The Starter
STARTER
Galactic Football League: Book Two
THE STARTER
September 2010
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.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2010 by Scott Sigler
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sigler, Scott
The Starter / Scott Sigler. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Science Fiction—Fiction. 2. Sports—Fiction.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010931183
ISBN: 978-0-615-36542-8
Book design by Donna Mugavero, Sheer Brick Studio
Published in the United States of America
by Dark Øverlord Media
Limited Edition
This book is dedicated to Alan Roark,
for showing us that playing hard
and leaving it all on the field
is the only way to truly live.
Also by
Scott Sigler
Infected
Contagious
Ancestor
Books in the Galactic Football League series
The Rookie
The StarterAcknowledgments
The starting line-up, who make this benchwarmer look All-Pro:
A “Future Hall-of-Famer” Kovacs
publisher, talent scout and secret weapon
Donna “Chalkboard” Mugavero
interior book design
W. Seth “The Hammer” Hanisek
color insert design, jacket art direction
Jerry “SI Coverboy” ScullionSpecial Thanks
jacket design
This book exists due to the hard work and dedication of a team of talented folks:
Editing Street Team of Døøm:
Josh Meyer
Arioch Morningstar
Julayne Morningstar Hughes
Maryann Radulski
Tier One team logo design:
Casey Alden:
Chillich Spider-Bears
Adrian Bogart:
Yall Criminals
Ben Clifford:
Sala Intrigue, Coranadillana Cloud Killers, Hittoni Hullwalkers, Lu Juggernauts
W. Seth Hanisek:
Vik Vanguard
Steve Henry:
Alimum Armada, Jang Atom Smashers
Len Peralta:
Isis Ice Storm
Scott E. Pond:
Shorah Warlords, To Pirates, New Rodina Astronauts, Themala Dreadnaughts
Larry Purcell:
Bartel Water Bugs
James Schmill:
D’Kow War Dogs, Bord Brigands
A. P. Stephens:
Jupiter Jacks
Team Dark Øverlord:
Arioch Morningstar:
audio production
CONTENTSCarmen Wellman:
Siglerpedia Czar
5. WEEK ONE: IONATH KRAKENS at ISIS ICE STORM
6. WEEK TWO: THEMALA DREADNOUGHTS at IONATH KRAKENS
7. WEEK THREE: SHORAH WARLORDS at IONATH KRAKENS
8. WEEK FOUR: IONATH KRAKENS at TO PIRATES
9. WEEK FIVE: WABASH WOLFPACK at IONATH KRAKENS
11. WEEK SEVEN: IONATH KRAKENS at LU JUGGERNAUTS
12. WEEK EIGHT: IONATH KRAKENS at ALIMUM ARMADA
13. WEEK NINE: IONATH KRAKENS at CORANADILLANA CLOUD KILLERS
14. WEEK TEN: CRIMINALS at IONATH KRAKENS
15. WEEK ELEVEN: HITTONI HULLWALKERS at IONATH KRAKENS
16. WEEK TWELVE: IONATH KRAKENS at JUPITER JACKS
17. WEEK THIRTEEN: MARS PLANETS at IONATH KRAKENS
P
RE
-S
EASON
, 2683
PRE-SEASON: WEEK ONE
THEY CAME HOME AT NIGHT.
They came home champions.
Quentin stayed in his room aboard the
Touchback
. He was too nervous about the return trip — wouldn’t it be ironic to fight through the war that was his rookie season, win the Tier Two tournament and reach Tier One, then fly back from Earth only to have the team bus crash on the way home? Since he started every intergalactic trip assuming he was going to crash anyway, the concept of such a cruel fate made for a tense flight.
He waited. Waited for the punch-out, for the
Touchback
to slip into normal space.
The ship started to vibrate, shake a little.
It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, just relax
.
He repeated the familiar mantra in his head, but it didn’t help. This was it, he’d die on this stupid ship before he played a single down of Tier One, before he lived his dream.
It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, just relax.
He kept his eyes shut. Best not to see it happen. Maybe this time he wouldn’t hurl.
It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fi—
The reality wave started cascading over the ship — just because he couldn’t
see
it didn’t mean he couldn’t
feel
it. Quentin’s eyes squeezed even tighter, so hard that his upper lip curled. His stomach churned; an oily, queasy feeling that threatened to coax the dinner out of his belly.
The feeling of
splitting
, of
spreading
, of being in several places at once. It pulled at his mind, told the part repeating “
it’s fine
” that it was completely full of crap, because any sane sentient knew that things were most certainly
not
fine.
And then it was over.
Quentin Barnes opened just his left eye, just a little, to see if anything was
shimmering
, was
waving
. Everything looked solid. He let his breath out in a long rush, then sprinted for the bathroom as his stomach rebelled.
