THE ALL-PRO (20 page)

“John, come say hello with me.”

John laughed. “Forget it, Q. I play every down with Virak the Mean on my left, Choto the Bright on my right. I back those guys first. When
they
accept Tara, so will I. See you later.”

John strode over to Rich Palmer and Tim Crawford, welcoming them to the team.

Quentin walked up to Tara. “Welcome to the Krakens. I’m Quentin Barnes.”

The Quyth Warrior looked at him. Tara’s baseball-sized eye remained perfectly clear, but there was something about the shape of it, the way it seemed to cast down at the floor. Tara seemed ...
sad
?

“Barnes,” Tara said. His voice reminded Quentin of broken masonry — rough and crunchy, yet with a hint of musical tones. “Gredok told me about you, Barnes. He said you fought to bring me to the Krakens.”

Quentin smiled. “That’s right. I saw you play in the T3 title game. I think you can help us.”

“Help
you
,” Tara said. “And who’s going to help me?”

“Huh? What do you mean? You’re in Tier One, you’re in the big time.”

A trace of black colored Tara’s eye. “I didn’t
ask
to be in the big time. Things in Mathara were ... stable. It took a long time to get them that way.”

What was this? Quentin felt his own anger swirling, but he held it in check. “Wait a minute. Are you
complaining
about being taken into Tier One?”

“Call it what you will. I have to start all over.”

Quentin glanced at the other Quyth Warriors, who were still staring with open hostility. Yeah, maybe this situation might seem intimidating. “I know this will take some getting used to, but I’ll help you.”

“Like you
can
help, Human.”

Quentin’s anger blossomed. Reaching Tier One was every football player’s dream, whatever the obstacles. He pointed to the glowing holographic letters that ran the length of the landing bay’s dome —
THE IONATH KRAKENS ARE ON A COLLISION COURSE WITH A TIER ONE CHAMPIONSHIP. THE ONLY VARIABLE IS TIME
.

“See those words, rookie? Memorize them. You’ve been here all of five minutes and you’re already wearing out your welcome. If it’s such an awful thing to be brought up to Tier One, why the hell did you come at all?”

Tara closed his eye, seemed to gather his thoughts. “The Krakens bought out my contract.” He opened his eye. “If I don’t play for the Krakens, I don’t play football. I’m already Ronin. No one will hire me for any job. Without a team, I have nothing. I
am
nothing.”

“Ronin? What do you mean? What is that?”

Tara stared for a few more seconds, then brushed past Quentin and walked to the airlock.

Quentin realized that Pilkie hadn’t taken Tara’s bag. Neither had Messal the Efficient, for that matter. The two Quyth Workers had taken the bags of the other rookies, but not Tara.

No one showed Tara the way. No one told him where he was supposed to go, but he walked out of the landing bay all the same. Quentin suddenly remembered his early days with the Micovi Raiders, when his own teammates ostracized him simply because he was an orphan. Back then, no one had wanted to help Quentin with anything. He’d had to find his own way.

Tara the Freak, it seemed, was used to doing the same thing.

• • •

QUENTIN AND GREDOK
were aboard the
Regulator
, the ship that belonged to the office of the Commissioner of the Galactic Football League. Quentin had thought the
Touchback
’s guns impressive, but now he knew they were little more than toys when compared to a fully armed warship. The white-painted
Regulator
bristled with weaponry, not only outside but also within. Two armed HeavyG guards led them down white corridors. More armed guards were everywhere; normal Humans and Quyth Warriors, armored Sklorno and more than a few bats flittering about with entropic rifles held in their disgusting little hands. All the guards wore matching uniforms — white with the GFL logo somewhere on the chest.

The display of weaponry had a visible impact on Gredok. In Ionath City, he never hesitated to show off his power, usually with big, well-dressed sentients that carried weapons. All of Gredok’s planet-side organization, however, would have been out-gunned just by the white-suited troops in the
Regulator
’s landing bay. Quentin suspected that this meeting had more than one purpose. To discuss illegal contact with the To Pirates, sure, but also to show Gredok that Commissioner Rob Froese was not an easy target. This was a demonstration of strength, of the kind of power that Gredok could understand.

The HeavyG guards stopped in front of a door. White, what a surprise.

