Scott Sigler - The Rookie

QUENTIN JUST WANTED to be alone. He didn’t want to see his teammates. He didn’t want to think about riding the bench. But that was all he could think about.

He sat in a mixed-race bar, hiding in a shadowy back-corner booth, a Galaxy Sports Magazine messageboard in one hand and a magcan of Miller in the other. His eyes merely glazed over the words and pictures. His mind couldn’t get around the fact that he was backup to a tanker.

“Hello, Quentin.”

Quentin looked up to see Mitchell Fayed and Virak the Mean.

“Are we disturbing you?” Fayed asked.

Quentin shrugged. “Just wanted some time to myself, you know?”

Fayed nodded. “We saw you and wanted to invite you to join us for dinner. We’re going to discuss ways to keep our winning streak alive. But if you want to be left alone, we understand.”

“Thanks.”

Fayed put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. It made Quentin uncomfortable, but he didn’t knock it away. “Stay strong,” Fayed said. “Keep working hard and good things will come.”

With that, Fayed walked away and Virak followed. Quentin stared after them, hating Fayed for his positive attitude. He finished his Miller. Then another. Then another. He lost count — it wasn’t until he stood to leave some four hours later that he felt the effects. The room spun around him, and he had to put a hand on the table to keep his balance.

A Creterakian civilian flew up and perched on his table. Quentin stared for a second, then recognized him — Sobox, the voice of Mopuk the Sneaky.

“You messed up, Human,” Sobox said.

“What are you talkin’ bout,” Quentin said. His words sounded slurred — his balance wasn’t the only thing failing him.

“Mopuk told you what to do, and you didn’t do it. Now you’ve got to pay.”

Quentin saw two large shadows move towards him. Not shadows — Ki, so big they blocked out the bars’ lights. He saw a blur before something smashed into his face and the room twisted wildly. He fell back into his booth. Hot blood coursed out of his nose and onto his upper lip.

“You’re never going to play again,” Sobox said. “My boys will see to that.”

A blow to his stomach. Air shot out of him — he tried to breath in, but couldn’t. His mouth gasped open like a fish out of water. Strong arms lifted him up out of the booth and held him up.

“You’re going to pay,” Sobox said quietly.

“Put him down… now. ” The voice was quiet, but carried deadly authority.

Quentin finally drew a gasping breath. The two Ki enforcers held him by his armpits. Sobox was still on the table. All three faced Virak the Mean and Mitchell Fayed.

“I said, put him down,” Virak said.

Sobox glared at the Quyth Warrior. “Mind your own business, you grunt. You don’t want to mess with Mopuk the Sneaky.”

Virak turned from the Ki and stared directly at Sobox. “You insignificant worm. Gredok is my Shamakath. He is also the Shamakath of Mopuk the Sneaky. Quentin Barnes is Gredok’s property. Now you put him down, or this will get ugly.”

Sobox stared hatefully for a moment, then gestured to his enforcers. “Put him down. Let’s go. You haven’t heard the last of this, Virak.”

“Yes I have,” Virak said. He turned to the two Ki enforcers. “You two face me again, in any capacity, and I’ll kill you.”

The Ki grunted some kind of return threat, then scuttled away, Sobox hovering over their heads as they left the bar.

“Quentin, are you okay?” Fayed said as he grabbed a napkin and held it to the bleeding nose.

“Yas, fine,” Quentin mumbled.

“What was that about?” Virak said. “What are you doing associating with Mopuk the Sneaky? What did he want with you?”

“Beats me,” Quentin said. “Maybe he didn’t like my hair.”

“Stop lying,” Virak said, his voice a dark growl. “I have to tell Gredok about this.”

“No!” Quentin said, feeling his buzz suddenly fade away. “You can’t do that.”

“I have to,” Virak said. “He is my Shamakath , and I must tell him.”

“Virak, don’t,” Quentin said, a pleading tone tingeing his voice.

“Why not?” A shade of light purple colored Virak’s eye.

“You… you just can’t, okay?”

“That is not okay. It is my duty. Mopuk is in Gredok’s organization.”

Quentin groaned inside. “Mopuk works for Gredok? Oh this sucks.”

“If Mopuk is making a move, Gredok has to know about it.”

“He’s not making a move, it’s… something else.”

“I must tell Gredok, and you must tell him also, everything about this.”

Quentin stood and looked Virak in the eye. “You have to trust me. If you tell Gredok, it will destroy our season.”

“Why?” Fayed asked. “Why would it destroy our season?”

“It just will,” Quentin said. “Virak, please, you have to trust me on this. Do it for your team.”

“For… my team?”

Quentin nodded. “I’m telling you, we have to keep this quiet. I can’t tell you why. Just trust me.”

Virak stared for a long moment. “It is a sign of disrespect to not tell Gredok. He does not take disrespect lightly.”

Quentin stayed quiet. He’d said his piece.

“Virak,” Fayed said, “we can’t let anything ruin our season. Don’t tell Gredok.”

Virak looked at Fayed, then back to Quentin.

“I will not say anything,” Virak said. “I will… trust you, Quentin. But do not betray that trust.”

Quentin nodded, a grateful smile crossing his face.

“Thank you, Virak. And thanks yous guys for helpin’ me out. I would have got my face kicked in.”

“We will return to the rooms,” Fayed said. “Will you join us this time?”

Quentin nodded. The three teammates left the bar together.

THE BUG-SHIPS WERE nowhere to be seen. There wouldn’t have been any room for them anyway — the Ace Hole had been transformed into a living sea of flat-black clothing, flat-black banners and flat-back flags, surrounded by the shimmering beauty of ice-like blue crystal with a playing field of pitch-black grass.

The residents of Orbital Station Two didn’t call the stadium the Ace Hole — they called it the Black Hole. Four decks of seating provided a capacity of 132,000. Attendance for this game stood at 133,412.

The crowd roared and surged and whistled and chirped as the Krakens gathered in the tunnel. Battle scent rolled through the orange-and white-and black-clad warriors. Another week, another war. This war they would win, this war they had to win.

“This is our chance to make up for lost time,” Pine said in his ringing tone of command. “This is our chance to get back in the hunt. ”

The team let out primitive barks of agreement, yet the veteran’s words held little sway over Quentin. Was the fix in for this game?

The loudspeaker called out a welcome to the visiting Ionath Krakens, and the team swarmed onto the field. Yet as soon as they did, a sound hit Quentin’s ears like a thunderbolt.

Or rather, a lack of sound.

The Black Hole instantly lived up to its name as over 133,412 fans fell stone silent. There were a few thin cheers from Krakens’ faithful, but even those sounds quickly ended, as if the fans felt suddenly self-conscious about making noise in the midst of funeral-like quiet. The transition from cacophony to total silence made Quentin stop in his tracks — the players behind him nearly ran him over. Regaining his wits, he jogged to the sidelines with his teammates.

Quentin looked across the silent fans, head whipping from one side then to the next. His brain could barely process the phenomenon. He walked to Yitzhak. “What the hell is this all about?”