• • •
QUENTIN HAD JUST FINISHED
brushing his teeth free of the taste of vomit when the computer voice chimed through his room.
[FIRST SHUTTLE PASSENGERS TO THE LANDING BAY]
He spit, then smiled. The first shuttle trip to Ionath City was for key players, for starters who had established themselves as vital parts of the Krakens franchise. That list of players included him.
He walked out of the bathroom and took one last look around. His few belongings were packed into flight crates. Gredok the Splithead, owner of the Krakens, was retrofitting all the players’ rooms as part of an overall upgrade to the
Touchback
. Sure, Gredok was a gangster, a thug, and a killer, but he took his duties as team owner very seriously — he wanted his players to have facilities that rivaled those of any Tier One team.
Quentin left his room with a strange sense of anticipation. He would spend the next four weeks planet-side. Training, practice, holo-study — all the things needed to prepare for his first Tier One game. The next time he saw this room, it would be for the trip to planet Tower and the season opener against the Isis Ice Storm.
He walked down the corridor, appreciating the orange walls and the black and white carpet more than ever. He loved his team colors. No matter where his football career might take him, he knew he’d have a permanent place in his heart for the orange and the black.
He heard the now-familiar, rapid-fire of pounding footsteps behind him. Quentin automatically put his back against the wall, making room for the sprinting Sklorno.
The Sklorno, it seemed, were
always
sprinting.
A pair of them shot down the corridor. He recognized them — Milford and Denver, two of his fellow rookies from last year. Their big feet hit the carpet hard as they stopped.
“Quentin Barnes Quentin Barnes Quentin Barnes!” Milford said.
“Hey,” Quentin said, in a calm voice, lest he excite them further. When Sklorno got excited, Sklorno drooled. Never a fun thing.
Milford and Denver were among the few Krakens taller than Quentin. Denver stood eight feet, ten inches tall, just two inches shorter than Milford. They both wore their Krakens jerseys — Denver was number 81, Milford number 82 — but that was the only clothing that blocked their strange, see-through bodies. Sklorno jersey numbers had to go on the sides, not in front, because their coiled arms stuck out of their chests right where the numbers would ordinarily be placed on a Human jersey.
The jerseys only covered part of their bodies. On the exposed areas, translucent chitin showed the semitransparent muscles flexing beneath and clear blood coursing through them like pumping water, all of it supported by black skeletons. Semi-visible internal organs fluttered here and there.
Nowhere did they have more muscle than in their thick legs that folded backward like those of a grasshopper. Coarse, black fur jutted out of their knee and ankle joints. The legs supported a slender, back-curving body-stalk. On top of that body, the strangest part of a Sklorno — the head.
They each had two raspers, long rolls of skin-covered muscle embedded with thousands of small teeth. Usually the raspers stayed rolled up behind a thick chin plate, but whenever the ladies talked to Quentin the raspers tended to hang down like a dog with a three-foot-long double tongue. Above the chin plate sat a small crop of coarse black hairs. Out of that hair jutted four eyestalks. Each stalk moved independently, looking in all directions at once like curious cobras rising up to strike.
“Quentin Barnes QuentinBarnes
QuentinBarnes
!” Denver shouted again. “We are on first shuttle with you!”
Quentin nodded and started to say something, but apparently the conversation was over. The two receivers took off on a dead sprint, headed for the shuttle bay. Quentin followed them, but at a slightly more casual pace.
The shuttle bay’s fifty-foot-high domed ceiling held the usual assortment of equipment, machines, and stacked metal crates, everything meticulously arranged and organized. Outside of the players’ individual rooms,
everything
was meticulous and organized courtesy of Messal the Efficient, the Krakens team manager.
Quentin looked up, looked to the words that floated in the center of the shallow dome. A sentence made of large, holographic letters ran the length of the bay. The glowing letters never moved, never faded, and they were
never
turned off, even during ship-night. They read: THE IONATH KRAKENS ARE ON A COLLISION COURSE WITH A TIER ONE CHAMPIONSHIP. THE ONLY VARIABLE IS TIME.
The words made Quentin’s chest feel all fluttery, stopped his breath short. He’d seen the sign many times during the Tier Two season, but Coach Hokor had changed the words slightly. Before, it had read
the Ionath Krakens are on a collision course with a Tier One berth. The only variable is time
.
Well, they had turned that dreamy prophecy into a hard-won truth. Now Hokor was setting the goal higher, as high as it gets — a Galaxy Bowl championship, a Galactic Football League title. The thought scared Quentin a little, made him wonder if they could live up to such expectations. Scared him... and also thrilled him.
He wasn’t here to chase mediocrity.
He was here to capture glory.