The Starter (11 page)

And the face above it, the face that had told him all about the prison ship that had become the
Combine
.

He stared at the face of his countryman, Manny Sayed.

• • •

QUENTIN HURRIED DOWN
the corridor toward the
Touchback’s
practice field. He’d slept soundly, and awoken to find all the crap cleaned out of his quarters. Pilkie had been a busy boy in the night — quiet, but busy.

The modifications to Quentin’s quarters weren’t complete. Contractors would be working on the walls during the day while Quentin was out of the rooms.

He’d been called to the practice field to help evaluate the free agent candidates. It excited Quentin to have some control over personnel decisions. He would meet the rookies the next day. They had been selected without his input, mostly because the research on them had been done while Quentin was busy quarterbacking the Krakens in Tier Two. This season, there was nothing he could do about that. After the Tier One campaign finished in sixteen weeks, however, Quentin envisioned himself locked away with Hokor during the off-season, reviewing holo after holo of keyfree agents and potential rookies from around the galaxy. From here on out, every player decision would have the Quentin Barnes stamp of approval.

He walked down the tunnel, happy to be back in the
Touchback’s
familiar surroundings. Despite the parade bombing and the fear it brought, he felt safe up here. Safe, and relieved to once again focus on the only thing that really mattered — football. Everything seemed possible. He tasted eternal life in his mouth, felt it on his skin. A logical part of his brain said
this can’t last forever
, but his soul knew better. All of his hard work, a lifetime of dealing with a deadly culture, three seasons of putting up with teammates who treated him like a second-class citizen, all of it had led him to
this
church. His church, the Church of Football, a religion he created with his own feet, miracles he made with his own arm.

He exited the tunnel into the
Touchback’s
full-size practice field. The nano-grass didn’t have a smell, which was a shame — Quentin loved the smell of a gridiron, loved to breathe in the scents of dirt, of plants, of the
essence
of football.

Patches of small, flat, circular, white clipper robots roamed across the green practice field, eating the ever-growing nano-grass and keeping the surface perfectly trimmed. As he walked, the little robots cleared out of his way, then scooted back to their places after he passed.

It was the same ship where he’d spent the last three months, but it felt different. He wasn’t the bush-league upstart anymore. He was the
starting quarterback
of a Tier One football team. He
knew
this ship now, knew the eighteen decks that rose up beyond the end zones. Well, no, actually that wasn’t true. He knew very little of the ship — pretty much just his quarters, the cafeteria, the Kriegs-Ballok Virtual Practice System and this field. Huh. He’d been so busy doing his job, fighting for this opportunity, that he’d barely explored the ship. Maybe he’d correct that sometime soon. He’d heard rumors that Captain Cheevers was pretty hot. Maybe he’d introduce himself.

At the eighteenth deck, a clear, shallow dome crossed high above the field. Beyond that dome, black space and twinkling stars. So
many
stars. People said there were something like 400
billion
in the Milky Way Galaxy alone. Only a fraction had been explored so far, little more than a half billion or something like that. He didn’t pay much attention to such things, but he’d heard it would take thousands of years just to see all the stars in this galaxy alone... just
one
galaxy out of 500
billion
known galaxies. At best, only a fraction of the Milky Way’s stars would be explored during his lifetime.

Quentin jogged to the middle of the field, where Don Pine and four Human players were waiting by a rack of footballs. Hokor, as always, floated about ten feet above the field in his stupid golf cart. Three of the new Humans were dressed in armor and white practice jerseys. One wore street clothes. Don gave Quentin a smile and a wink, the Hall-of-Fame quarterback’s way of saying
it’s your show, but I’m here if you need me
.

Hokor looked so idiotic in his golf cart. The thing was built for a Quyth Leader’s small stature, like a child’s toy driven by an angry, one-eyed stuffed animal wearing a Krakens wind-breaker and baseball cap. The visual was a bit comical, but the audio was not — Hokor’s cart had powerful speakers, and when he yelled through them every player winced.

“
Barnes!
” Hokor said. “We picked up a free-agent running back to play behind Yassoud, but we need to see if any of these tight ends can replace Saulsgiver.”

“Okay, Coach. What do you want me to do?”

