Scott Sigler - The Rookie

Yassoud nudged Quentin. “That’s Mum-O-Killowe. He played in the Sklorno leagues. Had twenty-six sacks in a twelve-game season, another five in the playoffs.”

“You played against him?”

Yassoud nodded. “Yeah. You can’t imagine how hard that thing hits. And he has no concept of the difference between practice and a game, so don’t get on his bad side.”

Mum-O-Killowe stopped four feet from the blue line. He pointed his upper right arm straight at Quentin. The tubes of the vocal spout quivered as the nightmarish creature let out a long, barking sound. It then reared back and started lunging forward. Quentin had already taken two steps back before the Creterakian guards flew in front of Mum-O-Killowe, their entropic rifles aimed directly at his eyespots. The Ki stopped, turned his long body, and got on the blue line to the right of Milford.

“Too bad,” Yassoud said. “Looks like you’re already on his bad side.”

“Did you understand what he said?”

“Some of it. It seems your fame precedes you. He said something to the effect that he saw your championship game, and he prayed to the Ki gods that you were on another Tier Two team so he could cripple you.”

“Cripple me?”

“The Ki consider it a high point of honor to knock someone out of the game — maiming, dismembering and death are all acceptable methods. Now that you’re on the same team, and he’ll see you every day in practice, he figures he’ll cripple you for sure.”

“Oh this is just great. ”

Yassoud laughed. “You know, if you want to put some money down that you won’t make it through training camp, I can put you in touch with my bookie.”

“Screw you.”

“Hey, I’m just saying you might as well come out of this with some money, if only to pay your prolonged hospital bills.”

Quentin turned and raised his fist, but Yassoud raised his hands, palms out in a defensive posture. His eyebrows rose high in mock surprise. “Hey now! Take it easy,” he said. “I’m just riding you — and if you throw that punch, you’re on the next ship back to the Purist Nation.”

Quentin lowered the fist and stared straight out from the blue line. “Just keep talking,” he said quietly. “You’ll get yours soon enough.”

The main airlock door, the one connected to the orange and black shuttle, hissed open. A pair of furry Quyth Leaders scurried out, one with jet-black fur that glistened under the landing deck lights, the other with unkempt yellow fur mottled with irregular brown stripes.

Two dangerous looking Quyth Warriors followed the Leaders, one about 300 pounds, the other a good-sized 375. Their carapaces were both painted in the wild reds and oranges of Quyth commandos, and each carried a five-foot long stun-stick. Quentin had read about Quyth Warriors in his history classes. They were one of the deadliest creatures in the galaxy: fast, strong and vicious. One-on-one, they were no match for trained Purist Nation soldiers, of course. At least that’s what the history books said. Standing this close to one, Quentin suddenly found himself wondering if his history books were more than a little bit colored by Holy Men’s propaganda.

The big warrior, Quentin was surprised to see, wore a Krakens jersey with the number 58 on the chest.

A Creterakian dressed in a blue vest inlaid with tiny, tinkling silver bells flew out of the airlock, did a pair of 360-degree circles, then fluttered in front of Mum-O-Killowe. The Creterakian barked something out in the Ki language, the Ki answered, and the Creterakian settled down on top of the bigger creature’s head.

Quentin leaned over to Yassoud. “What the heck was that all about?”

“Most Ki can’t speak Human or Quyth,” Yassoud said. “Creterakians can speak all languages, so they frequently act as interpreters.”

“Why is it dressed like that?” Quentin asked. “Is that some kind of an interpreter’s uniform?”

Yassoud chuckled softly. “He’s a civilian.”

“A… civilian? You mean it’s not in the military?”

“Let me guess, the Holy Men taught you that all Creterakians are mindless soldiers bent on exterminating all the other races?”

His hickish feeling cranked up another notch. “Well… yeah, that’s about right.”

Yassoud shook his head. “It’s amazing that such a backwater place can even function. Creterakians are just like everybody else, they’ve got a mostly civilian population along with the military.”

“Well I’ll be.”

“Just don’t trust them,” Yassoud said. “All the Creterakians that deal with Tier Two and Tier One are con men, or so I’m told.”

Quentin started to ask another question, but fell silent when the black furred Quyth Leader stepped forward.

“I am Gredok the Splithead. You are all now my property. You are rookies, you are nothing of importance. I own your contracts for this season, and have the final say on if you make the team or not.” He gestured to the yellow-furred Leader. “This is Hokor the Hookchest, coach of the Ionath Krakens. You will follow his instructions to the letter.”

Hokor stepped forward, his antennae plastered back flat against his skull.

“Training camp begins immediately. This shuttle will take you to the Touchback , our team bus, which is your home as long as you are with the Krakens. You will stow your gear, then report to position meetings where you will be given your study assignments. Once you have been shown how to operate the Kriegs-Ballok Virtual Practice System, you will report to the field for practice.”

Mum-O-Killowe barked out something unintelligible.

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“Shizzle, what does he want?” Hokor asked the blue-suited Creterakian.

Shizzle swooped down, his silver bells tinkling in time with each flap. “The great Mum-O-Killowe wants to know when he can begin to hit the Human Quentin Barnes.”

Quentin’s eyes widened with surprise. This giant Ki wanted to tear his head off.

“Tell him to shut up,” Hokor said. “And tell him he’ll only be told once.”

Shizzle relayed the command, then Mum-O-Killowe turned and strode towards Quentin, roaring sounds that rang obscene despite the language barrier.

Quentin turned to face him and crouched, mind instantly switching to game mode, looking for the best place to hit the 580-pound, 6-legged, 4-armed nightmare. The nursery rhyme said to go for its back, but he didn’t see a way around the long, muscular arms.

Quentin barely saw movement before the two Quyth Warriors were on Mum-O-Killowe. They both jabbed him with their staffs, resulting in a loud crackling sound and flickers of blue-white light. Mum-O-Killowe roared in pain. He turned and grabbed for the Quyth Warrior wearing the Krakens’ jersey, but the smaller creature danced back, effortlessly avoiding the wild grab, then jabbed the stun-stick into Mum-O-Killowe’s chest. Mum-O-Killowe sagged, then fell to the ground, a twelve-foot-long motionless blob.

The rookies stood in silence. The smell of ozone filled Quentin’s nostrils. The Quyth Warriors each grabbed one of Mum-O-Killowe arms and labored to drag him into the shuttle.

“Normally, we’d kick him off the team,” Hokor said, “but we’re short on defensive linemen and the season is only a week away. We’re not, however, short on wide receivers, running backs, or quarterbacks.”

Hokor walked down the blue line until he stood in front of Quentin. “Kneel down, Human, I want to look you in the eye.”