The Starter (16 page)

And a new creature. Leekee, the amphibious sentients that made up a big part of the Tower Republic’s population. Quentin had seen them swimming in the aquatic centers of Ionath City, and in his one visit to Hudson Bay Station, but never out of the water. Hunched-over bipeds built low to the ground, the small Leekee had long, vertically flat tails. The line of that tail continued onto the back as a ridge of small spikes ending at the creature’s pointy head. The Leekee all had bright-blue skin marked with wide, black stripes. The stripes were thick at the spiky back ridge, tapering to points on the sentients’ smooth sides. Leekee bodies looked streamlined and muscular. A small, yellow eye dotted either side of the pointy head.

A hand on his shoulder.

“Kid,” Don said. “You all right?”

Quentin looked at Don’s blue face, then back to the circus out on the practice field. “I don’t know, man. This has nothing to do with football. I think I’ll skip it.”

“Can’t,” Don said. “League requirement. Trust me, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of Commissioner Froese. And this has
everything
to do with football. The media covers what we do in the GFL. That coverage is for the
fans
. Fans watch the broadcasts, and that brings in advertising revenue. Fans buy jerseys, memorabilia, team clothes — just about any kind of crap you can imagine as long as it has a team logo. Fans buy
tickets
and pack the stadiums every Sunday. Know what you and I do for a living if not for those fans?”

Quentin shook his head.

“Well, I don’t know either,” Don said, “but it sure wouldn’t be football, and I’m sure I wouldn’t like it. Without fans — and therefore, without the media — we would be universe-class athletes playing on some stone-filled field, practicing with a club team after we get out of work. What jobs have you had before football?”

“I worked in the mines,” Quentin said. “Only job I ever had.”

“Oh, right. Well, without fans, you’re
still
working in the mines, Q. This is Media Day. In Tier Two, every football fan on Ionath wanted to know more about you. Now you’re in Tier One, and every football fan in the
galaxy
wants to know more. Media scrutiny is part of the job you fought for, my friend.”

Quentin looked out at the collection of reporters circling around his orange-and-black-clad teammates. It looked like a feeding frenzy, like giffler fish ripping apart brimler-ants that fell into the steep-walled quarry lakes back on Micovi.
Hundreds
of reporters, so many body shapes, colors, and floating holo-cameras.

“Maybe you can do it with me?” Quentin said. “You know, just for the first time out there? Just kind of... stay close.”

Don leaned back and sucked in air through clenched teeth. “Yeah, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. If you and I are standing together, every question is going to be about who will start, whether I’ve still
got it
, stuff like that. The focus should be on you, not on a quarterback controversy. Messal will be with you, though.”

Don was right. At some point there would be a quarterback controversy. When the Krakens lost, fans would be screaming for Don Pine to replace Quentin Barnes. It was just the way of things. Quentin didn’t need to fuel that fire ahead of time.

“All right,” Quentin said. “Any final advice?”

“Yes.
Don’t
be yourself.”

“Huh?”

“Quentin, anyone ever tell you you’re too intense?”

Quentin nodded.

“That’s someone’s nice way of saying you’re an overbearing jerk,” Don said. “Just relax, answer the media’s stupid questions. Don’t say things like you think we’ll win eight games and go to the playoffs.”

“But we will win eight games,” Quentin said. “We will go to the playoffs.”

Don sighed and looked to the sky. He took a breath, then looked at Quentin again. “Kid, remember all those times I gave you advice and you ignored it?”

Quentin looked down. He
had
done that, too many times, and every time Don turned out to be right. If Don thought Quentin was an overbearing jerk, then maybe Quentin
was
an overbearing jerk. “Am I really that bad?”

“In the locker room or the practice field? No. You are exactly what you need to be. Outside of those places? You’re a mouth machine that needs a new muffler.”

Quentin laughed. Don Pine had such a way of putting people at ease.

“This is part of our life, Quentin. Just get out there and be nice.”

Don patted Quentin on the shoulder twice, a manly
go get ’em
pat, then jogged out onto the field. Quentin watched him go, watched the reporters recognize him and flock to him.

Quentin waited another couple of minutes, then walked onto the field himself, Messal the Efficient just a step behind.

