowled her over, six legs stomping past her as he tried to catch the fleeing running back.

Out in front of Ju, Morelia, the cornerback, fought against the block of Denver, stretching the play to the sidelines and keeping Ju from turning it upfield. Korika, the linebacker, pursued from behind, closing in on Ju.

Ju had nowhere to run. It looked like the play would end in a big loss, but just before the sideline, he stopped, turned to his left and threw a wobbler back to the middle of the field — where Becca was waiting. Forgotten by the defense, she had popped up, just as planned. Ju’s pass looked horrible, a wounded duck to end all wounded ducks, but it found its mark. Becca hauled it in, raised it to her right ear, then looked downfield — where Quentin was sprinting up the left sidelines.

Xuchang, the other cornerback, saw the ruse but saw it too late. A sweep pitch-back to the fullback, then a downfield throw to the quarterback? So much to track on the first play, and Xuchang had been caught sleeping. The defense reacted quickly, came for Becca, but she fired the ball downfield before anyone could reach her.

Xuchang sprinted with the blinding speed of the Sklorno, trying to catch up, but she’d drifted into the middle of the field when Ju was running right. The perfect spiral sailed through the air. Quentin watched it coming, knew he wouldn’t even have to break stride, all he had to do was haul it in ...

The ball passed over his shoulder and hit his hands: another zap of pain in his left arm threw off his focus. The ball bounced up as he crossed the five, as Xuchang caught him from behind and tangled her tentacles around his legs.

Quentin’s focus was the ball, only the ball, all that existed in the universe. As he fell he watched it come down. His big body hit the end zone, rattled against it. He slid, eyes never wavering ...

The ball fell into his right hand. His thumb and three fingers grabbed it like a spider grabbing a fat, brown insect, grabbed and held.

He slid to a stop: he was lying chest-down in the end zone, the ball firmly in his upturned hand.

The first offensive snap of the game? A trick play for an Ionath touchdown.

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“Chick, what a first half it’s been. Quentin Barnes, last year’s Galaxy Bowl MVP, the man who this year broke single-season passing records for total yards and touchdowns, playing almost the entire half at fullback. It’s amazing.”

“And the Krakens All-Pro fullback played almost the entire first half at quarterback, Masara. The Krakens did an excellent job of keeping mum after the horrible attack that killed coach Hokor the Hookchest and Kopor the Climber, because we had no idea Barnes was hurt and Becca Montagne would be the Ionath signal-caller.”

“And obviously it’s something with his arm, Chick, because he’s still well enough to be on the field, although he’s not the best fullback I’ve ever seen.”

“You can say that again, Masara.”

“Amazingly, despite losing the coach and two fullbacks before this game, the reshuffled Krakens are only down ten to seven. Our sideline reporters tell us that Barnes is calling the plays on offense, and John Tweedy is calling them on defense. Both are obviously doing an amazing job. Chick, how have the Krakens kept this lead to just three points?”

“The old-fashioned way, Masara — with ball control and defense. Becca Montagne doesn’t have the throwing power or accuracy of Barnes, but you know what she does well? Hand the ball off to the Mad Ju. Ju Tweedy has eighty-two yards on twenty-three carries. The Krakens haven’t scored since that first trick play to open the game, but they’ve held onto the ball for twenty-one minutes, leaving Don Pine with only nine minutes to work first-half magic.”

“And there hasn’t been much magic there for the Jacks offense, has there, Chick?”

“About as much magic as my honeymoon with my second ex-wife, who passed out during the best man’s toast.”

“Chick! Stories about your mating rituals are not—”

“Sorry, Masara, sorry, folks at home. The Jacks offense hasn’t been able to get into a rhythm, due to lack of time with the ball and due to the Krakens defense. Don Pine was sacked three times in the first half, once by Mum-O-Killowe, once by Alexsandar Michnik and once by Ibrahim Khomeni. Pine has a lousy seventy-six yards passing, but one of those was a fifty-one yard strike to New Delhi to set up a ten-yard CJ Wellman touchdown run. Wellman has run wild, carrying the ball fifteen times for a hundred and six, but hasn’t been able to put the Jacks into scoring position other than one long run that set up a Jack Burrill field goal.”

“What do the Jacks need to do in the second half, Chick?”

“If I was Jupiter, Masara, I’d throw in the towel on the passing attack and just feed Wellman the pellet. Not only were Choto the Bright and Virak the Mean out coming into this game, but Shayat the Thick suffered a broken leg in the second quarter, and he’s out as well. That means if the Krakens stick to their four-three defense, they have no subs at linebacker. John Tweedy, Pishor the Fang and Samuel Darkeye are going to be three tired puppies by game’s end. Look for Jupiter to keep it on the ground in the second half.”

“Chick, do the Krakens have any chance at all?”

“Sure they do, Masara. Montagne isn’t Barnes, but if the Jacks keep focusing on Tweedy, she’s going to burn them sooner or later. And Tweedy himself is going to keep grinding away. Ionath is just a field goal down, so one big play either way could decide the Galaxy Bowl.”

