Scott Sigler - The Rookie

Quentin walked alone down the street, weaving through the crowds of Quyth, Ki, Human and Sklorno. He had a lot on his mind. Practice was going well, although he still had problems adjusting to the speed of his receivers and the defensive backs. His pass release had been slow when he arrived, and he hadn’t even known it. Now he got rid of the ball twice as fast as he had when with the Raiders. That helped, but it didn’t solve the main problem, which was adjusting his eyes to take in the whole field. Back home, he could see a twenty-yard radius and know, instantly, who could move how far within that space. Thanks to the amazing speed of the Sklorno race, now he needed to see a radius of forty to fifty yards, even more if he wanted to throw downfield. He had to drop back, instantly account for every Sklorno defensive back, know how far they could go, how high they could jump and at what angle, then make the decision whether or not to throw and still deliver the ball on target.

What was worse, the Krakens seemed to simply tolerate him as opposed to accepting him as their leader. They were Pine’s players. But why did they follow that has-been? Quentin was a better quarterback, albeit less experienced, and everyone on the team knew it. They followed Pine’s commands without question — when Quentin commanded, he often got glares or bored looks before anyone complied. The Ki didn’t block as well for him as they did for Pine. The Human players were no better. Aside from Warburg, the Humans starters showed little respect — except for Mitchell Fayed, who ran every play as if his life depended in it.

They were obviously all jealous of his talent. They wanted to keep their little status quo with their buddy Don Pine, and they resented new blood coming in to take over. Well, that was their problem, and they’d have to learn to deal with it. It was Quentin’s team now, and they’d all learn that come game time.

He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear the flutter of Creterakian wings right beside him. He didn’t even know the little creature was there until it spoke.

“Quentin Barnes?” asked a small voice.

Quentin turned to look at the bat. It had light yellow skin with mottled brown spots, and wore a plain brown outfit. It hovered near his head, reminding Quentin of a big, noisy hummingbird — a disgusting one with six eyes.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“My name is Maygon, and I’d like a word with you. Or, more precisely, my employer would like a word with you.”

“And who is your employer?”

Maygon handed him a business disc. Quentin thumbed the button at the center, and a small hologram appeared above it: Maygon, talent scout, To Pirates.

Quentin felt his heart beat faster. “You’re really from the Pirates?”

“Yes, but it’s better if we don’t talk here. Your teammates might see. Follow me.” Maygon flew down a side street. Quentin followed him into the street, then into a small door. He had to duck to get through. Once inside he was able to stand, but just barely, his hair touching the ceiling. The place was full of Quyth workers in various states of intoxication. Some danced to strange music, some leaned against numerous three-foot-high poles that filled the room, and some laid on the floor. The smell of juniper filled the air.

“What is this place?”

“A gin joint,” Maygon said as he fluttered down atop one of the poles. He was the only Creterakian in the room. For that matter, Quentin was the only Human.

“I forgot that you don’t know much about the galaxy. Gin, the same thing you Humans distill and consume, has a powerful narcotic effect on the Quyth. Most alcohol doesn’t affect them, but there’s something in gin that really knocks them out.”

Quentin thought back to the time he’d seen an opium den back on Micovi. Human or Quyth Worker, stoners all looked the same.

“It’s pathetic,” Quentin said.

“If you think these Workers are bad now, you should see the ones that are hooked on raw juniper berries. At least the gin is distilled to take out some of the poisons.”

Quentin took another quick look around, then turned to Maygon. “Okay, so what’s this about? What do the Pirates want?”

“They want you.”

The words hit like an injection of pure excitement. His body coursed with eagerness and hope.

“What, they want me now ?”

“Not now, idiot,” Maygon said. “At the end of the season. Kirani-Ah-Kollok will give you a three-year contract.”

A three-year contract, with the To Pirates , the greatest franchise in GFL history — his childhood dream come true!

“That sounds great,” Quentin said. “Tell Mr. Kollok I’m very interested.”

“Of course you’re interested, backwater. It’s the To Pirates. Everybody is interested. But there’s one catch.”

“Which is?”

“You have to make sure the Krakens don’t make the playoffs.”

Quentin’s face furrowed. “But why not? What difference does that make?”

Maygon fluttered his wings, a clear sign of irritation. “Because, backwater, if the Krakens make the playoffs and make it into Tier One, all players are protected for two years. That means that the Pirates, or any other team for that matter, can’t touch you unless the Krakens cut or trade you.”

“Oh yeah,” Quentin said, some of his excitement fading away. “Yeah, I forgot about that.”

“But it doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem,” Maygon said. “You guys are already one and one, and there’s no way you’re going to beat the Pioneers, so you’ll be two games out of first place. Just make sure the Krakens lose any games you start, and you’ll be wearing the blood red before you know it. Mr. Kollok thinks there’s big things in your future. If I need to talk to you again, I’ll contact you, but we can’t be seen together. If the league finds out we’re talking, the Pirates will be fined and you’ll be suspended.”

“ Suspended ?” Quentin quickly looked around the bar, but still saw only drunken Quyth Workers. “Why didn’t you say that before we started talking?”

“Not my fault if you don’t know GFL regulations. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to go. I can’t stand the stink of Humans.”

With that, Maygon fluttered up and flew out the door. Quentin stared after him. The To Pirates. The To Pirates! Winners of five GFL championships, more than any other team. The Pirates, with their legendary blood-red jerseys, they wanted him.

Just make sure you lose the games you start.

Those words pushed to the forefront of his brain, dissipating his excitement. Tank a game or two? Sure, they had one loss, but with a win against the Pioneers the Krakens were right back in the race.

Quentin shook his head and walked out of the gin joint. He’d never thrown a game in his life, but odds were he wouldn’t have to. The Pioneers were the best team in the Quyth Irradiated Conference. They’d probably walk all over the Krakens’ defense. It wouldn’t come down to Quentin tanking the game.

At least he hoped it wouldn’t.

HE STOOD AT THE FRONT of the pack. The Krakens players crammed into the tunnel. It seemed wider than the one at Ionath Stadium. Wider and newer. In fact, everything about the stadium reeked of newness, from the full wall of multi-race vending machines in the team lobby, to the smart-paint lockers that changed color to suit each player’s preference. The communications equipment was state-of-the-art, but what else would you expect from a stadium sponsored by a telecom company like Earth Ansible & Messenger?

The stadium’s quality, however, faded to insignificance as the game-fever started to overtake Quentin. The Krakens players grunted, and clacked, and chirped, and bounced, and twitched with the anticipation of battle. Pheromones filled the air: the thick scent of Ki aggression combining with the tang of Human sweat. An electrical charge ripped through the unified mass of players, cycling from one end to the other and back again.