• • •

AS A KID, QUENTIN HAD WATCHED
Church holos about Earth history. Most of those movies were about the persecution of the chosen people. Some of them even went back to medieval times. Holos like that were filled with heroic tales of those in service to High One. They were also full of swords, knives, spears: all kinds of pointy things designed to poke holes in bodies. As Quentin looked out at three dozen microphones jabbing toward his face, that was all he could think of. Too many sentients yelling at him all at once, all asking stupid questions.

“Quentin!” a bleach-white Human reporter from Tower shouted. “Quentin, Harold Moloronik from Grinkas NewsNet. Do you think the Krakens will be relegated this year?”

“Uh...” Quentin said, then paused, trying to channel his inner Donald Pine.
Think before I speak
. Quentin took a slow breath, then gave his answer. “Our goal is to win every game. If we play hard, things will take care of themselves.”

“Quentin!” A Creterakian civilian dressed in a fuchsia suit, perched on the shoulder of a smallish, fat Ki. “I speak for Ron-Do-Hall, Ki Empire Sports Fest. Rumor is that Yassoud Murphy isn’t cutting it as your starting running back. Is that why the Krakens brought in Jay Martinez and Dan Campbell?”

Quentin started to talk, then stopped. Think first. He’d been about to say that Yassoud needed to step it up in practice. ’Soud’s performance thus far did not speak well for the season. But Don had told Quentin not to say anything bad about his teammates.

“Yassoud is our starting running back,” Quentin said. “Martinez and Campbell practice hard. I know they will contribute to the team.”

“Quentin!” shouted a voice from below, a Leekee who had slithered his way between the legs of the other reporters. “Kelp Bringer from the Leekee Galaxy Times.”

“Kelp Bringer?” Quentin said. “That your real name?”

“Rough translation. Why? You want to hear the real pronunciation?”

The Quyth Leader reporters took off running, while the Human and HeavyG reporters immediately started shaking their heads, but Quentin only noticed that after he’d already nodded. The streamlined, four-foot-long, black-striped blue sentient let out a five-second string of piercing noises that ranged from ear-splitting high notes down to lows that Quentin felt vibrate through his stomach and privates. It was an assault of sound. He winced and covered his ears, as did all the other Humans and HeavyGs.

“Okay,
okay
,” Quentin said. “I think
Kelp Bringer
works just fine. It’s like my favorite name of all time.”

The collection of reporters laughed. Quentin smiled. He’d made a joke, and they had laughed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Quentin took an automatic step back — he saw something moving on Kelp Bringer’s back...
several
somethings,
spindly
somethings.

“Uh... Kelp Bringer, you got... something on your back there.”

Kelp Bringer twisted his pointy head to look. The spindly things were right in front of his yellow eyes. “What?” he said. “I don’t see anything.”

Quentin pointed. “Right
there
, those buggy things crawling on you.”

There was a pause, then a single laugh. Kelp Bringer’s stripes changed from black to an iridescent yellow, a color that just looked angry. Another Human giggled, and then all the reporters started laughing.

But this time it wasn’t because he’d said something funny. Quentin felt embarrassed — he didn’t know what he’d said, but he knew it had been something stupid. Again.

“Those
buggy things
?” Kelp Bringer said. “What are you, some kind of racist?”

Quentin felt his face flush red just as fast as the Leekee’s stripes had turned yellow. “What?
Racist?
But I... and you... no, uh... sorry?”

“These
buggy things
are my symbiotes.”

“What is a symbiote?”

The clutch of reporters laughed even harder.

Kelp Bringer’s stripes changed from yellow to a neon orange. “Are you mocking me, Human?”

Quentin shook his head, hard. “No, I... look, I have no idea what’s going on here. You’re the first Leekee I’ve seen in person.”

The laughter faded instantly.

Kelp Bringer’s orange stripes shifted back to yellow, then to mostly-black. “You’re serious?” he said. “You’ve never met my kind before?”

“Sorry, no,” Quentin said. “No offense or whatever, but... ah... where I come from, there are only Humans.”

Quentin noticed that all the reporters were suddenly keying that information into palm-ups and messageboards.

