The Starter (3 page)
Quentin stared out the view port, taking in the ruined planet. He wondered if there might be messages waiting for him when he reached the surface. Maybe his father had seen his game against the Earthlings a week ago. The T2 Tourney didn’t get the ratings of Tier One, but it was still broadcast galaxy-wide. Maybe his mother had seen a newscast, seen Quentin’s now-adult face and instantly recognized her baby boy.
Maybe. Or maybe he’d never hear from either of them.
A heavy hand hit his shoulder; hit and held. Quentin winced — his shoulder still hurt from the game against the Earthlings a week earlier. The strong hand shook him, the friendly-if-painful grasp of John Tweedy.
“What’s
up
, Q? I know you got the tar knocked out of you by those Tex linebackers, but come on, trooper, you should be
happy
. You brought us into Tier One, man. You get a week off! Maybe now you can do something with your money, like get an apartment or something. Hey, maybe you can live near me! We could be shucking
neighbors
, brother!”
When Quentin didn’t respond, the wordsTURN THAT FROWN UPSIDE DOWNscrolled across John’s face tattoo.
“Come on, Killer Q,” John said. “What’s got that mopey sad-boy look on your face?”
“It’s just... ah, never mind, I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Come
on
, trooper! Uncle Johnny’s been in the GFL five years, another three in the lower leagues, all that time trying to get to Tier One. It’s been my
dream
, Q! And that dream came true ‘cause of you. What’s eating ya? Ya need a girl? Wanna go out and paint the town orange?”
“No, that’s not... well, yeah, we
should
go out and hit the town, but that’s not what I mean. This Tier One stuff is a big deal, I just wish my parents could see it.”
“Why aren’t they here? Your Dad have attitude? Want me to whip your Pop’s ass? ‘Cause I
will
whip his ass, I assure you.”
Quentin laughed. He didn’t feel like laughing, but John’s always-on intensity could make anything seem funny. “I don’t know where they are, John. I don’t even know if they’re alive. They vanished when I was real little. Happens a lot in the Nation.”
Tweedy looked around behind him to the left, then to the right, then to the left again. His eyes lingered on Shizzle, who was farther back in the small shuttle, still perched on Kill-O-Yowet’s shoulder.
Tweedy leaned in close to Quentin and spoke in a whisper. “Hey, Q, you told anyone about this?”
Quentin shook his head. “Not really. Warburg knows, some ex-Nationalites in Ionath City, but I guess that’s about it. Why?”
Tweedy did the left-right-left look again, the move probably drawing more attention to him than if he’d just talked quietly. “Listen, you might not want to make your situation public, you know? That’s the kind of thing Gredok can use against you.”
“Why would Gredok use it against me? I’m his quarterback.”
John shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe he was looking at someone so stupid. The funny thing was that John wasn’t the sharpest laser in the kit, but he was so sure of himself and had such conviction that when he thought you were dumb, you actually
felt
a little dumb even if you knew you were right.
“You
challenged
Gredok,” John said. “You challenged his authority, and won. You know what that means? Don’t they have crime bosses on Micovi?”
Quentin thought of Stedmar Osborne, and nodded. Stedmar was the owner of the Micovi Raiders, Quentin’s Tier Three team back in the Purist Nation. Stedmar was a not a man to be trifled with.
“Yeah,” Quentin said. “All teams are owned by gangsters. I know that.”
“You
know
that, but you don’t
know
it. You get away with stuff because you win games. Gangsters like to win, winning makes money, but the most important thing is respect and control. You challenged Gredok’s authority — he’s
not
gonna forget that, Killer Q.”
Quentin hadn’t thought about it that way until this moment. Don Pine had owed millions to Mopuk the Sneaky, a gangster that forced Pine to shave points, even throw games outright. Quentin orchestrated an effort to pay off Don’s debt. When Gredok had discovered Pine’s betrayal, he wanted to kill the man. Quentin threatened to walk away from the Krakens if Gredok hurt Pine in any way. Quentin had reacted on instinct, done what he had to do for the good of the team, never really connecting the dots that there could be long-term consequences for those actions.
“Anyway,” John said, “Gredok’s not going to have you whacked. Not yet, at least. But you don’t want to give him any more leverage over you, right?”