“Excellent, Chick. We’re ready for the second-half kickoff. Let’s go back to the field.”

QUENTIN STRUGGLED TO STAND. Bodies were piled around him, both orange and black and metallic. His chest hurt because he’d tried to block Ridley Korika, who had come in on a run blitz and hit him right in the sternum. His back hurt because Ju, seeing the hole was blocked, had put his head down and just driven forward — right over Quentin and Korika both.

His left arm screamed. The ravaged nerve thrummed with eight-out-of-ten pain that had him constantly wincing.

Three quarters of play had left him battered and drained. His body hadn’t fully recovered from the Sandoval beating, which now felt like a warm and fuzzy memory compared to the punishment he’d suffered blocking for Ju, Yassoud and Becca. Quentin had delivered his share of hits, true, but compared to the number of times a lineman or linebacker had laid him out, they were few and far between.

A big pair of hands grabbed his rib armor, lifted him off the ground, set him on wobbly legs.

“Are you okay?”

Quentin looked into the eyes of Michael Kimberlin. Eight feet tall, over six hundred pounds, a giant even to someone Quentin’s size. A massive block of long-armed HeavyG granite, yet his eyes were those of a man lost. If he wanted forgiveness for his past, for how his silence had killed Hokor and Kopor even more than Quentin’s had, this wasn’t the time or the place.

“Fine,” Quentin said. He slapped the side of Kimberlin’s helmet — with his right hand, mind you. “Get your damn head in the game, Mike.”

Third down and goal, ball on Jupiter’s 5-yard line. Neither team had scored in the third quarter. Ionath was still down three. Quentin’s ball-control strategy had kept it close, had disrupted Pine’s rhythm and — maybe most important of all — had taken the Jupiter crowd out of the game. But none of it mattered if Ionath couldn’t put more points on the board.

Quentin jogged to the huddle. He moved to stand in front of it, briefly forgetting — for the tenth time that night — that it was no longer his place. He ran around to the back-center, standing behind Bud-O, Ju on his immediate right, Cheboygan past Ju, Crazy George on his immediate left, Tara the Freak past George. It had been the main formation of the game: Ionath’s strongest receivers and dominant tight end provided more blocking mass for the run game.

The front wasn’t his place anymore, because that’s where Becca stood.

She bled from a deep cut on her cheek. It didn’t ooze, it pumped, coursing red down her jaw, then pattering onto her already-soaked black jersey. Somewhere on this drive, a fist or a foot or a tentacle had broken her nose. The bone stuck out a little bit, red-smeared white. Becca looked like she’d been mugged, yet if she felt any pain, she didn’t show it; her eyes remained clear and focused.

“Third down,” she said. “We don’t get a touchdown here, we kick a field goal and tie it, but that leaves the door open for them to kick one of their own and win the game. If we want to be champions, we have to shove this ball right down their throats and score on this play.”

Quentin felt a small burst of energy, his soul willing his body to go on, driven by Becca’s words, her intensity. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in her.

“Listen up,” she said. “I-formation, wide-set, fake-dive-right, QB boot left.”

Quentin stood straight.

“No, they’ll see that coming. They—”

“Shut your mouth, Barnes,” Becca hissed. “My huddle, don’t ya know.”

“And my team. I’m the coach for this game, Montagne. I-formation, tight-set, pitch right.”

She shook her head. “No, we go with the boot.”

One play from a lead, and she was arguing with him?

“Montagne, just run the plays that I call!”

Her armored hand reached over Bud-O and grabbed Quentin’s facemask. She twisted it and yanked him forward so fast he had to put his hands on Bud-O’s back to keep from falling on top of him.

“My huddle,” she said. “Right now you’re my fullback, and my fullback shuts the hell up in my huddle, you got that?”

She shoved him back into place. Quentin stared at her, so stunned he didn’t know how to react.

Ju started laughing. “I’m glad I lived long enough to see that happen.”

Becca reached over the front row and slapped Ju’s helmet.

“Tweedy! You too. I will send your ass off and bring Yassoud in here to finish the job.”

Ju stopped laughing. He nodded.

“Sorry,” he said.

He wasn’t patronizing her, or placating her. He accepted that Becca was running the show.

She looked at Quentin. Quentin did the same thing his brother had just done: he nodded.

It’s her game now. Know your role.

Quentin bent slightly, put his hands on Bud-O’s back. He did that, and he listened.

“I-formation, wide-set, fake-dive-right, QB boot left,” Becca said. “Ju, I don’t have Quentin’s wheels, so I need to cut upfield just past the left end. You have to sell this fake — I need at least two linebackers to take you down so I don’t have all three of them chasing me from the backside.”

“Done,” Ju said.

“George, Cheboygan, Tara, you make those downfield blocks count,” Becca said. “I don’t want any of the D-backs crashing in.”

“Done,” George said.

“Done,” Tara said.

