The Starter (5 page)

John stopped walking and looked up at a twenty-story red building on his left. “This is it, Q, we’re here.” He turned to look at Quentin. John stared with wide, crazy eyes. His eyes always looked like that, except for when he was on the football field, when they were wider and crazier, which was bad, or when they crinkled in time with one of his psycho smiles, which was far, far worse.

“Don’t you embarrass me in there,” John said. “None of your hayseed hick-osity. This is a serious guy I’m introducing you to here. A
serious
guy.”

“What makes you think I’ll embarrass you?”

John shook his head, the words
DUMB SPELLED BACKWARD IS BMUD
scrolling across his face. He opened the door and walked in. Quentin followed.

Maybe they were past the edge of the nightclub district, because this place looked like some kind of an office building. Quentin looked around, suddenly realized something odd — aside from a couple of nightclubs, he hadn’t seen the inside of anything in Ionath City other than the Krakens building.

Outside, all the buildings were varying shades of red. This lobby? All white. In the middle of the lobby, a Quyth Worker sat behind a circular desk. A couple of scarred Ki wearing green uniforms stood on either side. They looked out of shape, perhaps, but also had that aura of ex-soldiers or former cops. Whatever their past, now they worked office-building security.

John strode to the reception desk like he owned the place. The Ki on either side didn’t have to turn their heads to watch him, what with their 360-degree vision and all, but you could tell they were instantly paying close attention to the two massive Humans.

The Quyth Worker behind the desk wasn’t like the slovenly ones Quentin often saw in the bars and nightclubs, swilling gin, nearly drinking themselves into a coma. This one was dressed in a tidy green uniform. The Worker reminded Quentin of Messal the Efficient, the Krakens team manager.

The Worker recognized John, and his one eye flooded with yellow. “Well, Mister Jo—”

John held up a hand, cutting off the worker’s sentence. “I’m Mister Smith,” John said. “That person you thought you just saw? He was never here.”

John pulled the pint of Junkie Gin out of his beerdoleer.

The Worker looked at it greedily, then tapped a couple of buttons that probably turned off cameras somewhere in the lobby.

“Well, Mister... Smith. That is a rather nice gift.”

“Look at the label,” John said. The Worker did, then started to quiver.

“This... this is actually
signed
by
Yitzhak Goldman
?”

“The man himself,” John said. “I’m gonna head up, got some business upstairs. You’ll make sure there’s no images of us, right?”

The Worker nodded violently, a difficult maneuver considering his relative lack of a neck. “No one will know you and your friend were here.”

John rapped his knuckles on the desk twice, then walked around it, heading for the elevators. Quentin followed.

An elevator hissed open and they got in. John pressed a button for the fifteenth floor.

“John, what was that all about? An autographed bottle of gin?”

“Stuff is like gold,” John said. “Really expensive, the Workers are crazy for it. And a signature from Yitzhak? That Worker will do whatever we ask.”

“Yeah, but why wouldn’t you use my autograph? I’m the starting quarterback.”

John pulled a fresh Miller from the beerdoleer and popped the top. The mag-can frosted up instantly. “Get used to it, Q.” He drained half the can. “The Quyth are going to root for you like crazy, but no matter what you do they will always like their own better. Yitzhak is the native son, and that’s that.”

Quentin still found it odd the Quyth adored a Human that much. Yitzhak wasn’t even their species. Zak’s family had lived on Ionath going back something like three generations. He’d been born right here under the Ionath City dome. It seemed the Quyth didn’t see race — they only saw borders. You didn’t have to be a Quyth to be a Concordia citizen; you just had to want to be part of the Concordia. Learn the culture, learn the history, swear allegiance to the Concordia above all others — all others, including your original homeland — and the Quyth would welcome you with open pedipalps.

The elevator stopped. Quentin followed John out. The lobby hadn’t looked new, but it had been neat and clean. Everything on this floor seemed damaged. The place smelled musty. The walls had once been smart-paper, but no longer had the ability to flicker images and patterns. Now the material just sagged.

Splatters of dried brown covered one spot.

“John,” Quentin said, and pointed to the stain. “Is that
blood
?”