Quentin nodded. “Then how do I go about finding my parents? We have the season coming up, it’s not like I can go out and look for them.”
John did the left-right-left look again, then leaned in.I KNOW A GUYscrolled across his forehead in small letters. “Don’t you worry about it, Q. Uncle Johnny-Boy The Minister of Awesome will hook you up. You put it out of your head for now.”
John turned and walked away, leaving Quentin alone at the view port window.
The shuttle rattled as it entered Ionath’s atmosphere. Quentin gripped one of the many hand/tentacle rings lining the shuttle. He looked out at what he now called “home.” A Sklorno saturation bombing 124 years earlier had wiped the planet clean of all advanced life. Only bacteria had remained, and not much of that. Ionath had remained lifeless, damn near
sterile
, until the Quyth Concordia colonized it. The Quyth seemed immune to the same radiation that killed every other known sentient in the galaxy. The Quyth were in the midst of a centuries-long process of transforming the planet. Much of Ionath still looked lifeless, lined with massive craters and cracks, but those scars were also blurring under an ever-increasing carpet of orange, red, and yellow plants.
The shuttle approached Ionath City. Built in the middle of a ten-mile-wide bomb crater, Ionath City’s clear dome glowed like a torch lit up by the lights of thousands of buildings beneath. As the shuttle drew closer to the dome, Quentin stared in amazement as those lights changed. The white, blue, red, and yellow glow of a bustling, nighttime cityscape steadily blinked off as a new color steadily blinked on.
That color was
orange
.
The domed metropolis of Ionath City flickered, blinked, and in a span of ten or fifteen seconds, changed into a gleaming black jewel glittering with millions of glowing orange facets.
The orange and the black.
Ionath City welcomed its warriors home.
The pilot dove straight for the huge dome, which obligingly disintegrated a temporary, shuttle-sized hole. The circular roads of Ionath City seemed to guide them in like the concentric rings of a bull’s-eye. Straight streets dissected sixteen equivalent sectors, all intersecting at the city center — intersecting at the home of the Krakens.
In Ionath City, all roads led to the football stadium.
The shuttle angled closer. Quentin saw more lights flare up, the sides of buildings coming to life with skyscraper-high motion clips of the orange- and black-clad Krakens players: Scarborough hauling in a pass; Aleksander Michnik sacking a quarterback; Quentin running through the line, a sweat-dripping snarl splayed across his face; Virak the Mean, black and red blood streaking his jersey, pointing out a gap just before the snap of the ball; and then one that made Quentin’s soul
hurt
— number 47, Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed, standing over the crumbled, purple-and-white clad form of Yalla the Biter. After Yalla had ripped off Paul Pierson’s leg, Fayed had gone headhunting for the linebacker and crushed him in a highlight-reel hit. Quentin blinked back tears for his dead friend. Reaching Tier One had been the Machine’s ultimate dream. He’d died just two games shy of seeing that become a reality.
Sixty-foot-tall motion clips of so many players, orange and black giants making the nighttime skyline dance with life. So many Krakens, but the changing images featured one more than all the others combined.
“Zak,” Quentin called out. “You seeing this?”
Yitzhak Goldman quickly walked over to stand next to Quentin. The third-string quarterback looked out the window, then took a deep breath that exhaled into a smile saturating every iota of his face.
“Ah, good to be home,” Yitzhak said loudly. “Nothing quite like being welcomed home by towering visions of... well... of
me
.”
All the players on the shuttle laughed, even the mostly humorless Michnik and Khomeni. Ionath City residents adored Yitzhak, even if most of them didn’t really understand he was a third-string quarterback and fairly insignificant to the team’s success. That lack of knowledge didn’t change the fact that businesses wanted Yitzhak’s name associated with their companies, wanted his picture on their products. He was the face of Junkie Gin, the dashboard voice of Hundai Grav-Limos, and the chisel-chinned image of Farouk Outdoor’s popular anti-rad suits that let the adventurous non-Quyth species explore the vast planet. Compared to the advertising money he earned, Yitzhak’s actual salary was probably insignificant.