“Kill-cook-eat,” Cheboygan said. “Happy-happy-happyhappy happyhap—”

“Shut up,” Becca said.

Cheboygan did.

Becca looked at Quentin. “Q, anyone who’s left, you have to take them out — can you do this for me?”

He would: not because she was his girlfriend, but because she was his quarterback.

“Done,” he said.

She nodded.

“On three, on three ... ready?”

“Break!”

The walking wounded that were the Ionath Krakens stepped to the line. The walking wounded that were the Jupiter Jacks dug in. The Jacks were just as ready to give all they had — their lives, if necessary — as the Krakens were.

The linemen got in their positions. Becca stood behind Bud-O. Quentin bent, ignoring the pain that rolled all across his battered body, and leaned into his three-point stance.

He felt a hand on his shoulder pad, heard a voice close to his ear.

“Just make this one damn block,” Ju said. “Do that, and Ma will make us cookies.”

And then Ju was gone, a few yards behind Quentin, his hands on bent knees.

Becca called out the signals.

“Red, fifty-five,” she called down the left side of the line. “Red, fifty-fiiiiiive,” she called down the right side.

Quentin saw the defensive backs lined up tight on Starcher, Tara and Cheboygan: bump-and-run coverage.

He saw Katan the Beheader look at him, then Becca, then Ju, trying to figure out where the ball would go.

In that moment, Quentin knew it would come down to him and Katan.

“Hut-hut... hut!”

Quentin drove right, exhausted legs carrying him to the line where he bent low as if to drive into the pile, then scooted to the left. He didn’t need to see behind him to know that Becca extended the ball for Ju, who clamped his arms down on empty air for the run-fake.

Two of the three linebackers collapsed on Ju, hammering him at the line. His big arms stayed slammed shut on his imaginary ball, his massive legs kept pumping, and he screamed a guttural challenge at his foes.

Quentin ran past Kill-O-Yowet, the Krakens left tackle, who was trying to hold a block on HeavyG defensive end Tony Jones. Quentin looked for someone to hit, knowing Becca was close behind.

Katan the Beheader hadn’t bought the fake. He scraped to his right, Quentin’s left, keeping his shoulders parallel to the line of scrimmage. Katan was the only Jack coming. The rest of them were tied up.

Just one player to block ...

Tony Jones planted and roared: the massive rookie HeavyG got under Kill-O, actually lifted the 500-pound offensive tackle off the ground and tossed him to the side.

Two players to block ... no way Quentin could get them both ...

BLINK—

The lines of power flared to life. Two gold-, silver- and copper-clad beasts came at him, one from either side, looking to kill the quarterback behind him, but he was her protector and he would not let that happen.

Tony Jones barreled in on all fours from Quentin’s right, Katan the Beheader from Quentin’s left.

Tony’s hands shot out, a slow-motion attempt to grab Quentin under the shoulder pads, stand him up, block-destruct and toss him aside. Quentin turned sideways and drove in, sliding between the wide hands as he threw his armored right elbow forward — it smashed into Tony’s facemask, knocking the big head back.

Quentin felt and heard something in his right shoulder crack.

That was your collarbone ... you just broke your collarbone ...

The blow stood Tony up, made him stumble, his momentum thrown off by a hard shot to the face from a 380-pound fullback. Tony’s hands rose up, grabbed Quentin’s facemask just as Quentin planted his right foot and drove back to the left. Quentin’s head twisted and turned to the right but he kept going left, desperate to block Katan — the helmet ripped free, tearing at his face as it slid off.

Katan came in. Quentin threw his head and shoulders forward, leaning in hard for the hit. Katan did the same; a helmet smashed into Quentin’s right eye, knocking his head back and rattling his brain.

Something slammed into Quentin from behind, something solid and strong and violent, something that drove Quentin forward, bouncing his face off Katan’s helmet a second time. Quentin slid off Katan, fell forward, that weight from behind still on his shoulders. He hit the ground hard and had a moment — just a moment — to see that he was on white, not green ...

... his face was on the goal line.

Another blow to the head, the hardest of all, sharp points driving his face into the painted, churned-up grass. Bodies crashed in. Something impossibly heavy landed on him, compressing him, making it impossible to draw a breath. Another impact, then another, so many bodies they blotted out the stadium lights.

Quentin lay there, in the darkness, and for a brief moment he felt no pain at all.

BLINK—

The crowd’s deafening roar rushed back, as did the piercing sound of zebe whistles, the yells and complaints and epithets of the players around and on top of him. He also felt the pain, all of it crashing over him like a tidal wave: his left arm, his right shoulder, his back, his head.

His right eye wouldn’t open. As bodies pushed off him, he looked forward with just his left, squinting ... in front of him, in the end zone, lay Becca Montagne, her body tucked tightly around the ball.

A zebe flew in, clean black and white stripes seeming to vibrate under the stadium lights. The zebe looked close at Becca, at the ball clutched tightly in her arms, then raised his mouth-flaps toward the sky.

