The Rookie Read online

“Kollok will hand me fifteen million,” Stedmar said, that same self-confident smile on his lips. “Plus smuggling rights for any pyuli he wants to unload in Purist Nation space.”

  Gredok nodded, sensing Stedmar’s body heat increase just a bit. He was lying about the fifteen million, but not about the Kigrown narcotic pyuli, of which some Humans just couldn’t get enough — a year’s worth of rights to that stuff was worth far more than fifteen million. But Micovi belonged to Gredok. Most of it, anyway. Was this Kollok’s first move to cut into Gredok’s territory? Was Stedmar to be trusted?

  “You should never take a deal with another syndicate without consulting me,” Gredok said, the anger building within him.

  Stedmar ran his left hand over his head, brushing his hair back — while he had no antennae, the motion perfectly mimicked the Quyth sign of fealty. Gredok felt his anger subside a little, an involuntary, instinctive reaction to the gesture. His lieutenant was very good at this game. Gredok would never again underestimate Stedmar Osborne.

  “But I have not taken the deal, Shamakath, nor would I ever do so without your blessing.”

  “I will give you ten million for Barnes’ contract,” Gredok said. “Plus, I’ll give you Muhammad Jorgensen’s territory on Allah.”

  Stedmar’s face wrinkled. “I suspect you were going to give me Muhammad’s territory anyway. He’s getting run over by the Giovanni syndicate — they want to expand their Purist Nation territory in a bad way.”

  Gredok nodded again. Stedmar was correct. And yet, the offer had been placed on the table — to change it now was a sign of weakness, and any Shamakath could not admit weakness in front of his vassals. Stedmar had made his first mistake — instead of simply trying to add options, he insinuated that Gredok’s offer was no good.

  “I have offered you a deal,” Gredok said quietly, his antennae pinning down flat against the back of his head, like a dog’s ears just before an attack. “You will now accept.”

  Stedmar’s eyes widened slightly when he saw the antennae go back, and his temperature spiked almost a full degree. He quickly glanced at Gredok’s two bodyguards, who showed no sign of emotion.

  Where Quyth Leaders were small and sleight, Quyth Warriors were so much larger they looked like a different species altogether. They shared the same body style of two legs, two arms with three-pincer hands and two pedipalps on either side of the vertical mouth. But while a Leader’s pedipalps were two feet long and slender, a Warrior’s were usually about three feet long, thick with muscle and heavily armored. Warriors did not have silky fur. Instead, thick chitin covered their bodies. The last difference was perhaps the most pronounced — a Leader’s softball-sized eye glowed like window to the soul’s emotions, while the Warrior’s cold eye was smaller, like a baseball, surrounded by a heavy ridge of chitin and hooded by a thick, tough, leathery eyelid.

  Crazy red and orange designs — the marks of Quyth commandos — decorated the bodyguards’ upper carapaces. Warriors wore pants, usually grey and devoid of color, but rarely wore anything that would cover their enameled markings. Stedmar’s bodyguards, four densely muscled 400-pound Humans, tensed up, ready for action.

  “Shamakath, please understand,” Stedmar said calmly. “With all due respect, Kollok’s deal is better. It’s bad business not to take it.”

  “You will take my offer, Stedmar,” Gredok said. “And you will take it now.”

  “Perhaps we could add some money to the offer — ”

  “The offer is tendered. There will be no changes.”

  Stedmar’s eyes narrowed. He looked down at the diminutive Quyth Leader. “Shamakath, I respectfully invoke my right to decline Kollok’s offer, and therefore am not obligated to take your offer. Barnes will play for me next season.”

  Gredok’s antennae rose slightly. Stedmar had quickly taken his only way out. By keeping Barnes and not selling his contract to anyone, Stedmar could turn down Gredok’s offer without Gredok losing face.

  But proper etiquette or no, Gredok wanted Barnes. And that was all that mattered.

  Gredok clapped his pincers together and gestured to one of his bodyguards, who walked over as he reached into his belt. The Human bodyguards immediately went for their weapons, but Stedmar held up a hand to still them.

