The Starter (54 page)

The floor on which he stood was made of the same crysteel-sandwiched material as the stadium dome. Glowing, beautiful colors coursed through the floor, lighting him and his teammates from below like some nightclub special effect. Walls of non-illuminated crysteel — the boring, see-through variety — curved up and in from the landing pad’s edges. Quentin saw scratches, scores and pock-marks on the outside of the armored walls, clearly the result of small arms fire and probably a few firebombs. Some teams, apparently, gave new meaning to the term “warm welcome.” Nice.

Behind him, the glowing stadium dome arced up and curved away. The landing deck was part of the dome, but almost seemed to float thanks to surrounding buildings that rose high overhead, blurring and then fading completely into pink clouds. Countless windows in those buildings reflected the waves of colored light cast up by the dome and the landing pad deck.

He could see five layers of elevated roads winding through the soaring buildings, carrying traffic in all directions. He suspected more layers wove unseen beneath his level. Between the suspended decks, small aircraft flew with abandon. Just five minutes after arriving he saw an accident: a twin-engine air-car tried to duck under a larger airbus, but it clipped the highway below and tumbled into a wheeled cargo-hauler — air-car and cargo-hauler alike plummeted out of sight.

Traffic rolled on as if nothing had happened.

And there was more to see. Creterakians whipping around the landing pad, a dense, moving cloud of a security force dressed in white with GFL logos on their backs, entropic rifles in their little hands. True to instincts bred over nineteen years in the Purist Nation, Quentin stayed stock-still.

“Know what you’ll find funny?” Don whispered. “The bats hate it here.”

“Why?”

“Sklorno think they’re tasty. Seems the Dynasty is not quite as subjugated as the Creterakians would like.”

Quentin did notice that the circling Creterakians didn’t elevate above the armored walls, where they might be targeted by a passing road vehicle or aircar. The rulers of the galaxy were afraid they might get eaten by a subjugated race? Don was right — that was funny.

Quentin looked to the other sentients crowding the landing pad. A dozen Quyth Leaders, also dressed in white uniforms with GFL logos large on their small chests. And behind them, a line of Sklorno dressed in what had to be military armor. The gear gleamed of polished metal and looked far heavier than the football padding of his Sklorno teammates. Battle armor. Where his teammates looked
fast
, these Sklorno guards looked like killing machines.

“Hey, Q,” Don said quietly. “Why wasn’t Ju in the first shuttle?”

Quentin shrugged. “Maybe Hokor wants him to put in a few solid games first.”

The truth of the matter was that Quentin had specifically asked Hokor to put Ju on the second shuttle. If Ju was having delusions of grandeur, keeping him off of the first shuttle would help show him his place.

Two Quyth workers pushed a gravsled out of the shuttle.

“No explosives, no weapons.”

The Leader in charge of the customs inspection waved the Workers out of the ship. “Good, now we can get out of sight and back into the compound.” His pedipalps twitched in a strange way, and a touch of pink swirled across his cornea.

Quentin leaned over and whispered to Kimberlin. “The customs inspector looks nervous.”

“I’m hardly surprised,” Kimberlin said. “Apparently, the Sklorno think that Quyth Leaders are even more scrumptious than the bats.”

Quentin felt his eyes widen. Cannibalism was one thing, but where did this sentient-on-sentient predation end? “What about Humans? Where do we rate on the taste-o-meter?”

“I’ll tell you if you like,” Kimberlin said. “But I assure you, it’s not a ranking that will make you deeply trust your teammates.”

“I thought you said knowledge was power.”

“Most of the time, it is. But sometimes, Quentin, ignorance is bliss.”

Quentin decided to take Kimberlin’s word for it.

A Sklorno approached. This one did not have armor. Instead, she wore robes of orange and black that covered her clear skin from eyestalks to thick toes. Quentin saw an image on her chest, some kind of ceramic plate showing a Human face.

When she stopped just in front of him, he recognized that face.

Because it was his.

“Quentin Barnes,” the Sklorno said. “I am the High Priestess of the Church of Quentin Barnes. It is my holy honor to welcome you to Alimum.”

Quentin opened his mouth, but no words came out. The High Priestess of the Church of Quentin Barnes? What could he say to that? Should he say anything at all? This was madness... a church dedicated to
him?