Touchdown.

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“Chick! I can’t believe it!”

“What a play by Barnes, Masara — he blocks the defensive end like some martial arts master, gets his helmet ripped off as he then moves just enough to slow down Katan the Beheader and takes a helmet in the face for his troubles. A bad block on Katan, but it made just enough room for Becca the Wrecka to bury her head in Barnes’ back and plow forward for the score.”

“And Chick! Look at this replay — Montagne would have been down short of the goal line if her last step hadn’t landed right on the back of Barnes’ head! The officials are reviewing the play, but we can see on our monitors her knee did not touch the ground before the ball crossed the plane.”

“That’s six points for sure, Masara. The official is signaling now ... yes, touchdown, Ionath! And a fifteen-yard facemask penalty on Tony Jones, to be assessed on the kickoff. Oh, my, they’re helping Barnes off the field as the extra point team comes on. My goodness, Masara, I didn’t know one Human could bleed that much! They’re setting up for the extra point ... it’s good! Ionath fourteen, Jupiter ten, three minutes to play.”

“And the stage is set, Chick. If you wanted drama, sports fans, drama you’ve got. My fur is standing on end. This stadium is shaking. Don Pine has been a fourth-quarter king in these playoffs. Can he rally his Jacks for a final touchdown? Can Don Pine do it one more time?”

A FOUR-POINT LEAD.

Fifty-eight seconds to play.

Jacks’ ball, second down, eight yards to go on the Krakens’ 45-yard line. Both teams had used all of their timeouts — and Jupiter needed a touchdown to win.

Ionath was so close, so close.

Quentin stood on the sidelines. Doc Patah hovered at his side, trying to patch the various cuts on his face and head.

He could still move his right arm, somewhat, but Doc had already informed him that, yes, the clavicle had cracked. It hurt. Everything hurt. But it was all worth it, even Becca stepping on his head — he didn’t know if that had given him another concussion, or if the hit from Katan had, and he didn’t care; he would worry about that later.

Fifty-eight seconds from a win. The Ionath defense looked exhausted. John and Pishor had played every defensive down in the second half. Sam Darkeye had played most of them, coming out only when the Krakens were in a nickel package — he, too, had reached his limit. Mum-O’s middle right arm hung limp. Ibrahim Khomeni had done something to his right leg and could barely walk, but he refused to come out of the game.

It would all come down to these last few seconds, all come down to which team wanted it more.

Don Pine broke the Jacks huddle. His metallic jersey hung from his armor, ripped in several places, the dirt-smeared left shoulder plate showing clear through. Quentin wanted to beat Pine again, wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted before, but he had to give respect where respect was due — the old man wanted it just as bad.

The Jacks lined up with CJ Wellman as the single back. New Delhi lined up wide right, Beaverdam wide left.

Pine bent behind center. The home crowd quieted for their hero, just enough for his commanding bark to be heard up and down the line. Quentin saw Pine stand, shout something to his left, then to his right. He saw running back CJ Wellman take two steps to the right and one step forward, so he was flanking Pine’s right shoulder.

Pishor the Fang adjusted, moving slightly to his left so he still had an outside shade on Wellman.

Pine took the snap, dropped back five steps and planted. Mum-O drove in hard. John, Sam and Pishor dropped into coverage. Khomeni tried to spin inside the left tackle, but Pine shuffled to his left, out of the way, then stepped up and threw: it hit Beaverdam on a come-back route fifteen yards downfield. Bumberpuff was right on top of her, bringing Beaverdam down before she could get out of bounds.

First down on the Ionath 30-yard line, but the clock kept ticking.

Pine ran forward, urging his tired teammates to the line. The Krakens defenders scrambled into place, pushing their drained bodies to give them just one more play, just one last effort.

Quentin thought Pine might spike the ball, but the veteran called the play at the line. He took the snap and dropped back again. John Tweedy drove in on a blitz. Wellman threw a shoulder into John to slow him down, then ran through the line to curl up in the spot John had vacated.

John threw himself at Pine, who backpedaled and threw a weak, high pass to Wellman. The ball hung in the air. Pishor closed on Wellman from the left, Sam Darkeye from the right. The crowd saw the pending collision, swelled with a growing roar of anticipation. The running back pulled down the ball and hit the ground just as Pishor and Darkeye arrived. The linebackers missed landing devastating hits on Wellman, but they didn’t miss each other.

The crack of their helmets crashing together echoed through the packed stadium.

Both linebackers fell to the ground: Pishor, completely motionless, and Darkeye, rolling slightly. Neither of them got up.

Whistles blew: officials’ timeout. The clock stopped. Quentin stared at his two teammates, feeling his heart sink — 38 seconds to play, the Jacks on Ionath’s 23, and the Krakens were down to just one linebacker.

Doc Patah flew out onto the field, the medsled right behind him.

Quentin saw the Jacks huddling up. They were excited, energized. They knew they still had a chance.

“Q!”

