The Champion (51 page)

Don’t forget that sentients might have died because of this, Quentin, or that more might die if more messages are sent
—
maybe you should think about that in addition to football?

They wouldn’t show Quentin the proof. But he’d met with the commissioner, and he trusted the man’s intentions. This wasn’t a witch-hunt, this wasn’t a payoff — this was
real
.

“All I can tell you is it’s not me,” Quentin said. “So what now, Froese? You going to have your buddies over there in the powered armor drag me to your ship to never be heard from again?”

Froese walked closer. Quentin struggled to control a swirling rage, but he realized he wasn’t angry at Froese anymore, or even at Yolanda — someone on the Krakens was in league with terrorists, someone had used the organization to commit mass murder.

“Barnes, I’m going to ask you one more time,” Froese said. “Do you have
any
connection with the Guild?”

Quentin crossed his arms and stared down. “No.”

Froese turned to Yolanda. “We’re going with Plan B.”

“
Whaf
?” She pointed at Quentin. “That’s it? You’re just going to take his
word
for it? If he’s one of them, he can lie as easily as taking a breath. At least give him a lie detector test or something.”

“Not necessary,” Froese said. “And there’s no time — the Krakens have to get to New Whitok for this week’s game. And besides ... I believe him.”

Quentin felt justified, even more so because of the indignant outrage written all over Yolanda’s face.

“You’re worried about a
game
,” she said. “Unless you get some kind of proof he’s not involved, then you can’t give him a free pass, you hear me? I’ll run the story as-is, Froese. You can’t just
decide
that he’s innocent! There’s a terrorist on this ship, and—”

“I can decide
anything I like
!”

Froese’s scream even made Quentin flinch. It stopped Yolanda cold.

The commissioner then spoke softly, which in its own way was even more frightening than the scream.

“Perhaps you don’t understand who I am,” he said to Yolanda. “I am the commissioner of the Galactic Football League. My authority is given to me by the Creterakian Emperor. If someone is a threat to the league, I can make them—” he snapped his fingers “—go away.”

Yolanda’s face changed color, from a purple of flushed anger to a paler shade, almost blue. So visible was the change it reminded Quentin of a Quyth cornea.

Froese saw it, too.

“Good, you get it,” he said. “This news could do too much damage to the league — you’re not going to run anything until we find out who it is, so the public gets their bad guy and there aren’t any lingering questions. And besides, Yolanda, tell me honestly ... do you
really
think Barnes could be behind this?”

Still a little shell-shocked from Froese’s implied threat, she looked at Quentin, held his gaze for a moment, then sighed.

“No,” she said. “I don’t. You’re right ... Plan B.”

He wasn’t the primary suspect anymore, but something told him he didn’t get to just walk away.

“Let me guess,” he said. “I’m
part
of Plan B?”

“Yolanda will stay on board to do a story on you,” Froese said. “An all-access feature on the Galaxy Bowl MVP and how he goes about his daily life. That gives her a reason to be around you all the time. And
that
means she can keep digging. Whykor?”

“Yes, Commissioner?”

“You stay on board as Yolanda’s assistant. You’ve done that in the past, so it shouldn’t raise too much suspicion. That gives you nine days — four days there, game day, and four days back — to find what you need.”

Whykor’s fur fluffed. “But, Commissioner, it could take longer than—”

Froese wheeled on him. “
Nine days
. This trip is the longest time we can justify you being on board without Gredok getting suspicious. You get the info by then, end of story.”

Quentin noticed that the color had returned to Yolanda’s face, and then some. She wasn’t looking directly at anyone. She seemed ... embarrassed? Then it clicked.

“Hold on,” he said. “The story on
me
is a smokescreen to embed Yolanda, and embedding
Yolanda
is a smokescreen to keep
Whykor
on the ship without Gredok wondering why he’s here?”

Froese nodded. “Yes. That’s Plan B. I don’t trust Gredok, Barnes. As far as I know, he’s involved, although he wasn’t on the
Touchback
for all the confirmed messages.”

No wonder Yolanda was a little miffed; she wasn’t the star of this operation.

“Only one problem with your plan,” Quentin said.

The commissioner raised an eyebrow.

