Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“High One… Are those gun mounts?”

Yassoud nodded. “Looks like a converted frigate. Couldn’t tell you what kind, though — I’ve never actually seen a warship, except in the movies.”

The sudden sound of rapidly tinkling bells accompanied by the heavy fluttering of wings erupted near their heads. Quentin instinctively ducked down to one knee, while Yassoud simply turned. Shizzle hovered, resplendent in his blue and silver suit.

“The Touchback is a converted Planetary Union Achmed-Class heavy-weapons platform,” the flying creature said in a tone as smooth as the voice-over for an intoxicant commercial. “Formerly known as the Baghavad-Rodina, a component of the famed Blue Fleet. Taken by Creterakian boarding parties in the battles of 2640. Temporarily used as a patrol craft. Mothballed in 2644. Purchased by Gredok the Splithead in 2665 under special license from the Creterakian Empire when he acquired the Ionath Krakens franchise.”

Quentin stood, feeling foolish for having ducked like a frightened child. The two Quyth Warriors stared at him, stock-still save for their pedipalps, which quivered in a sickening fashion. The two Sklornos, Denver and Milford, also stared at him, but seemed emotionless. He looked at Hokor and Gredok — he didn’t know much about Quyth Leaders, but he felt quite sure they were laughing at him.

“What’s the matter, Human?” Gredok asked, his pedipalps quivering. “Haven’t spent much time around Creterakians?”

Quentin felt his face flushing red. The Quyth Warriors weren’t moving, but their pedipalps quivered just like the Leaders’ — they were all laughing at him.

“Don’t sweat it,” Yassoud. “You get used to it. The Creterakian civilians love the game, you’ll see them all the time.”

“I am not used to beings being frightened of me,” Swizzle said. “Especially one that’s thirty times my mass.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Quentin said quickly. “You just startled me, that’s all.” He felt eager to change the subject. “I thought weapons were illegal on anything but System Police vessels and Creterakian military ships.”

Gredok stood and walked over, emanating confidence and control despite the fact that Quentin towered over him. “I don’t know what kind of news they show you in the ‘Nation, but piracy is still a major problem. The SP forces have cut it down quite a bit since they were implemented in ‘54, but it’s still out there. Since the league started in ‘59, five team busses have been destroyed by pirates — that’s an entire franchise, players, coaching staff, everything, instantly wiped out. Wreaks havoc on a league schedule. So GFL ships are allowed limited defensive weaponry. Nothing that would be a match for a Creterakian frigate, mind you, but it’s usually enough to fend off pirates.

The Touchback loomed large outside the view port. The shuttle banked sharply — Quentin and Yassoud each had to place a hand on the bulkhead to keep their balance. Quentin noticed that the Quyths, both Leaders and Warriors alike, instantly adjusted their weight and barely seemed to notice the sharp bank.

The shuttle slowed and docked. Quentin’s ears popped as the airlock hissed open. Gredok and Hokor led the rookies out, followed by the Warriors who dragged the still-unconscious Mum-O-Killowe by his front arms.

The airlock opened into an expansive landing bay covered by a fifty-foot high domed ceiling. The place looked fairly empty save for orderly rows of equipment and stacked metal crates. A handful of Humans, Sklorno, Ki, Quyth Leaders and Quyth Warriors walked forward to greet the rookies. A babble of strange languages filled the landing bay.

A huge, glowing hologram hung in the middle of the bay. It read: THE IONATH KRAKENS ARE ON A COLLISION COURSE WITH A TIER ONE BERTH. THE ONLY VARIABLE IS TIME.

A tall man eased out of the crowd and walked up to Quentin.

“Praise the High One for blessing your journey,” the man said in a traditional Purist greeting. “Welcome. I’m Rick Warburg, tight end.”

Warburg extended his hand, and Quentin shook it. He hadn’t expected to feel homesick, but he did, just a little, and he was surprised to feel relief at the sight of one of his countrymen. Warburg was tall, an even seven feet, and looked to weigh around 365 pounds. He had curly, deep black hair, light brown skin and the infinity forehead tattoo of a confirmed church member.

“Quentin Barnes, praise to the High One for bringing us together,” Quentin said in the traditional answer to Warburg’s welcome.

Warburg was nothing short of a national hero to the Purist Nation. He was one of twenty-nine Purist players among the top two Tiers, and all of them were quite famous within Nation space. When Quentin had been a child, twenty-odd Purist Nation players in the League sounded like a lot. Other than reporting scores, the only feature stories and highlights broadcast over the government network concerned Nation players, so Quentin had thought his Purist Nation heroes ruled the GFL. The truth, however, was that with 76 teams, each with a roster of 44, there were 3,344 players in the League. That meant that Purist Nation players took up less than one percent of league roster spots.

“It’s so good to see a Nationalite here,” Warburg said with a warm grin. “These sub-races can challenge the will of any man.”

“Uh-oh, there we go again with the sub-races chat.” A smiling, 6-foot-6 blue-skinned Human pushed through the crowd and extended his hand to Quentin. Despite the Nation’s limited GFL coverage, Quentin had no problem recognizing the man — Donald Pine, quarterback for the GFL Champion Jupiter Jacks in ‘75 and ‘76. Quentin found himself caught between a burst of hero worship and a sense of revulsion at touching blue skin. But that wasn’t who he was anymore — he shook Pine’s hand.

Pine smiled, his teeth a sharply white contrast against his blue skin and darker blue lips. “Warburg, you’ve always got such a friendly outlook on things.”

“The truth should never be blurred over, eh Pine?” Warburg said. He was also smiling, but there was nothing happy about it. “You were born this way, you know I don’t hold it against you.”

Pine laughed. “Well, let’s just hope that Quentin doesn’t hold it against me, either. I see he’s not wearing forehead makeup, so maybe he doesn’t think quite like you, eh?”

Warburg’s smile disappeared. “I’ve told you before, blue-boy, it’s not makeup, it’s a holy mark.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Pine said. “Yeah, you did tell me that. So sorry your Holy Holiness.”

Warburg nodded, his features melting into a dark, dangerous scowl. “One of these days, blue-boy, you won’t be the starter anymore.” Warburg tilted his head to indicate Quentin. “And that’s going to happen sooner than you think. And when it does, you and I are going to settle up. Quentin, I’ll see you at dinner.”

Warburg walked away.

“Charming fellow,” Pine said. “Not entirely indicative of all the Nationalites I’ve met, but not far from it, either.”

“He’s confirmed,” Quentin said, not sure if Pine’s comments were a slam on Warburg or on all Nationalites. “Confirmed Church members are rather set in their ways.”

Donald Pine nodded. “And I see you’re not confirmed. Does that mean you’ve got that ever-so-rare Purist Nation resource known as an open mind?”

Quentin shrugged. “I’m set in my ways, too. They might not be the same ways as Warburg.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Pine said with a smile. “It’s my duty to show you around the ship and get you ready for practice, give you any help you might need.”

As a teenager, Quentin had idolized Pine, watching pirated broadcasts of the Jupiter Jacks’ games, marveling in the man’s effortless skill. All Pine needed was enough time and he could dissect any secondary. But that was in the mid-70’s — recently, Pine’s star had fallen and fallen fast. After three straight losing seasons, the Jacks traded Pine to the Bord Brigands in 2680. He lasted only one season there, before the Krakens picked him up, hoping he would lead them back to Tier One. The Krakens were still hoping. Considering they had picked up a certain Quentin Barnes, that hope no longer seemed to hinge solely on Donald Pine.