She jumped, just once, just a few feet. “Quentin Barnes?” Don leaned forward and looked to Quentin’s left. “Hey, Mike, you want to help him out a little?”

“High Priestess,” Kimberlin said. “The Godling Barnes has decided to forego speech. He is deep in contemplation, and has asked me to speak on his behalf.”

Quentin looked from the Sklorno to Kimberlin, who just raised his eyebrows in an expression that said
do you want me to bail you out, or not?

Quentin did. He turned back to the orange-and-black-clad Sklorno and nodded.

“High Priestess,” Kimberlin said. “The Godling Barnes must prepare for the game. He wishes to be left alone. He is honored by your presence, High Priestess, and bestows upon you the thoughts of many passes and many catches.”

Even with the heavy robes, Quentin saw her shiver. She walked backward, bowing over and over again.

“That should take care of it,” Kimberlin said. “I believe you will be left alone for the remainder of your stay. Unless, of course, you want to leave the heavily guarded, armored, and secure stadium facilities so you can go out drinking with your pal John Tweedy.”

“No,” Quentin said quickly. “No, I think I’ll stay in the compound.”

“Good idea,” Kimberlin said. “Just follow me.”

They walked across the pulsing, glowing floor toward the lifts. Quentin saw another robed Sklorno, this one dressed in gold, silver, and copper.

“The Jupiter Jacks,” Quentin said, nodding to the Sklorno. “What’s up with her wearing those colors?”

“A teammate of yours first played upper-tier ball for the Jacks,” Kimberlin said. “Recognize the face on her chest?”

Quentin did. It was the face of Don Pine. All of this was just too surreal. Maybe next season he would explore a Sklorno city, but for now,
heavily guarded, armored, and secure stadium facilities
sounded just right.

He headed for the lifts, wanting nothing more than to get to his room, get a meal, and lose himself in preparation for the upcoming game against the Alimum Armada.

• • •

THE BALL BOUNCED ALONG
the turquoise field, the fumble’s path unpredictable and panic-inducing. Quentin dove for it, thought he had it when his hands hit blood-streaked leather, but the ball squirted from his grip and sailed into the air. He started to scramble up for it, but a Ki lineman drove into his ribs and smashed him to the field.

A slew of orange-jerseyed, black-helmeted Krakens and blue-jerseyed, white-helmeted Armada players hit the bouncing ball at the same time, hiding the brown spot in a moving mountain of angry sentients. Pinned to the ground, Quentin watched as zebes flew in, whistles blowing madly, trying to pull players off the top of the wriggling pile.

Quentin waited, his heart in his chest, the knee of a Ki buried in the small of his back. Down 24-14 early in the fourth quarter, they’d had a sustained drive rolling along right up until Ju Tweedy fumbled.

The whistles blew again and the zebes pointed downfield — pointed the wrong way. Armada’s ball.

The Ki lifted off Quentin with only a little extra push. Quentin climbed to his feet, picking chunks of turquoise-colored grass out of his facemask as he walked to the sidelines. The home Alimum crowd roared and performed their tradition of the “flag pass,” handing multiple white flags from sentient to sentient as fast as they could, always to the left, so that a dozen or more of the white banners seemed to race around the stadium.

Quentin reached the sidelines and turned, praying to High One that the defense could make a stop. The Krakens were only down by ten points. It wasn’t over. If they could get the ball back, they had a chance to win it.

• • •

A TWEEDY HAD LOST
the ball, and a Tweedy got the ball back. Quentin had watched John Tweedy playing possum all game, pretending to be a little slower than he actually was, even letting Armada QB Vinson Nichols complete some short passes when John could have knocked them down. That was just how John played the game, thinking in terms of four quarters as opposed to one play.

The Armada had recovered Ju’s fumble, then marched twenty-two yards, slowly chewing up the clock. With 5:32 to play, Nichols dropped back and threw what should have been a safe hook pattern to tight end Mark O’Leary. That was when John finally turned on his top speed. He dove and extended, his outstretched hands just an inch or two in front of O’Leary’s. John intercepted the pass and fell to the ground, giving the Krakens the ball.

Quentin felt that adrenaline stab of momentum, of possibility. He ran out to huddle with his offense. They had a first-and-ten at their own 37-yard line, down by ten points, 5:16 left in the game.