Quentin tapped his own sternum with the tip of a finger.

“No one asked
me
. What if I don’t want anything to do with your Plan B, your Plan C, your plan whatever?”

“Simple,” Froese said. “If we don’t find the culprit and word gets out — and word
will
get out, Barnes, because word always does, eventually — sentients in every system will wonder how many GFL players are involved with slaughtering innocents. Then, Barnes, the treatment you received when they thought you were throwing games will look like a warm welcome by comparison. We’re already struggling enough with half the galaxy thinking we’re traitors for bringing in the Prawatt. What do you think will happen to the league’s reputation if there is some unknown villain using GFL travel and diplomatic immunity to murder and destroy?”

That kind of turmoil would put the season in danger. It could take away Quentin’s chance at defending the title, and quite possibly even shut down the entire league,
for good
. Then he’d be out of a job. More importantly, so would his teammates and the support personnel. But, if they could find the sentient responsible and bring him — or her — to justice? The league would end up with a black eye, sure, but it wouldn’t be a death sentence.

“All right,” Quentin said. “I’ll play along.”

Froese nodded. “I thought so.”

He waved at his entourage to follow him out the door. The power-armored Sklorno and Leiba filtered out behind him. Then Froese popped his head back in.

“Barnes, you’re a good man,” he said. “You’re the only one on your team that knows. Help Yolanda figure out who it is, so we can save our league.”

With that, Froese left. The door swished shut behind him, leaving Quentin alone with Whykor and Yolanda.

Yolanda crossed her arms and looked at him. She shook her head as if she couldn’t quite handle the fact that she’d been relegated to the role of a bit player, and that somehow it was Quentin’s fault.

“Whykor and I need a room.”

“Computer,” Quentin said, “please send Messal the Efficient here, immediately.”

[I WILL CONVEY THE MESSAGE.]

Yolanda wanted to find out who it was, she wanted it bad, but Quentin couldn’t imagine she wanted it more than he did. Someone was betraying his
team
. Whoever it was, they would be lucky if Froese got to them before Quentin did.

IT WAS HARD TO GET THROUGH
practice without screaming at everyone.

Two days to go before they reached New Whitok. Quentin found himself suspecting everyone who had been on the team for at least four seasons. Even, he was ashamed to admit, John and Ju.

The first message came from Week Seven of Quentin’s first year in Tier One, the week after they had rescued Ju from the city of Madderch. And John ... he seemed so goofy most of the time, but that brilliant strategy he’d shown in the Portath fighting pit hinted at something deeper. And, of course, John was a killer. As crazy as it sounded, it was possible Quentin didn’t know his brothers as well as he thought.

He had gone through the numbers with Yolanda. In all, there were twenty-nine players who had been with the team during the span in question. The Prawatt were out, of course, having just joined last season. Milford and Hawick were the only Sklorno possibilities.

As for the Warriors, Quentin was sure Choto wasn’t a suspect, but Virak, Kopor and Shayat the Thick were. Virak would do whatever Gredok told him to do. Shayat the Thick was a known smuggler — if he would sell drugs, was there any level to which he wouldn’t stoop?

It could also be any of the eleven Ki players on the squad. Quentin could only know them so well; they were the most alien of his teammates.

Out of the eleven Human players, only Trevor Haney was off the hook. Surprisingly little turnover among that race.

And finally the group Quentin didn’t want to think about, because it forced him to look at a
player
he didn’t want to think about: the HeavyG. Only four of them had been on the team long enough to be suspects: Alexsandar Michnik, Ibrahim Khomeni, Becca — and Michael Kimberlin.

Kimberlin, the man that knew sentients in the Harrah independence movement. What kind of a person would know sentients like that? Someone in the ZG, that’s who. Kimberlin, who seemed to think the Guild was behind two attacks on the Krakens, maybe even knew who those attacks were specifically aimed at.

“
Barnes!
Get your head back in the game! Are you going to run the offense today or should we just forfeit to the Coelacanths?”

Quentin looked up at Hokor’s floating golf cart.

“Sorry, Coach,” he said. “I’m ready. Huddle up, everyone.”