John finished his mag-can and tossed it down the hall. “Yeah, probably. A lot of private investigators in this building, some bounty hunters and the like. Everyone needs an office for tax purposes, you know?”

Quentin nodded, although he really had no idea how taxes worked.

John stopped in front of a door marked with a placard that showed one line repeated in fifteen languages. Quentin read the line in English: SUITE 1510 — GONZAGA INVESTIGATIONS.

“Remember,” John said. “Don’t embarrass me.”

He knocked on the door. Quentin heard a buzzing sound, then metallic clicks — which sounded like several big deadbolts sliding back. The door opened and John walked in. Quentin followed, glancing at the edge of the door as he did. Holes in the thick door were an inch in diameter. The door’s frame had matching, recessed circles. When the door was closed and the bars extended, a hover-tank couldn’t get through.

The office was a long room with walls and floor made out of irregular, flat, red stones. At the end of the room sat a white desk. Behind the white desk, a man dressed in a business suit made out of some shiny pink material. In front of the desk, two white chairs. Above the two white chairs, something that looked like a stubby-legged horse all done up in a frilly green, blue, and yellow material.

Quentin stopped in his tracks. The whole thing made him feel oddly uncomfortable. He pointed to the strange, frilly horse. “John, what is that?”

“That’s a piñata,” John said.

“What’s a piñata?”

“A piñata,” the man in pink said, “is
fab
ulous. Uncle Johnny Boy the Awesome, walk your muscles over here and bring that de-licious quarterback with you.”

Quentin stared at the man. Something...
off
about him. Something that made Quentin nervous.

John walked to the left-side chair and sat, leaving Quentin standing alone and feeling like an idiot. Quentin walked to the right-side chair and sat, looking up as he did — whatever a piñata was, he was sitting directly under its green, blue, and yellow horse ass.

“Quentin Barnes,” John said, “meet Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonada.”

“Gonzaga,” the man said. “But that was very close, John.”

Tweedy nodded.

“Fabulous to meet you, Mister Barnes. Or should I call you Elder?”

Frederico seemed overly excited about the whole situation. And the way he’d said
Elder
— all smiles, but the word was laced with hatred.

“Quentin is fine, thanks.”

“Well, Quentin, you certainly are a big boy, aren’t you?”

“Uh...” Quentin said. Well, he
was
much bigger than Frederico. Hard to tell while the man was sitting, but Frederico might be six foot even. If so, that made Quentin a full foot taller. Frederico looked athletic, but couldn’t have been more than two hundred pounds. Next to Quentin, he looked anorexic.

“Soooo,” Frederico said, drawing out the word. “Uncle Johnny tells me you’re just a lost little lonely heart.”

“I’m... what?”

“You need help finding your parents, your family,” Frederico said. “I think you came to the right place. At least your pretty eyes came to the right place.”

Quentin stared at the man, then at John. John shrugged.

“Uh, yes,” Quentin said. “That’s right, I want to find my parents.”

“So you can kiss them with that big, pouty mouth of yours?”

Quentin leaned back. Had this guy just called his mouth
pouty
? Why would a guy say that... unless...

Quentin grabbed John’s arm. “Tweedy, can I have a word with you?”

John nodded. Quentin led him back to the back of the office.

“What is this?” Quentin said in a hard whisper. “Why is he talking about my eyes and stuff?”

“He said he thinks they’re pretty,” John said, matching Quentin’s volume. “It’s like you don’t listen or something.”

“Yeah, but... he’s a
guy
. Why would a
guy
think my eyes are pretty?”

Tweedy sighed. “Maybe, backwater, because he thinks guys are prettier than girls.”

Quentin stared and blinked, the words hitting home. “You mean he’s
gay
? Like... a homosexual?”

Tweedy dug the heel of his right hand into his right eye.
SOME MEN YOU JUST CAN’T REACH
scrolled across his forehead.

“Yeah, Q,” John said. “Maybe he’s gay. Are you going to tell me that after all you’ve been through with big scary aliens and working in the mines and gangsters and roundbugs you’re afraid of a little gay guy?”

“I’m not
afraid
,” Quentin said. “It’s just that... well, you know, it’s a... a...”

