Scott Sigler: The Rookie

He turned back to face his locker, and thought about Achmad’s words. We’re going all the way . All the way to what ? The Purist Nation Football League championship? Next week the Raiders faced off against the Sigurd City Norsemen, the champs of the Homeworld Division. They’d kill the Norsemen, then stand atop the twelve team PNFL.

The PNFL Championship. Big deal. Champions of a Tier Three league. And an all-Human Tier Three team at that. It was about as far away from the big time as you could get. But the road to galactic exposure had to start somewhere. The Tier Two teams couldn’t ignore stats like his three-touchdown, 24-for-30, 310-yard passing performance against the Corsairs (with another 82 on the ground including a sweet 52-yard TD run, thank you very much). He was the best player in the PNFL, bar none, possibly the best Tier Three player in the galaxy.

He toweled off, rubbing dry his chest, then his face and hair. When he removed the towel, he saw the big tight end Shua Mullikin walking towards him. Quentin stood there, naked and fearless, calmly smiling and staring straight up into Shua’s flaring eyes.

“I was open all day and you know it,” Shua said.

“The guy throwing the ball might disagree with you, big fella.”

Shua’s eyes narrowed with rage. “That was the semifinals . Everyone in the Nation was watching that game, and I didn’t catch a single pass.”

Quentin shrugged, then sat on the bench in front of his locker and started dressing.

“This is because I argued with you in practice, isn’t it,” Shua said, a statement rather then a question. “I dared to contradict you in front of everyone else and you had to punish me.”

Quentin didn’t bother to look up as he answered. “It’s my show, Shu. You know this. It’s not like this is new information.”

Quentin felt Shua’s stare. Shua wanted to hit him, wanted it bad, but everyone knew that Quentin could kick the tar out of just about anyone on the team.

“You think you’re so high and mighty,” Shua said, his voice rising. “Someday you won’t be playing football, and you’ll go back to being the little orphan piece of garbage that you were before Stedmar found you.”

A hush fell over the locker room. On some planets, calling someone a “retard” was a major insult. On Micovi, in the Nation, that major insult was “orphan.” Even if it was true, it wasn’t something you tossed about casually.

Quentin turned and looked into Shua’s eyes. “I’m getting the impression you don’t want to catch any passes in the championship game, either.”

Shua’s nostrils flared, his expression a combination of anger and anxiety. Sure, Shua hated him, but he also wanted his share of the limelight. Any hero of the PNFL Championship game was guaranteed to move high in the Church.

“Is that right, Shua?” Quentin said quietly. “You don’t want to see the rock next week?”

Shua swallowed. “Of course I want to.”

Quentin nodded. “Okay, then apologize.”

The big tight end’s face screwed into a furious mask. “Apologize? You underclass piece of — ”

Quentin turned away, facing back into his locker. The move stopped Shua in mid-sentence. Shua looked around the locker room, looking for support, but he found none. No one was going to back him up. Not now, not with the championship just one week away.

Quentin started to whistle as he put on his socks.

Shua’s fists clenched and unclenched. “I’m… sorry.”

Quentin cupped his hand to his ear and looked up from the corner of his eye. “What? Sorry man, I couldn’t hear you.”

This time it was loud enough for everyone to hear. “I said I’m sorry.”

Quentin smiled graciously. “No problem, Shu. Apology accepted.”

Shua turned and stormed away, his face red from rage and humiliation. The teammates looked at Quentin for a few more seconds, then turned back to their various groups and quietly resumed their conversations.

They hated the fact that he held so much power. Most of them treated underclass people like they were slaves. But on the field, in the locker room, they couldn’t do that to Quentin Barnes. If they hated him because he wasn’t like them, he made sure they at least respected his role as the team leader.

Quentin reached into the bottom of his locker and pulled out a can of Shokess Beer. He twisted the top, smiling in anticipation as the can instantly frosted up. He flipped the lid and took a long drink. It was the best beer the Purist Nation had to offer, which wasn’t saying much — he’d had a can of Miller Lager once when playing at Buddha City Stadium. Now that was real beer. You could get almost anything you wanted in Buddha City. Beer, contraband, music, women… he’d even heard some of his holier-than-thou teammates had slept with blue-skinned women from Satirli 6. Talk about a sin. It didn’t get much worse than that, unless you debased yourself by sleeping with one of the Satanic species. Quentin had ignored sinful behavior, with the notable exception of beer.

Alcohol, of course, was basically forbidden in public places. Other players would have been severely punished for drinking in the locker room, but Stedmar had taught him that when you had something other people wanted, something they needed , the rules don’t necessarily apply to you.

Theron Akbar, the team manager, walked up to Quentin, a big smile on his little face. His smile faded when he saw the beer.

“That’s a sin, Quentin.”

“It’s also tasty,” Quentin said, then chugged the remainder. He liked Akbar, who oddly enough was the only member of the organization with the balls to say something right to Quentin’s face.

“Coach wants to see you, Quentin,” Akbar said. “Right away.”

Quentin set down the empty can and continued toweling off. “What’s up?”

“Rumor is you’ve been bought.”

The toweling stopped.

“Stedmar had some off-worlder in the luxury box. Right after the game he talked to the coach, now the coach wants to see you. You do the math. And the High One really blessed you tonight. Great game.”

Akbar walked away. Quentin practically dove into his clothes. This was it — he was finally escaping the shucking rock he’d called home his entire life.

The universe awaited.

FULLY DRESSED, Quentin stepped through the open door into his coach’s office.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

Coach Ezekiel Graber sat behind his desk. He wore a skullcap in Raider colors, black with a silver “R.” The Raider logo wasn’t much to look at, just a plain block letter, the same style used for all the PNFL teams. Graber wore a sweatshirt, a piece of clothing that had endured for centuries as fashion and style fluctuated across a dozen Human planets.

“Sit down, Barnes,” Coach Graber said. He was smiling, but he didn’t look happy. “You’ve got a decision to make.”

The infinity symbol tattooed on Graber’s forehead had faded in the twenty or so years since his confirmation at the age of thirty — what had once been a detailed, deep black was now a slightly fuzzy gray.

“Barnes, you’ve had one hell of a season.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Best I’ve ever coached, I’ll tell you that. High One as my witness.” Coach Graber paused. Quentin nodded once, smiled, and the coach continued.

“Quentin, there comes a time in every young man’s life when he has to decide his path. Your time is now. Stedmar sold your contract.”

Quentin’s stomach dropped to nothingness, replaced by a tingly swarm of butterflies. This was it. He was going . “Who?” he said with a dry mouth.