Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Who bought out your contract?” Alonzo asked.

“The Krakens. You?”

“Texas Earthlings. I’ll be living in the Planetary Union, if you can believe that.”

“No offense, but for a linebacker, aren’t you a little… well…”

“Small?” Alonzo said, finishing Quentin’s thought. His smile stayed, but the friendly expression faded from his eyes. “Yeah, well, they seem to think I’ve got what it takes. Hey, if we’z lucky, I’ll see you in the playoffs.”

Quentin thought for a second, then nodded. Alonzo was very fast, and as strong as a Mason seabull. He’d given the Raiders’ offensive line fits trying to block him. If he could overcome his small stature, he might be a real factor for the Earthlings.

“I hear we’re in for a long day,” Alonzo said.

“Why’s that?”

“This testing crap goes on forever, I’m told.”

The man to Quentin’s right spoke up. “I was here last year. Today will be pure hell.”

He was big, almost as big as a PNFL guard or tackle, yet he had that lean look of a man who could move — obviously a tight end. His pale blue skin marked his probable origin as the League of Planets, and his hair was electric blonde.

“Why are you here again ?” Quentin asked. “I thought you only had to do the Combine once, then you get individual testing after that.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, if you make the team. My contract was picked up by the Parasites last year, but I didn’t make the cut, so it was back to another season of Tier Three.”

“How’s the play there?”

“Tougher every year,” the man said with a grimace. He offered his hand. “I’m Olaf Raunio.”

Quentin looked at the blue-skinned hand for a second. To not shake it was an instant insult. To touch a blue-skin, however, was to touch people who had been kicked off of Earth for consorting with Satan. The hand hung there awkwardly, for almost a second, before Quentin shook it, not quite able to hide his revulsion.

“I’m Quentin Barnes.”

Olaf looked surprised. “The PNFL guy? Yeah, I watched that game on the ‘net. You made Sigurd look like a bunch of pansys.”

“Pansys?” Alonzo said from across the hall. His light-hearted tone had vanished, now there was nothing but malice in his deep voice. “Keep it up, blue-boy, and I’ll show you a pansy.”

Olaf bristled at the racial insult so frequently levied against people from the League of Planets.

“Never mind him,” Quentin said. “He’s still chapped from the spanking I gave him in the championship game.”

The two men kept staring at each other for a few seconds, then Olaf laughed dismissively and turned back to Quentin. “I figured you’d go Tier One.”

Quentin shrugged. “Me too, but I’ll get there soon enough.”

Olaf smiled. “Hope so. You might find it’s not as easy as you think.”

“So you’ve been here before, where’s all the aliens?”

“Each race has it’s own wing. This used to be a prison, and they kept the races separate to cut down on the violence.”

“What’s so tough about today?” Quentin asked. “What kind of tests?”

Olaf shrugged. “Can’t tell you that. They tell you that any mention of what goes on here gets you kicked out of the league, but I suspect that if you talk about the inner workings of the Combine you disappear for good.”

A sudden, blaring buzzer sounded again, ending all conversation. A Creterakian in a blue uniform hovered at the end of the hall, his black wings nothing but a blur.

“This is the Combine,” the little creature said, his voice amplified by the ship’s speakers. “You will refer to me and any other you see in a blue suit as Boss. I am Boss One. If you do not follow instructions, you will be removed before you can complete the testing. If you do not complete the testing, you can not play Upper Tier football.”

The hallway fell deathly silent. Every man here would rather be dragged behind an Earth horse than go back for another season of Tier Three.

“The Combine tests purity,” Boss One said. “Creterakian law makes it illegal for Humans or any other race to have biological modifications, cybernetic implants, strength- or performance-enhancing chemicals, mental accelerator chips or any other non-natural augmentation. The Galactic Football League is a showcase of cooperation amongst the races, and therefore you must be pure to ensure fair competition.”

The men nodded in agreement and understanding, but everyone knew the real reason for “purity.” The Creterakians ruled by military strength. They did not allow any biological modifications that might make the subject races more effective warriors. Their post-war pogrom killed millions of soldiers: biotech enhanced Human warriors, the cyborg Ki commandos, the Sklorno with carbon-titanium chitin genes for impermeable shells, Quyth Warriors with their hordes of implanted bio-repair nanocytes — all wiped out in a two-year-long purge designed to eliminate potential guerilla fighters. Since that time, discovery of any bio-modification resulted in a prison sentence if it could be removed, or a death sentence if it could not.

“The yellow lines on the floor will lead you through the stations,” Boss One said. “Follow the lines and follow all instructions. Failure to comply with a Boss’s orders results in immediate dismissal. There is no talking. The testing begins immediately.”

QUENTIN SHUFFLED ALONG on the yellow line, waiting for the 112 players ahead of him to enter the first station. Each man went in, the door closed and stayed closed for a few minutes, then the door opened for the next in line.

Finally it was his turn. The door closed behind him as he entered a room with racks of yellow jumpsuits. A large black machine with a grey, man-sized “X” dominated the back wall, complete with shackles at each end; two for hands and two for feet.

“Sit down, 113.”

The voice came from the other end of the room, where a blue-suited boss perched on a table. A rail, hanging just two feet from the ceiling, ran the circumference of the room. Every last inch of that rail was packed with fidgeting, black-suited Creterakians.

“Sit down, 113,” the boss repeated. A small metal stool sat in front of the table. Quentin walked to it and sat. The stool was just high enough that his feet didn’t quite hit the floor. The stool’s edges pushed the suit’s mini-wires into the backs of his thighs.

“I am Boss Two. I am an official magistrate of the Creterakian Empire. To lie to me in any way is punishable by imprisonment.” It was typical Creterakian communication — a statement without questions. They never said things that Human authority figures said, like “do you understand?” or “do I make myself clear?” A Creterakian spoke once and only once, if you didn’t listen, or just plain didn’t hear him, too bad for you.

Boss Two fluttered up from his perch and landed on Quentin’s head. Quentin felt its sharp little claws and soft fleshy fingers on his scalp, and he instantly wondered if Boss Two carried an entropic pistol. His body prickled with heat, but he fought back the urge to swat Boss Two away like one might do to a pesky fly or one of those flying tarantulas from the planet To.

Is this part of the test? Quentin though. Just relax, be cool in the pocket.

“I will now ask you questions. Get into the device at the end of this room.”

Quentin looked suspiciously at the big X. He’d seen such devices in movies before — an interrogation table. The Purist Nation used such machines on prisoners, heretics and on the rare occasions someone actually prosecuted an organized crime figure.

“And if I don’t get in it?”