  “Virak,” Gredok said to his bodyguard. “Show Stedmar the screen.”

  The 375-pound Virak the Mean struck a rather imposing figure, but Stedmar never flinched. Despite the fact that everyone in the room knew Virak could kill Stedmar in the blink of an eye, the burly bodyguard looked at the Human and brushed back his one set of retractable antennae just before looking at Gredok and doing the same. He then produced a small holo-projector from his belt and switched it on.

  The image flared to life. A dangerous stillness filled the luxury box. Stedmar looked at the image, eyes widening with rage. He glanced down to the stands, to the first row, then back again. Gredok sensed the skyrocketing stress level of the Human bodyguards. They reached for their weapons again, but Stedmar’s curtly raised hand stopped them for the second time.

  The holoscreen showed a smiling, blonde Human woman holding a baby, both warmly dressed against the evening’s cold. They sat in the stadium’s front row, the woman laughing with two other Human women, all of them surrounded by alert bodyguards. The image shook slightly, obviously due to a long-range focus.

  “Your mate and offspring,” Gredok said.

  Stedmar swallowed. “Where is this picture coming from?”

  “From the scope of pulse cannon, manned by a sniper sitting in one of the atmosphere processors overlooking the stadium.”

  Stedmar looked across the field, up to the skyline, at the endless line of atmosphere processors that towered thirty stories high. The big machines were filled with platforms, grates, pipes, blocky compressors ... there were a hundred places a sniper could hide unseen.

  “I’m sure you’re thinking you can kill me now and save your mate and offspring,” Gredok said. “But if the sniper doesn’t hear from me in the next five minutes, he’ll fire. The pulse cannon will incinerate that entire section, killing everyone in a twenty-yard radius. So I suggest no sudden moves on her part — if she should rise to relieve herself, for example, she’ll be the epicenter of a rather large crater.”

  “Frankie,” Stedmar said to one of his bodyguards. “Call down to Stefan, tell him to make sure everyone stays put, especially Michelle.”

  “Very good,” Gredok said. “The deal is tendered. You will take it now.”

  Stedmar nodded, his face a narrow-eyed visage of barely controlled rage. That disappointed Gredok — Stedmar would have to improve his self control if he wanted to move even farther in the syndicate’s hierarchy.

  Virak produced a contract box and handed it to Stedmar. The Human read through the contract, nodded, then placed his thumb in the slot on one end. Gredok placed his middle left pincer in the box’s other slot. The machine quickly recorded their genetic makeup, linked up to the Intergalactic Business Database, verified their identities, then gave a low “beep” to indicate the transaction had been recorded.

  Gredok’s antennae rose to their normal angle. “Very good, Stedmar. I will now take my leave. Shall I remove Muhammad for you?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Stedmar said in a cold voice.

  Gredok nodded, then left the luxury box, Hokor and his two bodyguards close behind.

  2

  QUENTIN

  QUENTIN BARNES RAISED his face into the shower’s steaming spray. The water trickled down his body to join the water cascading off of other players before it all slid down the drain. Streaks of brown and green and red diffused in the water rolling off the other players. Brown mud, green grass stains, red blood. Quentin’s water, of course, carried nothing more than white soap — he’d barely even been touched. Tackled twice, no sacks. The only thing he had to wipe off was his own sweat.

  Tattoos covered the arms and chests of his teammates, many designs denoting various Church rankings or
religious accomplishments. Many were fully confirmed, with the curving infinity symbol inked on their foreheads. Church participation was expected of PNFL players — after all, their talents came courtesy of the High One. And weren’t these men, who dominated Purist Nation pop culture along with soccer players, an example to all Purists? The government strongly encouraged players to be vocal proponents of the faith. There were even well known incidents of players, good players, being blackballed from the league for not participating in the Church.

  Quentin had tats as well, one on either side of his sternum. The one on his right, in neat block letters, simply said “SHUCK.” The matching tat on his left said “YOU.”

  Ceiling vents greedily sucked up most of the steam, but twenty simultaneous showers still produced a light fog. Quentin walked through the haze as he left the shower, passing by his teammates, every last one of whom threw him a smile and a compliment.