“Ah,” Kelp Bringer said. “Yes, you’re from the Purist Nation. Fine, I will accept your apology, but only if you answer my question.”

Quentin nodded, grateful to put the embarrassing moment behind him.

“So my question is, how does it feel to start the season with a certain loss against the Isis Ice Storm?”

Think before you speak
. “We are excited to play the Ice Storm. They are a quality organization. We’ll practice and prepare, and play as hard as we can.”

“So you’re predicting a win?” Kelp Bringer said. “You are going on record saying the Krakens will win big against the Ice Storm? Maybe three or four touchdowns, you think?”

Quentin hadn’t said anything of the sort. What was this weird-looking sentient talking about? “No, I didn’t say that. That’s not... I’m not predicting anything.”

“Quentin!” A Quyth Leader shouted. Apparently the Leaders had returned to the mix just as quickly as they’d left. “Pikor the Assuming, UBS Sports. How do you feel about the assassination attempt on your life?”

“Assassination... well, we don’t know the guy was coming after me.”

“Assuming he was,” Pikor said, “how does it feel to know eight police officers died to protect you?”

Quentin hadn’t thought about it that way before. “I... uh...”

Microphones moved in closer, a phalanx of stabbing black points.

“Quentin!” a reporter shouted, her voice drowning out the other dozen sentients screaming exactly the same name. “Sara Mabuza, Earth News Syndicate. Since someone
is
out to kill you, wouldn’t it make more sense to start Don Pine, so there’s no team setback if the assassins strike again?”

The reporters switched from dead police to a quarterback controversy without missing a beat? What the hell was wrong with these sentients?

“Look, guys,” Quentin said. “I’m the starting QB, okay? And I don’t feel comfortable marginalizing the loss of those police officers by discussing it here, on Media Day for a football team. Doesn’t anyone have questions about the Krakens?”

“I do.”

Quentin looked left, toward the source of the voice. When he saw her, everything else instantly faded away. Purple skin, much deeper and richer than the blue skin of Don Pine. Glossy, black eyelashes framed bright blue eyes, blue that
popped
thanks to artfully applied white eye shadow. A
perfect
mouth, shaped so thick and full that he immediately wondered what it would feel like to kiss it. Hair the color of snow, worn short but meticulously styled. She couldn’t possibly be more beautiful.

“Yolanda Davenport,” she said. “Galaxy Sports Magazine.”

Quentin nodded, still unable to look away from her eyes. “You... you had a question about the Krakens?”

“Sure do. I want to know how Ionath’s starting quarterback would feel if he saw himself on the cover of Galaxy Sports?”

Quentin just blinked. He felt stupefied by her looks, and yet she was dragging his brain from one promised land to another — the hallowed ground of the ultimate recognition of athletics, the cover of Galaxy Sports Magazine.

“Uh...” Quentin said. “He’d feel... amazing, I guess.”

She smiled. He’d been wrong, she
could
be more beautiful. Her thick, dark lips framed white teeth that blazed brighter than the yard lines.

“You
guess?
Well, that’s not a very definitive answer. If the Krakens stay in Tier One next year, we might just have to find out.”

“Quentin!” another reporter screamed, so loud his head reactively snapped around to look. This one, a bat, fluttering in place, dressed in a lime green body suit with blue paisley trim. “Kinizzle, Creterakian Information Service. Now that you’ve played a year in the GFL, would you say you’ve stopped being a racist? Or is that still active?”

“What?”

“Regarding your hateful nature,” Kinizzle said, “which of your teammates would you most like to kill?”

They were baiting him, and he’d had just about enough. “You listen to me, you little piece of—”

“And Elder Barnes’ time is up!” Quentin looked down to see Messal the Efficient, who now stood between Quentin and the reporters who had to tilt their microphones up and back to avoid poking them into Messal’s one big eye. “Thank you all for coming out, but Elder Barnes has several private interviews scheduled. Thank you!”

Quentin felt Messal pulling at his left hand, leading him back to the tunnel. Quentin entertained one final, brief thought of ripping off the bat’s wings and drop-kicking him through the goal post, then let Messal lead him off the field. Reporters kept screaming his name, screaming asinine questions, but he ignored them.