Scott Sigler - The Rookie

This is it. I’m on my way. I’ll be on every holotank in the freakin’ galaxy. My parents will find me for sure.

A buzz sounded from the speakers, followed by the computer voice.

[ATTENTION PROSPECTS. GARB YOURSELVES IN THE CLOTHES PROVIDED, AND WHEN YOUR DOOR OPENS CARRY YOUR BAG AND TAKE ONE STEP OUTSIDE. YOU WILL BE GUIDED TO YOUR TEAM REPRESENTATIVE AND TAKEN TO TRAINING CAMP]

Quentin quickly removed the sweat-stained yellow body suit and stepped onto the mesh circle. A nearly invisible cloud of tiny machines flew up from the mesh like a hazy fog. He moved slowly, raising his arms, lifting his feet, letting the nannites reach his every nook and cranny. The tiny, tingling machines scoured his skin, gobbling up every piece of dirt and dust, scrubbing away sweat and grime. While effective, the nannites did not offer the pleasure of a steaming water shower.

In less than a minute, the cloud disappeared, fading back into the metal mesh. Quentin couldn’t contain his excitement as he put on his new team clothes. Tier Two or not, he felt a surge of pride as he slipped on the orange and black. This was his team now, the team he would lead to victory.

The door to his cell hissed open. Quentin hurriedly pulled the sweatshirt on over his jersey, grabbed the bag, and stepped outside. Up and down the hall stood smiling young men with similar clothes, but all in different colors — Alonzo in the red and blue of the Earthlings, Olaf in the grey-on-black stripes of the Klipthik Parasites, a player in the cherry-red dots of the Satah Air-Warriors, and another in the multi-shaded purple of the Sky Demolition, a team in the Quyth Irradiated Conference along with the Krakens. There were far fewer players than Quentin had seen the first day. By his rough estimate, around thirty percent of them were gone. He wondered what fate awaited those men — either an ignoble ride home for a trivial offense, surgery and prison for any removable mods, or possibly they had already been executed.

Boss One fluttered through the hall. “You have all passed the Combine. You will now join your team representative. Be aware that other species may be joining you at this point. It is a crime under Creterakian law to use racial insults against other species, and that species-based crimes such as assault result in far harsher penalties than the same crime against a member of your own species. Intolerance of other species is not allowed under Creterakian law.”

Boss One fluttered to his perch.

The voice once again came over the loud speaker. [TEXAS EARTHLING PROSPECTS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

A blue line glowed on the floor. Alonzo and a lanky black-skinned man, probably a quarterback, walked down the hall.

Alonzo waved. “Good luck, Quentin. I hope I see you in the playoffs.”

[SHORAH CHIEFTAIN PROSPECTS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

Three men wearing green dots on black walked to the end of the hall. All three were obviously quarterbacks, and Quentin knew two of them would probably open their lockers in a week to find a ticket home — only one would make the cut.

[IONATH KRAKENS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

Quentin stepped out. For a second, he thought he was the only one in orange and black, but another man fell in line behind him. Quentin hadn’t seen him during the combine nor did he recognize the face. The man wore number 26.

Quentin followed the blue line, his new teammate right behind him. Two hallways later, an airlock hissed open and he found himself on a empty deck in the landing bay. The deck had four doors — the eight-foot high one that Quentin had just walked through, another just like it, a narrower one twelve feet high, and one ten feet high and eight feet wide.

The view port showed that the deck’s sealed airlock connected to a hundred-foot-long shuttle, an older model but neatly trimmed out in orange and black. Five Creterakian guards waited there, flittering about, first in the air, then hopping on the floor, then hanging from the ceiling, never staying still.

“I am Boss Seven,” the lead Creterakian said. “Line up on the blue line.” At his command, a blue line appeared on the deck, perpendicular to the airlock. Quentin did as he was told. He turned to number 26, his new teammate, a burly, thick-chested man with legs the size of sonic cannons. He had dark, yellowish skin and a curly beard that hung to his chest.

“Quentin Barnes,” Quentin said, offering his hand.

“Yassoud Murphy,” the man said, shaking Quentin’s hand. Quentin finally recognized the man’s face — Yassoud had broken the Tier Three rushing record in the Sklorno league and led his team to the championship of the Tier Three tournament.

“Glad to have you aboard,” Quentin said. “I saw highlights of your performance in the finals.”

Yassoud nodded. “Yeah, thanks. That was a pretty good game. I cleaned up on the point spread on that one.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You bet on your own game?”

“Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “Everyone bets in the Sklorno leagues. What, you never bet on your own game?”

“Not on your life.”

“Well, you should,” Yassoud said. “There’s money to be made if you know the odds. There’s bets for everything in the GFL, man. Take me for example, did you know the odds of me making it through the season without serious injury are three-to-five?”

“That’s not very good.”

“Not very good? Are you crazy? Three-to-five is great for a rookie. I’m only here because the Krakens third running back caught Fenkel Fever from some girl on Earth. He’s out for the season. That means I’m third string, so I won’t see a whole lot of action playing behind Mitchell Fayed and Paul Pierson. But then again, you know how frequently running backs get hurt in this league. Everyone except Fayed, anyway — that guy can take more hits than a battle cruiser. They don’t call him ‘The Machine’ for nothing.”

“What are my odds to start, about even?”

Yassoud laughed. “Start? Hardly. Odds are three-to-one that you don’t even make it through the season before they ship you back to the Purist Nation.”

Quentin felt anger instantly overtake him. “That’s bull.”

“Nope,” Yassoud said. “It’s not. Three-to-one.”

“Why the hell is that?”

“You’re a Nationalite,” Yassoud said. “You’ve probably never met other species face to face, let alone played with them. Did you know that only twenty percent of Purist Nation rookies make it through their first season?”

Quentin shook his head. He’d had no idea his people held such a dismal success rate.

Yassoud continued. “It’s true. You backwater jokers usually can’t handle the inter-species dynamics. Hell, I’ve got a thousand on you dropping out before the season is half over.”

Quentin paused a moment, trying to control his anger. “Then you made a big mistake.”

Yassoud shrugged. “We’ll see. You win some, you lose some.”

Quentin started to speak when the twelve-foot-high airlock door hissed open. Two Sklorno stepped onto the deck. Quentin had seen them on the net before, but never in person. They were tall, probably nine feet apiece — twelve long feet, if you counted the tail that extended past their legs. Translucent chitin covered black skeletons and ghostly images of semi-translucent internal organs. They reminded Quentin of full-body Human X-rays he’d seen in his childhood schoolbooks. Coarse black fur jutted out at every joint.

Their legs practically screamed speed and leaping. Translucent two-foot segments, folded back like a grasshopper’s legs, ended in a thick pad of a foot with five long, splayed toes.

The legs supported a slender body-stalk that curved backwards like a bow. Two long arms — coils of translucent, boneless muscle three feet long — jutted out from three-quarters of the way up the trunk, in the approximate position where a Human female’s breasts would be. Each Sklorno wore a orange-and-black jersey, with the numbers “81” and “82,” respectively, on the trunks below their coiled arms.