“A what, Q? Is being gay a sin?”
DID HIGH ONE MAKE STUPIDITY, OR DID IT EVOLVE ON ITS OWN?
scrolled across his face.

Quentin felt his temper rising. “Listen, jerk, don’t ridicule my culture, you got that? I was raised to believe certain things.”

“
Certain things
. You mean things like all aliens — including your teammates — are actually the spawn of Satan and should be killed on sight?”

“Well, no, that part was ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because now I know aliens.”

“And how many gays do you know?”

Quentin blinked. He looked across the room at Frederico. “Including this guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Well... one.”

Tweedy nodded. “Look man, you asked for help and I delivered. Frederico is the best. You need someone found? You need to sneak into a system? This is the guy. And he’s ex-Planetary Union Navy or something. Can fly any ship. If you want to find your parents, hire Frederico — unless you’d rather go to Gredok with your troubles?”

Quentin automatically shook his head. “No way. I’m not giving him any more leverage on me.”

“Such wisdom from such a primitive screwhead,” John said. “You’d be an idiot not to use Frederico. But then again, Purism produces a butt-load of idiots.”

Quentin felt his fingers curl up into fists. “John, I am warning you. You keep insulting my religion, and it’s going to go somewhere neither one of us want it to.”

“You don’t even
like
your religion.”

“I like it enough to defend it.”

John rolled his eyes. “Fine. Give Frederico a chance, and I’ll lay off. Just talk to him. If you don’t think he can cut the gig, we take off, okay?

Quentin looked at Frederico, shiny pink shoes up on the desk, big smile on his face. Frederico saw Quentin looking, put his fingers to his mouth, kissed them, held his hand in front of his face and blew.

“He just blew me a kiss,” Quentin said.

“Better than him giving you the finger.”

“Yeah, but he just
blew me a kiss
.”

John sighed. “Quentin, aren’t you a professional athlete?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s two hundred pounds, tops. You weigh twice as much as him. Do you think he’s got a homo stun gun or something? Maybe a magic spell of gayness that makes you want to dance and sing show tunes?”

“Well... no.”

“Then stop being
you
. You come sit down with me now, or I’m heading to the bar to watch Dinolition. Which is it gonna be?”

Quentin looked up at the ceiling. He knew he was being ridiculous, but it was hard to get past a lifetime of rhetoric. He
had
once thought the Sklorno, the Quyth, and the Ki were Satanic. He’d gotten over that. Maybe he’d get over this as well.

He walked to Frederico’s desk and sat in the chair on the right.

John sat in the left-side chair. He pulled a mag-can of Miller from the beerdoleer. “Sorry,” he said, and reached across the desk to offer Frederico the can.

Frederico took it, popped the top, and sipped. He put the can down and stared at Quentin. “So, you’re okay with me doing this job?”

Quentin took a deep breath. “Look, I may have reacted, uh, poorly. I, uh, I’m not used to... to
this
.”

Frederico shrugged. “That’s fine, you’re the client. Pay the bill on time and you can act pretty much any way you like. But please answer my question — are you okay with me being gay? You’ll still hire me?”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ll hire you.”

“Wow.”

“You didn’t think I would?”

Frederico shrugged. “You’re from the Purist Nation. Everyone from the Purist Nation is a racist homophobic hate-monger.”

“Millions of people are from the Purist Nation. Don’t judge me as a stereotype. We’re not all the same.”

“I suppose not,” Frederico said. The over-the-top exuberance had left his voice. He didn’t sound girly anymore, he sounded like a regular guy. “Now, you know I charge a
lot
, right?”

“Not really spending my money on anything else,” Quentin said. “I mean... this is my family, you know?”

Frederico nodded slowly. “I hear you. Well, as long as your money is good, that’s what matters to me. I hate you Nationalites, but I’m doing this as a favor for John.”

John raised his mag-can in salute and belched.

Frederico laughed and shook his head. “You’re one of a kind, Uncle Johnny the Awesome.” Frederico waved both hands over his desk. Lines of light flared to life in front of him — a holo-interface. The middle of the desk changed appearance, going from white to clear. Quentin couldn’t see from where he was sitting, but there was likely a recessed screen inside the desk. Frederico’s fingertips poked at icons made of nothing but light.

“Okay, Quentin,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”