The shuttle slowed as it approached the roof of the Krakens building, and landed feather-light. The side door lowered. Quentin and the others started filing down the ramp, ready for the now-familiar customs check. While the Quyth Concordia was independent of Creterakian control, GFL rules still applied to every team.
Team buses had diplomatic immunity. GFL players could not be searched or detained. This had been implemented to prevent local system police from harassing players based on species bias. For a team to compete, it had to have players from the main races. Immunity allowed teams to move across systems without fear that some of their players would be arrested, possibly even killed. But just because the players themselves couldn’t be detained didn’t mean the Creterakians would allow team busses be a conduit for weapons or explosives that could be used against the ruling empire. The shuttle had to be searched every time it landed.
Quentin walked out. A red line glowed on the roof. He dutifully took his place on that line, John Tweedy on his right, Scarborough on his left. They all stood, quietly waiting as a white-uniformed, blue-furred Quyth Leader walked up and down the twelve-player line. The Leader’s middle arms held something behind his back. Two white-uniformed workers slid a grav-cart into the shuttle.
“I am Kotop the Observer,” the Leader said. “I am duly appointed by the Galactic Football League to inspect your shuttle.”
Quentin sighed. He knew who Kotop was. Everyone knew who Kotop was, because Kotop inspected the shuttle every time it landed. The little Leader insisted on formally identifying himself. Kotop always seemed annoyed that the players were probably using their personal immunity to smuggle in information, drugs, or other contraband. The unwritten rule was that whatever a player could carry on his person — as long as it wasn’t a weapon — remained totally above the law. Kotop did little to hide his disdain of athletes. He usually had something derisive to say.
“Look at you all,” Kotop said. “The conquering heroes return.”
Quentin expected Kotop’s usual lecture on morals, but this time he sounded different.
John took a step forward and stood with rigid, mock attention. “Mister Kotop Leader
Shamakath
sir! May I ask what is on your mind, Mister Kotop Leader
Shamakath
sir? You seem very... happy.”
“I’m always happy,” Kotop said.
The Krakens players laughed.
John stepped back into line.
The two white-uniformed workers pushed their grav-sled out of the shuttle. “No explosives, no weapons,” one of them said to Kotop.
“Excellent,” Kotop said. “I expected nothing less of such fine representatives of Ionath.”
The players looked at each other, confused.
“Kotop, my tip-top,” John said. “Aren’t you going to tell us we are delinquents that will someday wind up dead or in jail as soon as football is finished with us?”
“Not tonight,” Kotop said. He brought his hands out from behind his back. They were holding a little black baseball hat, which he pulled onto his head. The hat showed the Krakens logo on the bill. Across the brim it read: IONATH KRAKENS: 2682 TIER TWO CHAMPIONS.
“Tonight?” Kotop said, “Tonight, I am just a fan, like every being in this city. Congratulations, sentients, and welcome home.”
The team laughed and whooped at the unexpected support. They walked across the roof to ride elevators down to their respective quarters, or to cars and taxis. Quentin, however, walked to the roof’s far side. He stood there, breathing slowly, staring out at an entire city lit up in orange lights, a city alive with the moving, silent images of his teammates, his friends. Some of the towering buildings showed action clips of Quentin, jersey torn and splattered with blood, fighting for victory against the Sky Demolition, the Whitok Pioneers, the Texas Earthlings.
He looked everywhere, trying to take it all in, trying to capture everything and forever burn it into his brain.
Not that long ago, he’d been an orphan. A low-wage miner, on an unknown colony, in a backwater system.
Now? Now his image covered towering skyscrapers. Now, he was a
hero
.
He would never, ever, forget this moment.
From
The Ionath City Gazette
by
TOYAT THE INQUISITIVE
NEW YORK CITY, EARTH, PLANETARY UNION — GFL officials today announced the schedule for the 2683 season. Following their successful season and first-place finish in the T2 Tournament, the Ionath Krakens earned promotion to Tier One.
The GFL has two divisions, the Planet Division and the Solar Division. Ionath was placed in the Planet Division, replacing the relegated Free Birds who finished the 2682 Tier One season with a record of 1-11.
Each division has eleven teams. The Krakens play each Planet Division team once, and also have two cross-divisional games against teams from the Solar Division. Every team gets one bye-week, resulting in a 12-game, 13-week schedule.