He heard his named shouted. He looked down the sidelines, but all eyes were fixed on the field.

“Q!”

He looked the other way. Who was yelling his name?

Becca appeared at his side. “Q, John’s calling you.”

Quentin looked out onto the field. There was John, waving madly at him.

“Come on, Q, get in here!”

Quentin ran onto the field before he gave it a second thought, pulling his helmet onto his swollen, bloody head; John needed him — that was all that mattered.

Halfway out, it registered in Quentin’s thoughts that John played defense.

Why the hell does he want me out here NOW?

Quentin reached the huddle.

John grabbed Quentin’s facemask, yanked him in close.

“Ow, John, my collarbone is broken!”

“Never mind your collarbone and eat your broccoli,” John said, letting go of Quentin’s facemask. “You ready to be a real man and play some defense?”

“I can’t play defense! Get someone else!”

“No one else is left. I need size and I need speed, and you’ve got both. Just do exactly what I tell you to do, okay?”

For the first time in Quentin’s football career, he felt panic sweeping over him. He knew everything there was to know about the offense, but defense? He’d never even played a down of it. There had to be someone left.

“John, look, you can’t—”

Whistles blew. Quentin saw the medsled carrying Pishor off the field, saw Darkeye face-up on the back of Shun-On-Won, who was acting like a living medsled, carrying the injured linebacker to the sidelines.

“Q, it’s too late,” John said. “I need you.”

The Jacks broke the huddle and spread out, lined up.

John was making a terrible mistake, but there wasn’t time to do anything about it. No timeouts: Quentin had to play along.

“What do you want me to do?”

John pointed at Don Pine. “See him?”

Quentin nodded.

“Go after him, as fast as you can,” John said. “If someone gets in your way, knock them over. You blitz, Quentin. Think you can handle that?”

Quentin nodded again, feeling foolish, feeling like he had to do right by John, that he’d do anything to not let John down.

“Good,” John said. He slapped Quentin’s helmet. “Go make a beautiful mess of things. I’ll handle the rest.”

The Jacks got into position. John screamed something at his fellow defenders. Quentin didn’t understand John’s call, didn’t know the defensive signals.

The place where Quentin felt most at home in the entire galaxy now seemed like an alien world. Where was he supposed to stand? Should he blitz on the snap or wait a second? Did he have to make sure it wasn’t a run?

John said go after Fine as fast as you can, just do that...

Pine bent behind center.

Quentin didn’t know where he was supposed to line up, so he ran to the left, stood just outside the shoulder of Alexsandar Michnik.

Pine started calling the signals, turning his head as he did — and stopped cold when he saw Quentin. It threw Pine off. The quarterback gave his head a quick shake, then started the count over.

Just make a mess of things, just make a mess of things ...

“Hut-hut!”

The lines crashed into each other. Quentin stood there for half a second, forgetting to run. Michnik powered in, giant arms flailing against the Jacks offensive tackle.

Blitz-blitz-blitz!

Quentin sprinted in. He came around the battling Michnik and lowered his right shoulder, angling toward Pine. Pine had dropped back five steps and planted, was bouncing lightly in place, looking downfield. Quentin closed in, then CJ Wellman drifted into his path. The wide running back came forward, snarling, ruined metallic jersey glinting in the stadium lights.

Quentin suddenly forgot he was playing defense, forgot everything: he had to get to a particular spot on the field, someone was in his way, and this was just football.

Wellman’s elbows went wide, his hands came up to stop Quentin’s momentum. Quentin leaned forward, making Wellman do the same, then Quentin planted and spun— the same move he’d done a thousand times while carrying the ball worked just as well when he didn’t have it at all. He hit Wellman but was already turning, whirling, and then he was past.

And Don Pine was right there, looking the other way.

Quentin took two steps forward and drove his left shoulder into Pine’s ribs, feeling the effortless power of a perfect hit. Quentin was distantly aware of his body screaming in complaint as he kept driving, his left arm wrapping around Pine, wrapping and lifting. Quentin took two full steps, then he brought Pine down, slammed him into the ground. They hit so hard Quentin bounced off the older man.

Somehow, Quentin wound up on his feet. His eyes squeezed shut, his head and right shoulder and left arm all fighting to drag him down into gibbering madness.

He heard the crowd roaring.

Quentin blinked, looked around ... a few linemen were still there, lying on the ground or slowly getting up, but most everyone was missing. He turned, looked back downfield and saw why.

Fifty yards away, John Tweedy had the ball. He ran along in a pack of Krakens — Mum-O, Bumberpuff and Wahiawa were all blocking two Jacks receivers that ran with them, trying to get to John. John passed the fifteen, the ten, the five ... he crossed the goal line standing up.

Touchdown, Ionath.

It was over.

Quentin stumbled, caught himself. He looked down again. Pine hadn’t moved: he was unconscious.