Hokor waved to the four new Humans, calling them over. Of the three wearing football gear, only one had a helmet on. The man dressed in street clothes shook Quentin’s hand.

“Jay Martinez,” he said. “Free agent running back, happy to be here.”

The man looked agile, but somewhat small. He wasn’t even as big as Yassoud, whom Quentin considered a bit undersized for the position. No one, it seemed, measured up to Mitchell Fayed.

“Jay, I’m Quentin Barnes. Not dressing today?”

Jay tapped his left knee. “Still healing up from an injury I got in the last week of Tier Two. I played for the Damascus Demons in the Union Conference.”

Quentin couldn’t remember the Demons’ record. Damascus was a middle-of-the-pack franchise in the Planetary Union Conference. Martinez didn’t seem like a major acquisition. The Krakens had also signed rookie running back Dan Campbell, but with both Fayed and Pierson gone, Yassoud needed at least one more backup.

“Welcome,” Quentin said, then turned to the first of three men dressed in gear. His skin was the bright white of a Tower native. Not quite as big as Quentin, but young and solid.

“Pietor Jewell,” the man said, shaking Quentin’s hand. “I’m still under contract with the Aril Archers in the Ki League, but they’ll loan me for the season if you guys want me.”

Jewell was a name that Quentin did know. The Archers had entered the T2 Tourney, losing in the first round to the Texas Earthlings. Jewell might not be a super-star, but he was a quality tight end.

“Happy to see what you got,” Quentin said. “But, a loan? How does that work?”

Don Pine put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. Don did that whenever the older quarterback wanted to provide a bit of knowledge. Everyone else gave mostly useless advice — Don just shared his experience, then let Quentin figure it out for himself.

“Because Tier Two teams are off when Tier One season is on, and vice versa,” Don said, “T2 teams can loan players to T1 teams, for a fee. Helps give the T2 players top-flight experience, which they bring back to their teams.”

“And bruises,” Pietor said. “We bring those back as well. I got loaned to the Vik Vanguard last year, then went back to the Archers. I’ve been playing non-stop for three straight seasons; if you guys pick me up it will be my fourth, then back to the Archers for my fifth.”

Quentin nodded, impressed by the man’s work ethic but also concerned about that much constant play. Quentin himself had gone from Tier Three straight into a Tier Two season, and now was heading into a Tier One campaign. His body still hurt fromthe T2 Tourney — he wondered if Jewell’s could hold up through another twelve games of elite football.

Pietor stepped back and the second Human stepped up.

“Claudio Morgaine,” the man said. “I was with the Blar Bastion, but hoping to catch on with a Tier One team.”

The Bastion played in the Sklorno Conference. The franchise had been around for two decades or more, and had never made it into the T2 tournament. Quentin couldn’t blame Morgaine for wanting to find a way into Tier One.

“Good luck,” Quentin said. “We’ll see what you’ve got.”

The third Human walked up, but didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he took off his helmet, and Quentin took in what he assumed to be some kind of practical joke. The man’s facial features made him look black or white, maybe even blue, but it was impossible to tell because bright yellow greasepaint covered his skin.

It looked odd, but then again Quentin had touched the slimy raspers of a Sklorno... a little yellow greasepaint wasn’t going to bother him. Maybe the color was a religious statement or something. He offered his hand. “Quentin Barnes.”

The man stared at the hand. Quentin let it hang there for an uncomfortable five seconds, then lowered it back to his side. The yellow-faced man stepped back. Quentin leaned in close to Pine.

“Hey,” Quentin whispered. “What’s the deal with this guy and the makeup?”

Pine shrugged and whispered back. “Heck if I know. His name’s Jorje Starcher. Seems kind of familiar to me, but I haven’t seen any holos of him yet. He’s been with the Moscow Hammers for two seasons.”

“Moscow? Never heard of it. That one of those floating cities in the Harrah system?”

“Nope, Earth,” Pine said. “It’s an NFL franchise, Tier Three.”

The NFL. Real bush-league stuff. Better than the PNFL, sure, but not much better.

“Why wouldn’t he shake my hand? That annoys me.”

Pine put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “As long as yellow-face can catch, does it matter?”