Quentin and Gredok walked into Froese’s office. Wood-panel walls and waist-high molding gave the entire room a classy, archaic feel. Glass cases displayed trophies and statues. Inside one case, a silvery Super Bowl trophy from 1984, exactly seven centuries old. Engraving on the side of the triangular base read “SUPER BOWL XVIII CHAMPIONS” and, below that, “THE LOS ANGELES RAIDERS.” Was that the same Raiders that had eventually moved to Micovi? Amazing! And another trophy, showing a running man in primitive padding, his right knee high, his left arm straight out to stiff arm some unseen opponent. On the bottom of that one, it read “REGGIE BUSH, 2005.” A seven-century-old relic — priceless.

More trophies and other memorabilia sat on shelves. Pictures in ornate frames hung from the walls.
Flat
pictures — not holos. Quentin recognized all of the ancient players and coaches pictured: Tom Landry, Terry Bradshaw, YA Tittle, Tom Brady, Bronko Nagurski, Jim Brown, Paul Brown (Quentin wondered if Jim and Paul were brothers) ... even a black-and-white flat-picture of Walter Camp, the demigod who actually
invented
the game of gridiron. Now there was something impressive, a picture of a Human before Humans even invented color.

Gredok seemed disgusted by the office. “Look at this pretentious display. Only Humans are represented. Such racism.”

“It’s not racist,” Quentin said. “It’s from the pre-galactic period. All of these Humans are key historical factors in the early days of football.”

“Froese should update it.”

“What do you want him to do, rewrite history? It’s from a time when only Humans played, Gredok. I don’t think historical fact can be
racist
.”

Gredok turned to face Quentin. The Quyth Leader wanted a target for his anger and Quentin was it. “Such admiration in your voice, Barnes. Try not to be too impressed with our overly controlling Commissioner.”

Quentin shrugged, kept looking around the office. He
was
impressed. Froese was clearly a student of the game. With seven centuries of football in the history books, most fans focused on teams, players and coaches from the last twenty-five years. Even die-hard football fans had no idea who these people were. And the fact that Froese used
flat
pictures? That made it feel like this office
was
from the ancient past, as if he’d plucked it right out of some history holo from about the year 2011, perhaps and brought it all to life. This was more than just an office — it was a
shrine
.

A shrine to the game of football.

The office door opened. In walked two sentients. First, Commissioner Rob Froese, all squat, three feet of him. He wore a white shirt and a red tie embroidered with the GFL logo. As interesting as Froese looked, Quentin could only stare at him for a second before his eyes flicked to the other sentient — Leiba the Gorgeous. Six foot five, at least 360 pounds of Quyth Warrior. Cracked chitin and bulging muscle. Leiba, the former All-Pro linebacker for the Vik Vanguard who had walked away from the game to join the GFL’s front office.

“Froese,” Gredok said. “I do not appreciate being kept waiting.”

“Sit down, Gredok.” Froese walked behind his desk and crawled into his chair.

“You will not speak to me this way, Froese,” Gredok said. “The decisions of owners are what pays your salary. You—”

“Sit
down
.”

Gredok paused, then sat.

At seven feet tall, Quentin was twice the height of Gredok and Commissioner Froese. Quentin felt oddly huge, like some misplaced adult sitting at a child’s table. Leiba stayed just inside the closed office door, an ever-present threat should anyone get out of line.

Quentin focused on paying attention to every word. Froese’s strange red teeth could be very distracting.

“I received your injury report about Ju Tweedy,” Froese said. “How interesting he has a damaged artery at exactly the time I wanted him here for a meeting about his murder charge.”

“We properly filed the notice,” Gredok said. “It is unsafe for Ju Tweedy to travel or see visitors.”

Froese looked mad enough to pull a gun, but he kept his voice calm. “Yes, you properly filed the notice. And an injury that is severe, but not a brain or heart injury where I could possibly prevent him from playing this season. Very clever, Gredok.”

“A coincidence,” Gredok said. “We want to get to the bottom of this Grace McDermot issue, I assure you.”

Froese leaned back in his chair. “You can’t hide Ju forever, Gredok. The longer you make me wait, the angrier I get. For now, I have to focus that anger on the other member of your team who seems to think he can just ignore GFL regulations.”