Quentin’s legs gave out. He fell more than sat, wound up almost cross-legged except for his left foot, which stuck out awkwardly. If his collarbone had been cracked before, now it was definitely broken, maybe in more than one place. His head swirled and pounded, drowning out all that went on around him. The left arm had rocketed past eight-out-of-ten pain on its way to a solid eleven.

He saw movement from the Ionath sidelines: the medsled coming for him, Doc Patah fluttering along beside it, his orange and black backpack catching the stadium lights. Quentin slowly turned to look at the other sideline. Sure enough, the Jacks medsled was on its way as well, a Harrah wearing a gold, silver and copper backpack close behind.

Quentin had a sense of the universe spinning, expanding, then he was on his back, staring up at the night sky, at the stars and ships far beyond the city dome.

Those stars seemed to slowly blink out, one by one. Points of light faded, then vanished as the sky turned black, until just one star remained.

“For you, Coach,” he said, then that star, too, winked out.

Epilogue

Transcript of broadcast from Galactic News Network (GNN)

“Brad, it’s a sight to behold down here on the green grass of Rolling Rock Stadium. We’re awash in orange and black confetti, there are more guards than football players down here, and some of the Krakens are up on the podium getting ready for the trophy presentation.”

“Tom, I have to say, it’s good to see you back reporting again, and under more joyous circumstances this time.”

“Yes, Brad, this is far better than being shot at, and there’s so much security here it would take a nuke to get at any of these players. It’s all sports for me from now on. Brad, it looks like ... yes, there is Gredok the Splithead on the podium with Commissioner Rob Froese and other league officials ... and ... yes, with them is Rebecca Montagne.”

“Tom, does this mean Montagne is the MVP of the game?”

“Well, Brad, it certainly seems that way. She threw for one touchdown and ran for another, and had no turnovers. And besides, quarterbacks almost always win that thing. However, Brad, it might be well-deserved — if anyone had said the Krakens would win this without League MVP Quentin Barnes under center, no one would have believed them.”

“Truly the stuff of dreams, Tom.”

“It is, Brad, it is. The coverage now goes to the trophy presentation. For GNN Sports, this is Tom Skivvers, signing off.”

“I LOST THE DAMN GAME, do I have to watch this crap, too? Holo, off.”

The image and sound of the trophy presentation ceased, replaced by the vital signs of the two men sitting side by side in rejuve tanks. Doc Patah fluttered about one; a Harrah wearing a silver, gold and copper backpack fluttered about the other.

Quentin thought about turning the presentation ceremony back on, but let it be. He could barely focus on the coverage. And, anyway, he would watch replays of it over and over again as long as he lived. He would have loved to be up on that podium with Becca, but this was her moment.

“You sound grumpy, Pine,” Quentin said. “Something got you down?”

“You better stick to football, kid,” Pine said. “Your comedy chops ain’t that grand.”

Quentin laughed, which drove daggers of pain through his shoulder, making him hiss audibly.

“Ha-ha,” Pine said. “Serves you right.”

The pain should have come as no surprise, seeing as Doc Patah had the shoulder opened up, flesh held in place by clamps so he could work on Quentin’s ravaged clavicle.

“Young Quentin, I’m going to need you to sit still during this procedure.”

“Doc, you’ve got me so locked down I can’t move a thing.”

“Except for your mouth, apparently,” Doc Patah said. “That never stops moving. Which, truthfully, will come as no surprise to anyone who knows you.”

Pine laughed. His, too, ended in a sharp hiss of pain.

The Jacks’ team doctor let out an annoyed sigh so long it made Quentin think of Rosalind.

“Ha-ha,” Quentin said.

Both men fell silent. Quentin heard the whine of bone saws, the soft sounds of clamps pulling at flesh, the tiny whoosh of suction and the steady beep of his heart monitor. That beep intermingled with Pine’s, creating a strange, steady, unified rhythm.

Just the two of them down here, in the stadium’s hospital. Plenty of other injured players during the game, sure, but they were either still up on the field or being treated in the training room. Only Don and Quentin were hurt badly enough that their respective team docs felt the need for immediate surgery.

Don Pine and Quentin Barnes, side by side. The old and the new. Although Quentin wasn’t really “new” anymore. That fact was becoming more and more obvious.

It was several minutes before Pine broke the silence.

“Kid, what you did out there today ... it was awesome.”

Like any elite athlete, Don Pine hated to lose. The agony of defeat hung on his every word, yet there was also respect in that voice, respect and admiration.

“Thanks, Don,” Quentin said.

Don had been away from the Krakens for two seasons now. Working day in and day out with the man, Quentin had forgotten what it had been like to be a boy on Micovi, a boy willing to pay two weeks’ mining wages for cubes loaded with Jupiter Jacks games. Two years away from Don, though, away from that easy familiarity, and Quentin remembered all too well. He had watched those games over and over, marveling at how Don Pine made defenses look stupid, how he racked up win after win, how he raised not one, but two Galaxy Bowl trophies high.

Quentin had idolized Don Pine. And now that man admired Quentin. It was hard to process.

