Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Stop being a pansy,” the Quyth Leader said in a gravelly voice. “You’re here until I tell you to leave, so stop being a pansy.”

Quentin backed away from the sword-wielding Ki. The room had another door, but it was behind the Quyth Leader. Quentin suspected if he rushed for that way out, the Ki might cut him down before he could get the thing open.

“I am Mopuk the Sneaky,” the Quyth Leader said. He then gestured to the Creterakian. “This is Sobox. If you see Sobox again, know that he is carrying my voice.”

“I don’t care if he’s carrying your nuts in a paper baggie, you want to tell me what this is about?”

“This is about Donald Pine.”

Quentin hadn’t expected that. “What about him?”

“He works for me,” Mopuk said. “You might say he’s a seasonal employee. Donald Pine owes me a lot of money. He pays off his debt by playing the way I tell him to play.”

Quentin felt stunned. “You’re trying to tell me that Pine throws games for you?”

Mopuk’s pedipalps quivered once.

“Well you’re out of luck then, moron, because Pine’s hurt and I’m playing this week.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Mopuk said. “I want the Demolition to win. You will make sure that happens.”

Quentin was getting tired of people telling him to lose. Damn tired.

“There’s cash in it for you,” Mopuk said. He held out one pedipalp, into which Sobox dropped a credit chit. Mopuk tossed it to Quentin. “That’s a chit for a half million. I believe your entire salary for the season is only one million?”

Quentin looked at the small black chit. Indeed, the readout said c500,000.00. The payable button, however did not glow the blue of an active transaction.

“One million, what a joke,” Sobox said. “You need an agent, backwater.”

“Just take care of business, and that light glows blue,” Mopuk said. “Make sure the Demolition wins by at least a touchdown. That’s all you have to do.”

Quentin stared at the chit. Five hundred thousand — that was half of what he made for the whole season. More than half, if he counted in the tithe he had to pay to the Purist Nation. And hell, they’d probably lose anyway…

He shook his head, trying to clear away such thoughts. He would not throw the game. And besides, if he did, Gredok might find out, and that would be very, very bad.

“Do you know who owns the Krakens?” Quentin asked. “Any idea at all, moron?”

“I know who owns the Krakens,” Mopuk said. “And if you go run and tell him, he won’t be happy. But right now he doesn’t know anything. And if he does find out, I’ll be sure to implicate you in every way possible. I’m protected, gatholi , but you’re not. Who do you think is going to come out of this with their head still attached to their body? You just throw the game and everyone is happy.”

Quentin shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you let me use those pedipalps to clean my toilet? I had some Tower food didn’t agree with me, and it’s a mess. Your furry little things would clean it up good.”

Sobox flapped once, and the Ki were on him. There was no space to maneuver in the small room. Quentin managed one good punch at the first Ki, but didn’t know if his blow did any damage before he went down under a thousand pounds of heavy alien. He felt sudden blows to his ribs, and one to his jaw. The world spun awkwardly around him as the weight suddenly lifted. Quentin slowly stood up, rubbing his jaw, his ribs feeling like someone had jabbed a baseball bat into him handle-first. He felt something in his mouth. He spit — his front right tooth shot out and landed in a loogie of his blood.

Dammit. I just finished growing that thing back.

“Now shut up and listen,” Mopuk said. “I’m done negotiating. The money is off the table, no more deal there, you blew it. The Demolition win. You do it for free. End of story. And they win by a touchdown. Got that? Seven points , at least. If this doesn’t happen, you’re going back to the Purist Nation in a coffin.”

Quentin looked at the two Ki. He was stuck in this room, and if they wanted, they could easily kill him.

“Yeah,” he said, the word coming out stilted from his already swelling jaw. “I got it.”

One of the Ki opened the door and stood aside. Quentin walked out onto the busy street. The door shut behind him.

RED “NO TOUCH” JERSEY flapping in a light breeze, Quentin dropped back and planted. His feet slid slightly on the white Tiralik. The footing felt like grass — if you covered grass with a light coating of kitchen grease, that is. He was quickly adjusting to the slickness. He looked downfield to his primary receiver and gunned the pass to Hawick. The ball covered fifteen yards in a half-second and hit Hawick dead-on.

“Good job, Barnes,” Hokor called in his headset.

“Thanks Coach.” It was strange to hear a compliment, and this had been Hokor’s fourth of the practice. Everything seemed to be flowing now, the players — both offense and defense — part of a huge dance. More and more he knew where each receiver would move, and where their defensive “dance partner” would move in response. Things were starting to feel natural, the way they had back on Micovi. Still, this was against a defense he practiced with not only daily, but nightly as well. He’d started to subconsciously absorb the aggressive tendencies of Berea and Stockbridge, the one-step-too-late break of Perth, and the too-cautious defense of Davenport. Against the Demolition’s top-rated pass defense, however, it would be a different story.

“You’re looking good, backwater.”

Quentin turned to look at Donald Pine, who was dressed in civy clothes. The crutches were gone, replaced by just a cane. The cane made him look like the old man that he was. How long had be been throwing games? Quentin could barely look at the Pine without feeling sick and angry. One of the best QBs of all time, and he threw games like some punk.

“Bend your left knee more when you drop back,” Pine said. “You’re handling the slickness okay now, but in the second half, the field will be really beat up and way more slippery. You need that extra springiness a bent knee will give you to keep your balance.

Quentin nodded, but didn’t say anything. Once again, he couldn’t trust what Pine had to say. Had Mopuk & Co. told Pine to make sure Quentin tanked? Was Pine going to play subversive mind games to ensure a loss?

A long whistle blew as Hokor’s cart descended to the 50-yard line. The team gathered from all over the field — practice was over, and Hokor had to cover any last important notes before the players headed to the locker rooms. Tomorrow this same field would be filled with 110,000 screaming fans, as well as 44 players wearing the multi-shaded purple of the Sky Demolition.

Quentin turned away from Pine and jogged to the mid-field gathering. Tomorrow was game day. Do-or-die day. One more loss, and the season was shot.

Not under my watch.

The team probably wouldn’t make the Tier Two tournament. But if that happened, it would be because Don Pine threw a game, not Quentin Barnes.

Forget Pine.

Forget Mopuk.

Hell, for that matter, forget the To Pirates.

Quentin wasn’t taking a dive for anyone. He would not let his teammates down.

“Hello football fans, welcome back to this UBS holocast of GFL football. This is Masara the Observant, here with Chick McGee, the galaxy’s favorite color commentator. Well Chick, despite the score, we’ve seen some good football in the first half. The Demolition is up 14-3, but the Krakens’ defense has played well.”