Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Tonight we drink to turning things around,” Yassoud said, his can held high. “Here’s to kicking in the Demolition’s face! Oh yep!”

All three men drank as the crowd, obviously Demolition fans, let out low-volume jeers. Quentin noticed how many beings wore Demolition clothing of one type or another; purple hats and jackets and shirts marked with three white stripes.

Quentin took a couple of swallows. When he set his can down, Yassoud and Tweedy were still drinking. Both men drained their mag-cans, hit the decompress button on the top, and set the now de-charged and empty metal ring on the bar top.

“ Bartender! ” Yassoud screamed. “Another round please.”

John Tweedy poked a finger at Quentin’s can, still three-quarters full. “What’s the matter, rookie. Not thirsty?”

“Um, we have a game in two days.”

“So?” Yassoud and Tweedy said in unison.

“I’m not going to get drunk, we’ve got to be at our best for the game.”

Tweedy waved a hand in front of his face as if Quentin had farted. “Dang, backwater, I thought you were fun, like Yassoud here.”

Yassoud, smiling, just shrugged.

“I’m fun,” Quentin said. “I just don’t wanna mess anything up this week.”

“Yeah, you’re tons of fun,” Yassoud said. “The way you spend all your time in the VR room, man you’re a regular ball of laughs. I wanna party with you, kid.”

Tweedy laughed. Quentin felt his face turn a bit red.

“Hey, I’m out tonight, right?” Quentin said. “Give me at least that much.”

Yassoud nodded vigorously. “Oh yep, you’re right, you’re here so I’ll quit bagging on you.”

The second round hit the bar top. Within seconds, John and Yassoud had knocked that one back as well.

“ Bartender! ” Yassoud screamed. Quentin slowly shook his head. It was going to be a long night.

RIGHT ABOUT THE TIME John Tweedy, now eight beers heavier, started challenging anyone and everyone in the bar to a fight, Quentin (only two beers heavier) walked outside. He had a good feeling he’d need a grav-cab to get Tweedy and Yassoud back to their rooms. How they could hope to practice the next day was beyond Quentin’s understanding.

The streets remained packed with grav-cars. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks, moved in and out of bars and buildings. The green tinged buildings soared above, their endless network of arms reaching out to each other like tentacled lovers caught in a freeze-frame.

A pair of Human hand-holding women walked by, one with blue skin, the other with white, both wearing matching see-through body suits that left nothing to the imagination. A month ago, he would have sneered at the two shameless women, both for their sinful dress and for the color of their skin. Now however, something did rise as they walked by, but it wasn’t his lip.

You’re changing so fast you can barely keep score , Quentin thought to himself. Maybe it was being immersed in alien cultures that made even blue- and white-skinned women look alluring. They didn’t seem so different anymore, not like they had back on Micovi, where you only saw colored skin in the holos. The white-skinned girl turned and looked at him as she walked by, her blue-painted lips flashing a seductive smile.

He watched her walk down the sidewalk, his eyes following first her shapely booty, then her legs, then her friend’s booty, then her friend’s legs, then Maygon.

Maygon?

Quentin blinked twice, but there was nothing wrong with his vision. Maygon, the Creterakian representative of the To Pirates, was two buildings down the street, dressed in a fuchsia suit with yellow stripes, and waving at him with one wing. No, not waving, beckoning.

Quentin felt his face flush red. He looked around quickly, but saw no one he recognized, and no one staring at him. Well, no unusual stares — a seven-foot-tall being drew plenty of stares in a city where the average citizen stood just over four feet.

Maygon waved again, this time faster, more demanding.

Quentin swallowed, looked in the bar to make sure Yassoud and Tweedy weren’t watching, then walked to Maygon.

“What do you want?’ Quentin said. “We can’t be seen together.”

“A chance you’ll have to take. Kirani-Ah-Kollok has a message for you.”

“Well, then make it quick.”

“I’ll only be a second, relax. I just wanted to let you know you did a good job last week. Your effort looked very convincing, yet you still lost by twenty-five points.”

Quentin suddenly realized that once he’d taken that first snap, he hadn’t even thought about throwing the game. He felt doubly humiliated — first because he’d considered tanking, and second because he’d played his tail off, lost, and this bat thought he’d lost on purpose. Quentin felt an anger brewing in him like he’d never felt before.

“Just keep it up, backwater,” Maygon said. “One more loss and you’ll be wearing the blood red before Tier One season starts. Just letting you know that I’m here, and I’m watching. Now piss off, I want to chase some tail.”

Quentin stood for a moment, then turned, the rage so thick in his head it was hard to think. One more loss … the phrase echoed in his mind. The To Pirates, his childhood dream, and all he needed was one more loss. He walked towards the bar. It was time to get those two drunks out of there and go back to the rooms.

He was so mad he didn’t notice the things around him, like the crowd parting before him the way it had for John Tweedy, or the two huge Ki that blocked the sidewalk and weren’t about to part for anybody. Quentin almost walked right into them.

“Excuse me,” he said, but the Ki didn’t move. Quentin looked at them for a moment, their expressionless black eyes staring back, then he tried to walk around them.

They moved to block his path.

“You guys have a problem?”

The Ki said nothing. A Creterakian, this one dressed in lemon yellow with long flowing streamers of dark yellow, flew up and perched on one of the Ki’s shoulders.

“Quentin Barnes,” the Creterakian said. “My boss would like a word with you.”

Did the To Pirates think he was a moron? “I already heard the sermon. Now leave me alone.”

“You haven’t heard anything,” the Creterakian said, “until you’ve heard it from the boss. And the boss wants to speak with you.”

“I’m heading back to my room. Now get these beasts out of my way.”

“The boss wants to talk with you now ,” the Creterakian said. The Ki moved quickly, multi-jointed arms reaching out. Quentin immediately started dodging to the left, but they were too close and he’d been caught off guard. Eight strong Ki arms grabbed him and held him concrete-tight. Quentin in tow, they scuttled into a building. It all happened so fast Quentin barely knew what was happening before the Ki tossed him unceremoniously onto the floor. The noise of the street faded away behind a closed door. He stood up with an athlete’s quickness, but the Ki were already off him, backed up against the door to prevent his escape. The yellow-suited Creterakian was also in the room, only now he was perched on the shoulder of a black-and-tan furred Quyth Leader.

This is bad , Quentin thought instantly. This is very bad. He wanted out and he wanted out quickly. He leaned forward and started lunging for the Ki.

They both pulled knives. He stopped short, almost stumbling into the glittering points.

Knives wasn’t the right word. He’d used knives in his military training. Knives were a foot long at most. These blades were three feet long, serrated on one side, gleaming sharpness on the other.