“I had you beat,” Pine said quietly, his voice barely audible over one of the doctors grinding away at a bone. Quentin didn’t know whose bone it was.

“How so?”

“New Delhi was open,” Pine said. “She had Bumberpuff beat. All I needed was another half-second. But you ... well, even hurt, you’re faster than I thought.”

If Quentin could have moved his head, he would have nodded. It made sense now; Pine had been in that last i instant of focus before releasing the ball, when a quarterback sees nothing but the target.

“It’s always crazy to me,” Pine said. “How just a fraction of a second can make the difference between winning and losing. Between me having three rings, and both of us having two. Timing, kid. You can prepare your whole life long for something, but sometimes, it all comes down to timing.”

Timing, Like throwing a rock at just the moment when Stedmar Osborne happened to be passing by. Everything that had happened from that moment to this would have never happened at all — Quentin might still be in the mines, if he hadn’t died already.

“Something else, too,” Don said. “Was it Uncle Johnny that put you in the game on defense?”

“Yeah. To be honest, I didn’t have any idea of what was going on.”

“John did,” Don said. “Seeing you out there, on defense ... it took me out of my head for a second. If it had been anyone else, like Ju or ‘Soud, Becca, whoever, I would have rolled with it. But you? I had this sudden fear you might somehow do what you do and pull off some crazy play to win the game.”

Which was, of course, exactly what had happened.

“I guess John got it right,” Quentin said.

“He did,” Don said. “Sometimes, that guy is a lot smarter than he seems.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

They sat quietly a little longer, listening to the sounds of their beating bodies being repaired.

When Don spoke again, that agony of defeat was absent from his voice. Another tone there, another emotion, one Quentin had heard during a conversation in the man’s apartment while looking at Don’s self portraits: self-loathing.

“Quentin, I’m long past due to man up. When the whole galaxy thought you were a bum, I didn’t tell them what a stand-up guy you were. I should have. I couldn’t. I still can’t. I did the wrong thing, but that bought me two more years of doing the only thing I know how to do. You had every right to rat me out, but you didn’t — which also bought me those two years. So I know it doesn’t mean anything, and I know it’s too late ... but I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

Sorry? What did it matter if Pine was sorry? His cowardice had been rewarded with two spectacular seasons, with money and a new round of fame, with playing in front of a crowd that adored him, with two trips to the Galaxy Bowl. Pine got all that, and what did Quentin get?

He got ...

He got ...

Everything.

He also had two spectacular seasons, money, fame, playing in front of a crowd that adored him, two trips to the Galaxy Bowl — and two wins. Two titles. Quentin had what he’d always wanted, and more.

He searched his soul for the anger that came with any mention of Don Pine’s name ... and couldn’t find it. It was gone. Pine couldn’t change the past anymore than Quentin could — what was done was done.

Pine had apologized. He’d meant it.

So did it matter if he said he was sorry?

Yes. It mattered. It was just that simple.

“I forgive you,” Quentin said.

Don paused. “You? Forgive?”

The man sounded as though Quentin had just told him that he actually could go back in time and change the past. Was it so hard for people to believe Quentin could forgive?

Yes, you know it is, because that’s not something you do.

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Quentin said. “But, yeah ... I forgive you.”

Pine said nothing. It was as if he’d thought he might have to keep apologizing forever and ever, or maybe that he’d say his piece, Quentin would tell him to go shuck himself, and the story would be done, never to be revisited again.

But neither thing had happened.

“Thank you,” Pine said. “Thank you, Q.”

All the animosity toward Pine vanished. Just like that. Quentin would never forget, but — surprise — he could forgive.

“Q, that was my last game,” Don said quietly. “I’m done.”

Heartbreak in those words, but also finality. It seemed impossible to believe the league would go on next year without Don Pine on a roster. All things come to an end, it seemed, even living legends. Quentin thought of reminding Pine he’d come one score away from winning the Galaxy Bowl that night and the year before, but knew it wouldn’t make any difference.

“Hell of a run,” Quentin said. “You know you’re a first-ballot Hall of Famer, right?”

“Yeah. I know. I also know someday that will mean something. Just not today. How about you, kid?”

“How about me what?”

“Retiring,” Pine said. “I’m guessing you don’t have a sudden love for the fullback position.”

Quentin most certainly did not. He never wanted to play that spot again. He never wanted to play any spot other than quarterback, but especially not fullback. He had no idea how Becca did it week in and week out.

“Hurt my arm in the bombing,” Quentin said. “I’ll be back next year.”

He wondered if Doc Patah would contradict him, but the Harrah stayed silent, kept working.

“I hope so,” Don said. “I do. But I’ll tell you what, kid — I’m a first-balloter and all that, and I have two rings, but you? If you are hurt, and you can’t win another title, you could retire now and go out on top. Two-straight Galaxy Bowl wins, then you walk off into the sunset.”

“I’m not even twenty-five, Don. I’ve got years left.”

“Like I said, kid, I hope so. Now if you don’t mind, those ribs you broke and that title of mine you stole have worn me the hell out. Doc Falory? Do me a favor and put me out, will you?”

“With pleasure,” the Jacks team doctor said. “Barnes isn’t the only one that never seems to shut up.”

Seconds later, Pine was out, leaving Quentin alone with his thoughts and the smell of burning flesh. His flesh or Don’s? He didn’t know.

A dagger of pain lanced from his shoulder down to his stomach, through his leg all the way to his big toe.

“Dammit, Doc! What the hell are you using up there, a needle and thread?”

“Do not mock me by comparing my skill to the barbarous practices of your home system, young Quentin. You really should be unconscious for this process.”

“Just do your job, Doc.”

Quentin breathed deeply, tuned out the pain’s echo.

Don was right: Quentin could walk away a legend. If the arm was really gone for good, was there any better way to go? Instead, would he rehab all off-season, look for a doctor that could fix him, go under the knife and fight his ass off to get his career back?

Or ... were there more important things than football?

He had forgiven Don Pine.

Could he do the same with Petra Prawatt?

So much to consider, so much to process. Overwhelming, really — and waiting one more day to think about it wouldn’t hurt anything. He was so tired, and nerve blocks or no, he hurt so damn much.

“Doc, let’s do it your way. Go ahead and put me under for this, please.”

“As you wish, young Quentin.”

Quentin felt the slide into unconsciousness begin almost immediately. The pain faded; darkness came, and he welcomed it. Yes, so many decisions to be made, but that was for another time.

His team had won the Galaxy Bowl.

Hokor would be buried with two rings.

For now, that was enough.

Ionath Krakens 2686 Galaxy Bowl Champions Roster

No.

Name

Pos

Ht / Ln

Wt

Age

Exp

74

Athanas, Josh (r)

C

7-6

600

18

0

10

Barnes, Quentin

QB

7-0

380

22

4

27

Breedsville

CB

8-3

282

13

4

79

Bud-O-Shwek

C

13-1

630

65

29

39

Bumberpuff, Cormorant

CB

8-1

270

66

1

65

Cay-O-Kiware

LG

12-0

625

36

10

67

Chat-E-Riret

DT

12-2

632

32

5

6

Cheboygan

WR

8-0

360

9

2

54

Choto the Bright

LB

6-0

400

31

7

69

Crawford, Tim

DT

7-10

565

21

2

27

Cretzlefinger, Luciano

FS

8-0

265

56

1

49

Darkeye, Samuel

LB

6-5

310

25

5

81

Denver

WR

8-10

318

12

4

22

Dimitrovgrad

SS

8-6

274

10

3

96

Frost, Cliff

DE

6-11

532

28

6

13

Halawa

WR

9-6

320

11

3

9

Haney, Trevor

QB

6-7

275

23

3

80

Hawick

WR

8-8

282

16

8

95

Khomeni, Ibrahim

DE

6-10

525

27

6

76

Kill-O-Yowet

LT

12-2

513

38

12

71

Kimberlin, Michael

OG

8-0

615

32

12

85

Kobayasho, Yotaro

TE

7-1

380

37

8

28

Kopor the Climber

FB

6-0

415

25

5

92

Mai-An-Ihkole

DT

10-11

650

45

15

20

Martinez, Jay

RB

6-2

304

25

3

91

Michnik, Alexsandar

DE

6-11

525

33

12

82

Milford

WR

9-0

305

11

4

38

Montagne, Rebecca

FB

6-6

330

21

3

2

Morningstar, Arioch

P/K

5-10

185

29

10

93

Mum-O-Killowe

DT

12-6

600

19

4

26

Murphy, Yassoud

RB

6-6

335

28

4

21

Naimi

CB

7-9

285

10

1

72

Palmer, Rich

DE

8-1

425

20

2

64

Pishor the Fang

LB

6-4

400

20

1

33

Sandpoint

FS

8-6

295

11

1

57

Shayat the Thick

LB

5-11

439

36

6

62

Sho-Do-Thikit

LG

13-1

600

42

19

70

Shun-On-Won

RG

12-1

585

29

3

63

Shut-O-Dital

LT

12-8

580

24

5

25

Snuffalupagus, Tommyboy

FS

8-2

288

51

1

87

Starcher, George

TE

7-6

400

32

11

11

Tara the Freak

WR

6-3

360

23

2

50

Tweedy, John

LB

6-6

310

28

8

48

Tweedy, Ju

RB

6-6

345

26

7

23

Vacaville

CB

8-7

335

16

5

58

Virak the Mean

LB

6-2

375

44

4

75

Vu-Ko-Will

RT

11-11

579

51

10

31

Wahiawa

CB

9-6

320

11

3

40

Weasley, Katzembaum

FS

8-1

282

51

1

24

Wolf, Nancy (r)

FB

6-5

322

25

0

73

Zer-Eh-Detak

RT

12-8

690

21

4

THE END