  “Way to do it, Quentin.”

  “The High One blessed you today, Quentin.”

  “Nice work, boss.”

  “They know who they played, right Quentin?”

  He smiled back at everyone, answered most of the comments with a simple nod of the head.

  His teammates were civil enough in the locker room and on the field, but they weren’t his friends. They knew it. They made sure he knew it. Most of the players came from privileged families, Church families. Only Church families sent their kids to school, and only in school could you play organized football.

  For the lower classes, time in class or on the field was time away from the mines. They learned the basics: reading, writing, math, religion and how to kill the Satanic races. By seven or eight years old, lower-class kids had all the knowledge they would ever need, or so the logic went. Quentin never forgot how lucky he was that Stedmar happened to drive by that one day, four long years ago.

  Every year a few poor players found a way into the PNFL, and they embraced the Church wholeheartedly. Some believed, some didn’t, but for all the Church was their only chance to achieve some kind of station in life. Every government job, the majority of private-sector jobs, anything that involved money, you had to be confirmed or at least well on your way. On Micovi, football was a ticket out of a hard existence of grinding manual labor and a lifespan of forty years. Fifty, if you were lucky.

  But Quentin Barnes refused to embrace the Church. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the Church could take a flying leap.

  His left tackle, Maynard Achmad, walked by, flashing Quentin a big smile.

  “Great game, Q,” he said. “We’re going all the way!”

  Quentin smiled and sat. Achmad stopped in front of Pete Oky-mayat’s locker. He leaned and said something to the big linebacker, which made Pete throw his head back with laughter. He waved over Adrian Yellow, the kicker, and repeated Achmad’s comment. Adrian laughed as well, reaching up to slap Pete on the shoulder. The men were happy, they were going to the title game. They were happy, and they were sharing it, together.

  Quentin looked around the locker room. Everywhere teammates sat or stood in groups, yelling, laughing and celebrating. There were always groups, groups that never included him. Word might get back to The Elders that the men regularly associated with someone from a known family of criminals. He felt a pang of loneliness, then chased the thought away. Shuck them all. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone.

  He turned back to face his locker, and thought about Achmad’s words. We’re going all the way. All the way to what? The Purist Nation Football League championship? Next week the Raiders faced off against the Sigurd City Norsemen, the champs of the Homeworld Division. They’d kill the Norsemen, then stand atop the twelve team PNFL.

  The PNFL Championship. Big deal. Champions of a Tier Three league. And an all-Human Tier Three team at that. It was about as far away from the big time as you could get. But the road to galactic exposure had to start somewhere. The Tier Two teams couldn’t ignore stats like his three-touchdown, 24-for-30, 310-yard passing performance against the Corsairs (with another 82 on the ground including a sweet 52-yard TD run, thank you very much). He was the best player in the PNFL, bar none, possibly the best Tier Three player in the galaxy.

  He toweled off, rubbing dry his chest, then his face and hair. When he removed the towel, he saw the big tight end Shua Mullikin walking towards him. Quentin stood there, naked and fearless, calmly smiling and staring straight up into Shua’s flaring eyes.

  “I was open all day and you know it,” Shua said.

  “The guy throwing the ball might disagree with you, big fella.”

  Shua’s eyes narrowed with rage. “That was the semifinals. Everyone in the Nation was watching that game, and I didn’t catch a single pass.”

  Quentin shrugged, then sat on the bench in front of his locker and started dressing.

  “This is because I argued with you in practice, isn’t it,” Shua said, a statement rather then a question. “I dared to contradict you in front of everyone else and you had to punish me.”

  Quentin didn’t bother to look up as he answered. “It’s my show, Shu. You know this. It’s not like this is new information.”

  Quentin felt Shua’s stare. Shua wanted to hit him, wanted it bad, but everyone knew that Quentin could kick the tar out of just about anyone on the team.

  “You think you’re so high and mighty,” Shua said, his voice rising. “Someday you won’t be playing football, and you’ll go back to being the little orphan piece of garbage that you were before Stedmar found you.”

  A hush fell over the locker room. On some planets, calling someone a “retard” was a major insult. On Micovi, in the Nation, that major insult was “orphan.” Even if it was true, it wasn’t something you tossed about casually.

  Quentin turned and looked into Shua’s eyes. “I’m getting the impression you don’t want to catch any passes in the championship game, either.”

  Shua’s nostrils flared, his expression a combination of anger and anxiety. Sure, Shua hated him, but he also wanted his share of the limelight. Any hero of the PNFL Championship game was guaranteed to move high in the Church.

  “Is that right, Shua?” Quentin said quietly. “You don’t want to see the rock next week?”

  Shua swallowed. “Of course I want to.”

  Quentin nodded. “Okay, then apologize.”

  The big tight end’s face screwed into a furious mask. “Apologize? You underclass piece of — ”

  Quentin turned away, facing back into his locker. The move stopped Shua in mid-sentence. Shua looked around the locker room, looking for support, but he found none. No one was going to back him up. Not now, not with the championship just one week away.

  Quentin started to whistle as he put on his socks.

  Shua’s fists clenched and unclenched. “I’m ... sorry.”

  Quentin cupped his hand to his ear and looked up from the corner of his eye. “What? Sorry man, I couldn’t hear you.”

  This time it was loud enough for everyone to hear. “I said I’m sorry.”

  Quentin smiled graciously. “No problem, Shu. Apology accepted.”

  Shua turned and stormed away, his face red from rage and humiliation. The teammates looked at Quentin for a few more seconds, then turned back to their various groups and quietly resumed their conversations.

  They hated the fact that he held so much power. Most of them treated underclass people like they were slaves. But on the field, in the locker room, they couldn’t do that to Quentin Barnes. If they hated him because he wasn’t like them, he made sure they at least respected his role as the team leader.

  Quentin reached into the bottom of his locker and pulled out a can of Shokess Beer. He twisted the top, smiling in anticipation as the can instantly frosted up. He flipped the lid and took a long drink. It was the best beer the Purist Nation had to offer, which wasn’t saying much — he’d had a can of Miller Lager once when playing at Buddha City Stadium. Now that was real beer. You could get almost anythin
g you wanted in Buddha City. Beer, contraband, music, women ... he’d even heard some of his holier-than-thou teammates had slept with blue-skinned women from Satirli 6. Talk about a sin. It didn’t get much worse than that, unless you debased yourself by sleeping with one of the Satanic species. Quentin had ignored sinful behavior, with the notable exception of beer.

  Alcohol, of course, was basically forbidden in public places. Other players would have been severely punished for drinking in the locker room, but Stedmar had taught him that when you had something other people wanted, something they needed, the rules don’t necessarily apply to you.

  Theron Akbar, the team manager, walked up to Quentin, a big smile on his little face. His smile faded when he saw the beer.

  “That’s a sin, Quentin.”

  “It’s also tasty,” Quentin said, then chugged the remainder. He liked Akbar, who oddly enough was the only member of the organization with the balls to say something right to Quentin’s face.

  “Coach wants to see you, Quentin,” Akbar said. “Right away.”

  Quentin set down the empty can and continued toweling off. “What’s up?”

  “Rumor is you’ve been bought.”

  The toweling stopped.

  “Stedmar had some off-worlder in the luxury box. Right after the game he talked to the coach, now the coach wants to see you. You do the math. And the High One really blessed you tonight. Great game.”

  Akbar walked away. Quentin practically dove into his clothes. This was it — he was finally escaping the shucking rock he’d called home his entire life.

  The universe awaited.

  • • •

  FULLY DRESSED, Quentin stepped through the open door into his coach’s office.

  “You wanted to see me, Coach?”

  Coach Ezekiel Graber sat behind his desk. He wore a skullcap in Raider colors, black with a silver “R.” The Raider logo wasn’t much to look at, just a plain block letter, the same style used for all the PNFL teams. Graber wore a sweatshirt, a piece of clothing that had endured for centuries as fashion and style fluctuated across a dozen Human planets.