Quentin thought for a second. “Well, not right now, but maybe down the road, you know? I mean if the guy can play, great, but if he’s a jackass that might be an issue, right?”

Pine smiled. “You are learning
fast
, Q. Yeah, locker room poison is a big problem. But it’s too early to tell that right now. How about you put him through the paces, see if he’s worth the trouble. If he isn’t, no point in considering potential locker room politics. If he is, you evaluate from there. Make sense?”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, makes perfect sense.”

Pine slapped him on the shoulder. “Do your thing, kid.”

“Coach!” Quentin called up to Hokor’s cart. “What do you want to see first?”

“Ten-yard hooks,” Hokor said. “We’re going to have to throw short against the Ice Storm, so let’s start there.”

Quentin walked to the rack of footballs. He grabbed the first one and bent at the knees, a simulation for taking a snap from center. The tight ends lined up eight yards to his left. Pietor bent into a three-point stance: one hand and both feet on the ground, head up, back flat and parallel to the ground.

Quentin took it all in, then looked forward, just as he would for a game-time snap. “Hut-
hut!
”

Pietor shot off the line as Quentin took three steps back and brought the ball up to his ear. Seven yards into Pietor’s route, Quentin reared back and threw a laser. Pietor stopped and turned, hands up to catch the timing pass. The ball slid through his palms and hit him in the chest. He winced, then grabbed the ball off the ground and ran back behind Jorje.

Morgaine was next. He leaned into the three-point stance, rocketed out on the “snap.” He ran the pattern well enough, but just seemed a little slow to Quentin. Maybe the guy would loosen up as they continued the drills.

Quentin bent for the next snap, but Jorje was standing there, hands on hips, just staring at Quentin.

Quentin stood. “Hey, yellow, let’s go. You want a shot at this roster slot or not?”

“The universe has decreed that you should throw harder,” Jorje said. “The cannons of fate can not change history if the artillery shells of destiny do not finish their parabola of prophecy.”

“What?”

“
Starcher!
” Hokor’s angry voice boomed from the floating golf cart’s speakers. “Starcher, you get in your stance and
run the routes I call!
”

“Destiny,” Pine said absently from behind Quentin. “Why does that ring a bell?”

Jorje was still standing tall. “Throw
hard
, young Quentin, lest the doom of millennial atrophy fill our heads with cotton.”

“Dude,” Quentin said, “are you high?”

“
Starcher!
” Hokor screamed. “Last chance!” Hokor’s fur was already fluffed up. Starcher wasn’t doing himself any favors by infuriating the galaxy’s angriest coach, that was for sure.

Quentin nodded at Starcher. “Okay. You want the heat, you got the heat. Now will you run the damn pattern?”

The big tight end turned and leaned into his three-point stance, weight forward on his toes and on his extended hand.

“Hey,” Pine said. “Wait a minute... I think know that guy.”

“Pine, shut it,” Quentin said. This yellow-faced Starcher guy wanted the cannons? Cannons were Quentin’s business, and business was good. He’d bounce one off this guy’s face and send him home on a stretcher.

“Hut-
hut!
”

Starcher shot off the line. As Quentin brought up the ball and dropped three steps, he instantly saw that not only was Starcher
bigger
than Pietor and Morgaine, he was much
quicker
. Quentin’s brain took it all in, cataloging the details for later review. When Starcher passed six yards, Quentin was already in his throwing motion. This guy wanted a strong pass? Quentin would deliver a heater a fraction of a second too soon and see how Starcher liked that kind of destiny.

Quentin threw as hard as he could. The ball shot out, hissing as the white strings and pebbled brown leather split the air. Starcher turned, his hands came up...

... and the ball slapped into his hands. For just a moment, Quentin heard a tiny ringing from the air inside the leather ball. The
ping
sound faded quickly, but punctuated the sentence that popped instantly and eagerly into Quentin’s thoughts:
this guy has world-class hands
.

World-class, and big. The ball practically vanished inside Starcher’s mutant-sized hands and his sausage-thick fingers.

They ran drills for another twenty minutes, but all that time only confirmed what Quentin had known from the first pass — that Jorje Starcher was a potential all-star who had somehow slipped through the cracks.