“Preposterous,” Gredok said. “Barnes is not the culprit in this illegal contact debacle. Blame lies with Kirani Kollok and his lackey, Maygon. My player is innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“He is
not
innocent. If he had reported the incident, he would be fine. He did not. Therefore, he is in violation of league rules. Kirani Kollok and Maygon are outside. I will talk to them next.”

Gredok seemed somewhat mollified that Kirani had to wait longer than he did.

“Now, to business,” Froese said. “Barnes, you admit to meeting with Maygon during the 2682 Tier Three season?”

Quentin nodded.

“Have you met with any other teams that you have not reported to the league?”

“No,” Quentin said. “Just Maygon.”

“You are a free agent after this season,” Froese said. “Your agent has filed notices for meetings with the Mars Planets, the Bartel Water Bugs, the To Pirates and the McMurdo Murderers.”

Quentin’s eyes flicked to Gredok, whose black fur stood on end.

“Barnes,” Froese said. Quentin’s eyes snapped back to the diminutive Commissioner.

“Barnes, when I talk, you pay attention.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You violated league rules and you must be punished. I have two disciplinary options. Since I believe that you were approached and did not initiate contact, I will only fine you one hundred twenty thousand credits for not reporting the incident.”

“
One hundred twenty thousand?
”

Gredok waived a pedipalp. “A pittance. Do not worry about that amount, Barnes.”

Froese shook his head. “No way, Gredok. You’re not paying the fine. I’m taking it out of Quentin’s account and we’ll be monitoring his funds to make sure you don’t reimburse him.”

Such a staggering sum, for something that wasn’t his fault? “But Commissioner, that fine is ten percent of my salary for the year!”

Froese raised his eyebrows in mock alarm. “Oh? Well then, that
does
seem like a severe punishment. Almost like I’m trying to send a message or something. How strange. All right, if you don’t like the fine, we can go with my other option. I can suspend you for the opening game against the Isis Ice Storm.”

“
What?
”

“I would take that option,” Gredok said. “Don Pine can handle the first game.”

“No way! That game is mine.
All
the games are mine!”

Froese lifted his hand, palm-up. A time icon flashed in the air above it. “I have a schedule, Barnes. Shall I suspend you for the opener?”

Quentin ground his teeth, then looked at the flat-picture of Terry Bradshaw hanging on the wall.
Four
championships that ancient had won.

“Barnes?”

“The money,” Quentin said. “I’ll take the damn fine.”

“Then that is settled. Gredok, please leave. I would like a word with Quentin. Alone.”

“Absolutely
not
,” Gredok said. “I will be present at all times when you talk to my players.”

“Leave now, or I will arrange for a question session with Ju Tweedy at 1 p.m. Ionath Time on January 27th.”

Gredok again fell silent. January 27 was the Krakens opener against the Isis Ice Storm. The Krakens might win with Don Pine as QB, but they had almost no chance with Yassoud Murphy starting at running back.

“Commissioner,” Gredok said, “you are trying my patience.”

“Am I? What a surprise. Now leave. Barnes will be out soon.”

Gredok’s fur ruffled once more, then fell flat. The Quyth Leader stood and walked out. Leiba held the door for him, then walked out as well and closed it behind them.

Quentin found himself alone with the most powerful sentient in football.

“Barnes, why did you choose the money over the suspension?”

“Because I want to play. You know that. It’s why you gave me the choice.”

“Actually, I gave you the choice because I DIDN’T know. Now I do.”

“You thought I liked money more than football?”

Froese shrugged his tiny shoulders. “There is a lot of information circulating about you, Barnes. A lot of rumors. I need to know what kind of a sentient you are.”

“Why? I play football. And — from now on — I follow your damn rules. Other than that, what else do you need to know?”

“A lot more,” Froese said. “You’ve heard people say I’m going to clean up this league?”

“I’ve heard people laugh about it, if that’s what you mean.”

Froese smiled a red-toothed smile. “Yeah. They laugh. Everyone thinks the crime lords are too entrenched, that no one has the guts to take them on. But they’re wrong. I
will
clean up this league, Barnes. I
will
legitimize football. A time is coming when players will have to decide what they want — a league riddled with corruption, smuggling, intimidation and assassinations or an honest league free of all those things.”