Coach was right; he needed to focus on his job. Whykor and Yolanda would uncover the Guild member. Quentin needed to make sure his team didn’t get upset by winless D’Oni.

“All right, boys and girls, we’re working I-formation now,” he said to the huddle. “Coach wants X-slant, Y-post, Z-cross, A-wheel. Kopor, stop stepping up too far. You won’t be able to pick up a corner blitz — stay home so I don’t get killed on Sunday. And Starcher, your post is looking sloppy. Make a sharper cut. Okay, let’s get to work. Run it like you mean it. Ready?”

“
Break!
”

QUENTIN HATED
throwing up. He hated it more than anything.

“Wow,” Ju said. “If there was a Hall of Fame for heaves, that would have been a first-ballot inductee right there.”

“Classic,” John said. “Just when you think an artist has painted his masterpiece, he goes and breaks all the barriers.”

Well,
almost
anything; he hated listening to the Tweedy brothers make fun of his puking even more than the puking itself.

Quentin stood and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The Tweedys were with him in the observation deck, as was Yolanda, who had dutifully followed him around to keep up the illusion. She stayed a few feet back, as if that made her an impartial observer instead of a participant in the event. Kopor the Climber was there as well. Quentin was still trying to improve their connection. Kopor had never been a part of the strange punch-out ritual.

“You regurgitate,” the Warrior said. “You do this every trip?”

“Not
every
trip,” Quentin said.

Ju rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Q, close enough. You see, Kopor, our team leader is afraid of flying.”

Kopor’s baseball-sized eye swirled with dark red, the color of surprise.

“Afraid of
flying
? But punch-space is the safest form of travel. Statistically speaking, you are twenty times more likely to die in the shuttle trip to or from a planet than with a punch-in or punch-out.”

A statistic Quentin suddenly wished he had never heard.

“Gee, Kopor, that makes me feel so much better, considering we’re about to take a shuttle down and all. And I’m not afraid of flying. I just get motion sick.”

Yolanda came a few steps closer and joined the group. “But do you get motion sick
because
you’re afraid?”

She spoke the last word like a starving man saying the word
steak
.

Quentin started to deny it, then stopped. She was going to write what she was going to write; all he could do was stammer about it and give her something
else
to write about. Maybe Yolanda was cover for Whykor, but she certainly wasn’t lazy — she was still going to write a feature story on one Quentin Barnes. An angle like the Galaxy Bowl MVP being afraid of space travel? She wasn’t going to let that one go.

He looked out the viewport at yet another new planet, a sprawling world of pale green. Like Isis, the city of D’Oni was mostly below the surface. What looked like an island was actually the all-species urban center; the rest of the city sloped down building-covered shores and into the water. Far off from the island, miles-high shimmering metal towers jutted out from what looked like a calm surface. The tiny bits of moving white at the bases of those towers, however, made it clear the calmness was only an illusion created by elevation — D’Oni was known as
the planet of perpetual storms
.

“You got lucky,” Yolanda said. “A cloud-free day on New Whitok is rare. But don’t worry, the weather report says a storm is coming.”

John huffed. “Big surprise. And the stadium doesn’t have a dome.”

I HATE GETTING WET
scrolled across his face.

[FIRST-SHUTTLE PASSENGERS, REPORT TO THE SHUTTLE BAY]

“Well, Yolanda, I’ll see you on the surface,” Quentin said. “I’ve got to head down.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry, Quentin — I’m on the first shuttle with you. I’m embedded, remember? Where you go, I go.”

Yolanda was keeping up the illusion, that was for sure. As annoying as it was to have her tagging along, Quentin had to admit it kept all the attention on
her
, and not on Whykor. Whykor stayed in Yolanda’s cabin, doing whatever the heck it was that he was doing.

And whatever that was, he was scheduled to be done by the time the Krakens came back from this game.

QUENTIN WASN’T SURE
who hit him. It was hard to tell, considering that it came from his blind side. Helmet in his back, had to be. He lay on the wet plum-colored field, unable to focus on anything but the dull agony raging through his right shoulder, the cold rain pouring down, and the insane roar of 130,000 fans, most of whom were hoping to see the Coelacanths’ first Tier One victory.