Scott Sigler: The Rookie

Gredok’s antennae rose slightly. Stedmar had quickly taken his only way out. By keeping Barnes and not selling his contract to anyone, Stedmar could turn down Gredok’s offer without Gredok losing face.

But proper etiquette or no, Gredok wanted Barnes. And that was all that mattered.

Gredok clapped his pincers together and gestured to one of his bodyguards, who walked over as he reached into his belt. The Human bodyguards immediately went for their weapons, but Stedmar held up a hand to still them.

“Virak,” Gredok said to his bodyguard. “Show Stedmar the screen.”

The 375-pound Virak the Mean struck a rather imposing figure, but Stedmar never flinched. Despite the fact that everyone in the room knew Virak could kill Stedmar in the blink of an eye, the burly bodyguard looked at the Human and brushed back his one set of retractable antennae just before looking at Gredok and doing the same. He then produced a small holo-projector from his belt and switched it on.

The image flared to life. A dangerous stillness filled the luxury box. Stedmar looked at the image, eyes widening with rage. He glanced down to the stands, to the first row, then back again. Gredok sensed the skyrocketing stress level of the Human bodyguards. They reached for their weapons again, but Stedmar’s curtly raised hand stopped them for the second time.

The holoscreen showed a smiling, blonde Human woman holding a baby, both warmly dressed against the evening’s cold. They sat in the stadium’s front row, the woman laughing with two other Human women, all of them surrounded by alert bodyguards. The image shook slightly, obviously due to a long-range focus.

“Your mate and offspring,” Gredok said.

Stedmar swallowed. “Where is this picture coming from?”

“From the scope of pulse cannon, manned by a sniper sitting in one of the atmosphere processors overlooking the stadium.”

Stedmar looked across the field, up to the skyline, at the endless line of atmosphere processors that towered thirty stories high. The big machines were filled with platforms, grates, pipes, blocky compressors… there were a hundred places a sniper could hide unseen.

“I’m sure you’re thinking you can kill me now and save your mate and offspring,” Gredok said. “But if the sniper doesn’t hear from me in the next five minutes, he’ll fire. The pulse cannon will incinerate that entire section, killing everyone in a twenty-yard radius. So I suggest no sudden moves on her part — if she should rise to relieve herself, for example, she’ll be the epicenter of a rather large crater.”

“Frankie,” Stedmar said to one of his bodyguards. “Call down to Stefan, tell him to make sure everyone stays put, especially Michelle.”

“Very good,” Gredok said. “The deal is tendered. You will take it now.”

Stedmar nodded, his face a narrow-eyed visage of barely controlled rage. That disappointed Gredok — Stedmar would have to improve his self control if he wanted to move even farther in the syndicate’s hierarchy.

Virak produced a contract box and handed it to Stedmar. The Human read through the contract, nodded, then placed his thumb in the slot on one end. Gredok placed his middle left pincer in the box’s other slot. The machine quickly recorded their genetic makeup, linked up to the Intergalactic Business Database, verified their identities, then gave a low “beep” to indicate the transaction had been recorded.

Gredok’s antennae rose to their normal angle. “Very good, Stedmar. I will now take my leave. Shall I remove Muhammad for you?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Stedmar said in a cold voice.

Gredok nodded, then left the luxury box, Hokor and his two bodyguards close behind.

QUENTIN BARNES RAISED his face into the shower’s steaming spray. The water trickled down his body to join the water cascading off of other players before it all slid down the drain. Streaks of brown and green and red diffused in the water rolling off the other players. Brown mud, green grass stains, red blood. Quentin’s water, of course, carried nothing more than white soap — he’d barely even been touched. Tackled twice, no sacks. The only thing he had to wipe off was his own sweat.

Tattoos covered the arms and chests of his teammates, many designs denoting various Church rankings or religious accomplishments. Many were fully confirmed, with the curving infinity symbol inked on their foreheads. Church participation was expected of PNFL players — after all, their talents came courtesy of the High One. And weren’t these men, who dominated Purist Nation pop culture along with soccer players, an example to all Purists? The government strongly encouraged players to be vocal proponents of the faith. There were even well known incidents of players, good players, being blackballed from the league for not participating in the Church.

Quentin had tats as well, one on either side of his sternum. The one on his right, in neat block letters, simply said “SHUCK.” The matching tat on his left said “YOU.”

Ceiling vents greedily sucked up most of the steam, but twenty simultaneous showers still produced a light fog. Quentin walked through the haze as he left the shower, passing by his teammates, every last one of whom threw him a smile and a compliment.

“Way to do it, Quentin.”

“The High One blessed you today, Quentin.”

“Nice work, boss.”

“They know who they played, right Quentin?”

He smiled back at everyone, answered most of the comments with a simple nod of the head.

His teammates were civil enough in the locker room and on the field, but they weren’t his friends. They knew it. They made sure he knew it. Most of the players came from privileged families, Church families. Only Church families sent their kids to school, and only in school could you play organized football.

For the lower classes, time in class or on the field was time away from the mines. They learned the basics: reading, writing, math, religion and how to kill the Satanic races. By seven or eight years old, lower-class kids had all the knowledge they would ever need, or so the logic went. Quentin never forgot how lucky he was that Stedmar happened to drive by that one day, four long years ago.

Every year a few poor players found a way into the PNFL, and they embraced the Church wholeheartedly. Some believed, some didn’t, but for all the Church was their only chance to achieve some kind of station in life. Every government job, the majority of private-sector jobs, anything that involved money, you had to be confirmed or at least well on your way. On Micovi, football was a ticket out of a hard existence of grinding manual labor and a lifespan of forty years. Fifty, if you were lucky.

But Quentin Barnes refused to embrace the Church. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the Church could take a flying leap.

His left tackle, Maynard Achmad, walked by, flashing Quentin a big smile.

“Great game, Q,” he said. “We’re going all the way!”

Quentin smiled and sat. Achmad stopped in front of Pete Oky-mayat’s locker. He leaned and said something to the big linebacker, which made Pete throw his head back with laughter. He waved over Adrian Yellow, the kicker, and repeated Achmad’s comment. Adrian laughed as well, reaching up to slap Pete on the shoulder. The men were happy, they were going to the title game. They were happy, and they were sharing it, together.

Quentin looked around the locker room. Everywhere teammates sat or stood in groups, yelling, laughing and celebrating. There were always groups, groups that never included him. Word might get back to The Elders that the men regularly associated with someone from a known family of criminals. He felt a pang of loneliness, then chased the thought away. Shuck them all. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone.