Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Mum-O-Killowe!” Hokor shouted a few more syllables, all of which were pure gibberish to Quentin. The giant rookie lineman turned and scuttled over. He stopped three feet from Quentin. The Ki’s black eyes burned into him in an expression of pure hatred (at least Quentin wanted to think it was hatred, and not the emotion he suspected it might actually be, which was hunger ). Hokor barked a few more syllables. Mum-O-Killowe suddenly roared and reared up on his last set of legs, briefly making him a ten-foot-tall, arm waving monster.

Hokor, obviously unimpressed, simply pointed to the ground. Mum-O-Killowe dropped back down to six legs, and fell quiet.

“I have told Mum-O-Killowe he is to be punished for his late hit. Such undisciplined play could have injured you, and someday you could be a valuable component of this team. Therefore, he will run with you until I am tired of thinking about it.”

Quentin stared, dumbfounded, at his tiny coach. This thing wanted to kill him, and Hokor wanted the two of them to run laps like workout buddies?

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Coach,” Quentin said. “This guy will come after me as soon as we’re alone. He’s already tried twice.”

“Then you’d better learn to communicate with him, and fast. He is, after all, your teammate.”

Hokor flew off, leaving Quentin and Mum-O-Killowe staring at each other. Quentin shook his head and started to run, but was careful to keep an eye on the young Ki. Mum-O-Killowe followed suit and ran alongside, staring at Quentin with his unblinking black spider eyes.

FIFTY-THREE LAPS later, Hokor apparently got tired of thinking about it. He called over the stadium’s sound system, sending the two rookies to their respective locker rooms. They’d managed to run laps without an incident, to Quentin’s surprise.

He pulled off his drenched uniform, each motion an exercise in ache. He was so soaked he wondered if even the plastic parts of his pads were sweat-logged. Quentin walked to a mirror and stared at himself — he already had discoloring bruises covering most of his right shoulder and chest, as well as darkening spots on both legs. Bruises. He hadn’t had any bruises since his rookie season in the PNFL. That was the last time anyone laid a solid hit on him.

The locker room, of course, was empty except for Messal the Efficient, who busily gathered up Quentin’s clothes and pads.

“Which way is the shower?” Quentin asked. Messal scrambled to open the first of a row of doors built into the wall.

Quentin sighed heavily — another nannite shower. It just wasn’t what he needed.

“Don’t you guys have a water-shower here?”

Messal nodded immediately. “Yes, sir, we do.”

Quentin felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Well, show me where it is.”

Messal nodded again and started walking, Quentin followed as quickly as his exhausted and battered body would allow.

“If you’ll follow me to the Ki locker room, sir,” Messal said. “I will be happy to take you there.”

Quentin stopped dead in his tracks. “The Ki locker room? Are you kidding me?”

Messal nodded. “Oh no, sir. The Ki prefer running water to nannite cleansing.”

“Well so do some Humans!”

Messal nodded again. “No, sir, Humans prefer nannite cleansing.”

“Not this Human, pal.”

The nod, Quentin realized, was a gesture of subservience, not agreement. “Yes, sir, of course. I will take you to the water shower.”

“Isn’t there one in this locker room?”

Nod. “No, sir. It is in the Ki locker room. I will happily take you there so that you are satisfied with my service.”

Quentin hung his head. He was bruised, beaten and exhausted, but he wasn’t that tired. He waved Messal away and dragged himself to the nannite shower.

HE SAT IN HIS ROOM, marveling at how much a body could hurt after just one practice. It wasn’t enough to stop him from playing. Nothing hurt that much. But it sure wasn’t a walk in the park either. Quentin’s fingers deftly worked game controls as he guided his players around the holo tank. Games were a good way to get his mind off of practice — he didn’t know who “Madden” was, but “Madden 2683” was the best football sim he’d ever played. His To Pirates were up 22–16 over the Jupiter Jacks in a re-match of Galaxy Bowl XXIV.

His door-buzzer rang.

[MITCHELL FAYED IS AT YOUR DOOR]

Quentin hit pause and limped to the door. Fayed stood there, all 6-foot-9-inch, 350 granite-block pounds of him.

“Good evening, Quentin.”

Quentin just nodded.

“Why are you not at second meal?”

Quentin shrugged. “Just wanted to relax after practice.”

“You do not make friends easily with the rest of the team.”

Quentin didn’t know what to say. It was a statement, not a question.

“It does not matter,” Fayed said. “I came to say something to you.”

Fayed paused, as if waiting for permission.

“Well go ahead,” Quentin said.

“I have been in Tier Two for seven years now. Three with the Citadel Aquanauts, and four with the Krakens. I have worked all my life to reach Tier One. That is all I want.”

Quentin nodded.

“I came here to tell you that,” Fayed said. “I hope reaching Tier One is as important to you as it is to me. If you should take over the quarterback position, I will support you. I think you have talent. I want you to be strong in these first few weeks. I suspect you have not been hit like this before?”

Quentin shrugged. “There were some big hits in the PNFL.”

“And none of them reached you,” Fayed said. “I have watched holos of your games. You are new to this level of hitting. And it will get worse during the games. Far worse.”

Quentin tried to imagine how he could be hit any harder. Maybe if he crashed a hoversled into a brick wall at 180 miles per hour. Maybe.

“You get used to it,” Fayed said. “You have a big, strong body, like me. I have watched you. You can take the hits. You may not know it yet, but you can take the hits. Be strong. Keep working hard and good things will come.”

Fayed then nodded once, turned, and walked away.

Quentin stared out the door for a few seconds, then returned to his game. Did Fayed want something from him? Why was be being so nice? He didn’t know what to make of the guy. Hell, he didn’t know what to make of any of his teammates. But… did Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed believe in him ? Quentin shook his head. This had to be something else. Fayed had to have some kind of motive for this. Couldn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust anyone on this team. A voice in the back of his head reminded him he hadn’t trusted anyone on the Raiders, either. Hadn’t trusted anyone in a long, long time.

He picked up the controller, trying to ignore the pangs of loneliness as he focused on making his To Pirates win Galaxy Bowl XXIV.

An hour before the game, the Humans started dressing. The stadium was already mostly full. Even three stories below the stands, inside the locker room’s thick walls, they heard the crowd’s roar.

Music pumped from Yassoud’s locker. He loved scrag music: loud, boisterous, boasting rhymes produced from the downtrodden culture of Rodina. Several people had asked Yassoud to turn it down, but John Tweedy liked the music, so nobody pressed the point.