Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Someday, Purist Nation troops will walk down this street,” Warburg said. “Someday, all of these sinners will burn.”

Quentin said nothing. He didn’t feel anger or disgust, he felt excitement. Excitement at something new and different. He suddenly realized that, for the first time in his life, he was free of not only the Creterakian Empire’s watchful eye, but also the Purist Church’s constant restrictions.

“Here we are,” Warburg said as he hit the stop button on the automated grav-cab. Quentin got out in front of a building with a flickering holo sign of the infinity symbol. Below the flickering sign were the words “The Blessed Lamb,” and below that a nondescript brown door. Some graffiti covered the plain black walls. Quentin couldn’t make out most of the writing, but one message in Standard read haters go home.

Warburg walked in and Quentin followed. There was a brief pause as the men entered and heads turned, followed by a chorus of cheers and calls of “Praise High One.” Over half the crowd of fifty-plus patrons wore the blue. Most of the men bore the infinity tattoo on their foreheads.

“Welcome, Brother Warburg,” said a fat man in priest’s robes. “We enjoyed your performance today.”

“Thank you, Father Harry.” Warburg warmly shook the man’s hand. “Three catches is a good day’s work.”

“Three catches for twenty-eight yards,” said a man on their right. He wore Purist blue and held a coffee mug in his hand. “And let’s not forget the highlight of the day, when you put that cricket in the hospital.”

“Thanks, Elder Greyson. Any word on his condition?”

Father Harry smiled. “ESPN reports the beast is out for two to three games. Said her leg was nearly severed at the knee!”

A snarl-smile covered Warburg’s face, and he pumped his fist. “I tried to make the thing come right off.”

The words shocked Quentin. He stared at Warburg, wondering if the man was joking. Had he really tried to maim the Wallcrawler defensive back?

Warburg stood tall and raised his voice. “Hey, listen everybody. I want to introduce you to the latest Purist Nation export, Quentin Barnes.”

A round of cheers and applause filled the small bar. Hands reached out to pat Quentin’s shoulder or shake his hand. He couldn’t help but smile at the outpouring of affection. These were Nationalites, Church members, and they seemed to instantly accept him. Quentin didn’t know what to make of it.

“A blessed game you played today, my son,” Father Harry said. “Two-for-two, for eighty yards and a touchdown! Now that’s showing the galaxy what a Nationalite can do.”

“Maybe you’ll be starting soon,” Greyson said. “Get some more passes to Rick, here. High One knows he’d have more catches if that damn blue-boy quarterback would stop throwing to that scum Kobayasho. He doesn’t even have half of Rick’s skills!”

Warburg shrugged and held up his hands as if to say what can I do?

Quentin’s thoughts came back to football, and he felt his face turn red with embarrassment. He wouldn’t be starting, he wouldn’t even be playing in the next game. Benched. Benched.

Quentin and Warburg were the center of attention as the bar owners, a husband-and-wife team named Brother Guido and Monica Basset, brought plate after plate of classic Nation dishes. The conversation revolved around the hated Planetary Union, the hated League of Planets, the hated Tower Republic, the demonic Ki, the demonic Sklorno, the demonic Quyth, et cetera, et cetera. It was the same conversation Quentin had heard every day of his life, yet somehow, in this alien city, with his alien teammates probably only a few blocks away at their own cultural centers, the conversation seemed out of place. It even seemed wrong. He suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.

And, he wanted a beer. Several beers. Back on Micovi, he didn’t care who he offended with his preference of beverage, but these people were so nice, and Warburg really had tried hard to make him feel at home. For the first time in Quentin’s life, he didn’t want to offend the people around him.

He finished his fourth helping of habanero falafel biscuits, his mouth a dichotomy of tasty pleasure and fiery, burning pain. He stood and smiled. “Thank you all for your hospitality.”

“You’re leaving?” Warburg said amidst the groans from the other patrons.

“This is my first time in the city,” Quentin said apologetically. “I want to walk around a bit.”

“You want me to come with you?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, thanks. You stay. I just want to take in the sights by myself.”

Warburg stood and shook Quentin’s hand, starting a cavalcade of hand-shaking and back-patting from smiling, happy expatriot Nationalites.

Father Harry stood. That took some effort thanks to his ample girth. He handed Quentin a plastic call chit. “Quentin, my son, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, you have but to call. We have a network of Nationalite business owners and travelers who can help you no matter what the problem.”

Quentin took the chit. The offer didn’t surprise him — he’d received preferential treatment ever since he’d started his first game two years ago. But this was different. Before, he’d been treated with deference just because he was a quarterback, but here he had the feeling it had nothing to do with football. Well, almost nothing. It was mostly because he was a Nationalite.

“There is one thing.”

“What is it, my son?”

“I… I’m looking for my parents.”

“Are they on Ionath?”

“I, um, I don’t know. I haven’t seen them since I was maybe three. I think they left Micovi but I don’t know.”

Father Harry nodded knowingly, a sad nod, a supporting nod. “I see. Don’t be embarrassed, Quentin. Your story is quite common. Many of us, even in this room, had to leave the Nation suddenly, either leave or die. Families are scattered throughout the universe.”

“So how do I find them?”

“What are their names?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin said, staring at the ground. “I don’t remember. I know their last name is Barnes, but that’s all.”

“Do you have any other family?”

Quentin held his breath. Here it comes , he thought. Now they find out I have no family, and they treat me like garbage, just like they treated me back on Micovi.

“Quentin, do you have any other family? Brothers? Aunts or uncles?”

“No,” Quentin said in a whisper.

Father Harry clapped Quentin on the shoulder. “Then we’ll have to start from scratch, my son. We’ll put the word out. Last name Barnes, left Micovi about sixteen years ago?”

Quentin looked up, into Father Harry’s eyes. The man was still smiling, still supportive. “Yeah, fifteen or sixteen years ago.”

“If they can be found, we will find them. Now go enjoy your sightseeing. You are welcome here anytime.”

Quentin mumbled thanks, then walked outside. He didn’t know what to make of it. These people were a support network, a small tribe in a hostile land. He felt the sense of community, of brotherhood. They offered to help him not because he was a football player, but because they automatically considered him to be one of them. He had to travel hundreds of light years from his home to be accepted by his own people. It was so confusing it made his head hurt.

He started walking. He’d never been treated like that before. Those people were so nice to him, so gracious and friendly and loving — just because he was a Nationalite. And yet, those same people hated everything that was different from them. Not just hated , but wanted to destroy.