Hokor’s face appeared in the heads-up holo.

“
Barnes!
We have time to win this, but we need yards fast. Single back, spread set. Do what you do.”

“Coach?”

“Audible from the line,” Hokor said. “No-huddle offense, you make it happen.”

Quentin felt a rush of pride. Game on the line, the Krakens needed two scores, and Hokor was handing over the reins. The team would run a play, return to the line without huddling, then listen as Quentin called the plays from behind center.

The spread set put three wide receivers on the field: Hawick, Milford, and Halawa. He also had Crazy George Starcher at right tight end, and Ju Tweedy in the backfield.

Quentin’s mind slipped into an automatic mode. He hit Hawick on an out-pattern for eight yards, throwing the ball just out of bounds where only she could catch it. The next pass, he hit Starcher over the middle for fifteen, then Halawa on an inside slant for ten.

On the next play, Quentin saw the blue-jerseyed Armada defense bunching in.

A blitz.

“
Green
, eighteen flash!” Quentin called, audibling to a screen pass. “Green, eighteen flash! Hut-hut!”

He dropped back five steps as his offensive line gave one hit, then pretended to let the defense beat the blocks. Four Armada Ki linemen scuttled toward him, as did a Quyth Warrior linebacker and the Sklorno left cornerback. Quentin kept backpedaling, looking downfield, then at the last second turned and threw the ball to his right where The Mad Ju was waiting. Ju hauled in the light pass. Kimberlin and Vu-Ko-Will had run to the right as soon as they’d let their defender past, and now moved upfield to block for Ju.

It was a thing of beauty and savagery. Quentin’s play had caught the Armada flat-footed. Their blitz left few defenders in the defensive secondary. Those that we still there tried to reach Ju, but had to go
through
Kimberlin and Vu-Ko because they were just too big to go
around
. Ju practically jogged, not going full speed, running just a bit behind his blockers. A linebacker tried to crash in, but Kimberlin laid him out flat. The cornerback drove in, trying to go around Vu-Ko’s outside shoulder. Ju used that exact instant to turn on the jets, brushing past Vu-Ko’s
in
side shoulder, then sprinting up-field. The safety tried to catch him at the ten, but The Mad Ju just bowled her over, then slowed down and actually walked into the end zone.

A perfectly called play, perfect execution. Arioch Morningstar’s point-after made the score 24-21 in favor of the Armada. Three minutes and forty-two seconds left in the game. Now all Quentin could do was wait and see if the Krakens D could get the ball back.

• • •

SOME THINGS WERE
just not meant to be.

The Krakens did not get the ball back. Armada quarterback Vinson Nichols put together a sustained drive that slowly chewed up yards. Three third-down conversions kept the drive alive. The Krakens burned through their time outs but couldn’t force the Armada to punt. Quentin could do nothing but watch as Nichols lined his team up in the victory formation for the final play, then took a knee to let time expire.

Someday,
someday
, Quentin wanted to be the one taking a knee to end the game.

It had been a great contest, possibly the Krakens’ best overall team effort yet. Quentin shook hands with the other players until he reached Nichols.

“Nice game, kid,” Nichols said. “You’re putting together a heck of a team.”

“Thanks. Heck of a team, sure, but not good enough to take you guys yet.”

Nichols shrugged. “I’m not looking forward to playing you next year, that’s for sure. The Mad Ju was a great add; he killed us tonight. When he gels with your offense? Ionath will be hard to beat.”

“Yeah, he is looking sharp.”

“It’s just turnovers,” Nichols said. “Your interception and his two fumbles. If you guys clean up the turnovers for the last four games, you might win enough to stay in Tier One.”

...
his two fumbles
...

“Hey,” Nichols said. “You okay? You’re spacing out on me.”

Quentin blinked and gave his head a quick shake to clear his thoughts. “Yeah, sorry. Great game, man. See you next year.”

Nichols smiled and slapped Quentin’s shoulder pad. “You better win two more games, brother, or I won’t see you next year at all.”

Nichols jogged to the tunnel. The remaining crowd saw him leaving the field and gave a hearty cheer. He waved his helmet at them, then was gone.

Quentin started the walk back to the visitor’s locker room.