Scott Sigler - The Rookie

THE SHUTTLE BANKED DOWN to the customs platform and into the express lane reserved for diplomats and foreign dignitaries. The team filed out and stood single-file on the yellow waiting line. Three Quyth Workers dressed in the white uniforms of the Quyth System Police slid hoversleds into the shuttle. The hover-sleds were loaded with the typical weapon- and explosive-scanning suites.

Kotop the Observer walked down the line of Krakens players. It was a performance they went through each time the shuttle returned from out-system.

“The food must be very good on Orbital Station One,” Kotop said with disgust. “You’ve all gained weight.”

Quentin, like the other Human players, wore a baggy sweat suit — with a bulging, rounded belly. All the players had some new bulky area on their body: the Ki linemen had bulging backs, Sklorno tails were fatter and longer, and even the Quyth Warriors thighs seemed far thicker than normal.

Kotop stood in front of Virak.

“This must be a very proud day for a warrior like yourself,” Kotop said. “I wonder who will be hurt by your newfound wealth.”

Virak said nothing, simply stared straight ahead so he didn’t have to look down at Kotop. His eye showed no color. Moments later, the technicians exited the ship.

“No weapons, no explosives,” one of them said to Kotop. The Quyth Leader clapped his pedipalps together once, then gestured to the ship.

“You football players think you’re so special,” Kotop said. “You flaunt the law right in front of us, and there’s nothing we can do. Someday… someday things will change.”

“YOU SURE THIS IS the right way to do this?” Quentin sat in the back of a cramped hovercab. Virak the Mean sat on one side, Choto the Bright sat on the other.

“Do you want Pine’s debt cleared?” Virak asked.

Quentin nodded.

“Then we have to show strength. A Leader like Mopuk will not let go of a choice debtor like Pine. Not easily. You need to convince Mopuk it’s in his best interest.”

Quentin nodded again. He’d started this, and he’d finish it, but he hadn’t expected anything like what was about to go down. Virak, Choto, Shayat and John Tweedy were well versed in violence. Real violence, the kind where beings died. Quentin could hold his own in any fight, but this was something different.

He looked out the side of the open cab. They were in Ionath City’s club district, a seemingly endless row of bars and dance halls, the street lit with brightly colored holosigns. Beings of all shapes and sizes crowded the streets. At least two fights were already in progress, one down the street to the left, one just off to their right. Quyth Warrior constables casually worked their way through the crowd to break up the altercations.

“We move now.” Virak slipped over the cab’s edge and onto the street. Choto hopped out the other side. Quentin followed suit, walking behind the two Quyth Warriors towards a club called the Bootleg Arms. A holosign above the bar showed a Quyth Worker using his pedipalps to repeatedly pour a gin & tonic. A line of beings, mostly Quyth Workers although all kinds were represented, extended out the door and down the street.

A Quyth Worker and three Ki — large, but not as large as GFL linemen — stood near the door. The Quyth Worker instantly recognized the three Krakens players and gestured for them to walk past the line. Virak and Choto entered first, moving in front of Quentin like the blades of a snowplow. They ignored the Quyth Worker and the Ki.

“Elder Barnes,” the Quyth Worker said, perfectly pronouncing the respectable Purist Nation title. “Welcome to the Bootleg Arms. If there is anything you need, I am Tikad the Groveling, and I assure you I will tend to your needs.”

“We want to see Mopuk,” Quentin said.

Tikad bowed. “Mister Mopuk may be busy, Elder Barnes.”

“Go get him,” Quentin said. “Right now.”

Tikad bowed lower, said something to the Ki guards, then walked through the door. Virak and Choto followed Tikad, Quentin only a step behind them. They walked through the door and onto a lighted floor that swayed with dancers of all species. He wondered how anybeing could dance to that crappy Tower Republic music, but it was all the rage in the clubs.

Floating flashbugs gracefully avoided the swirling dancers. The bugs emitted bright colors in time to the music’s beat. The floor shook with the song’s low bass tones, frequencies that seemed to vibrate every atom in Quentin’s body. Smells filled his nostrils — like most clubs, designer pheromones permeated the air, guaranteed to put an erotic edge on every patron regardless of their species. He kept his eyes on Virak and Choto, doing his best to ignore the sensory assault.

The crowd parted before the two Quyth Warriors. Quentin couldn’t help but feel important. The two of them moved like walking statues that radiated confidence mixed with lethality. They followed Tikad to a back wall that seemed to vibrate slightly, in time to the bass beat — a hologram. Two Quyth Warriors stood by the wall, not-so-gently pushing back any dancers that moved too close. Tikad walked between them and right through the holographic wall.

As soon as they were through, the music dropped off to a distant thud of bass and nothing more. Soft lighting seemed a direct contrast to the dance floor’s garish flashbugs. Thick couches, some for all species but mainly tailored for the small bodies of Quyth Leaders, lined the walls of the small room. A large oval table sat in the middle, a clear glass top revealing a tank of swarming insectlike creatures.

On a chair behind the table sat Mopuk. His Ki bodyguards flanked him, one on each side. Quentin recognized them — they’d beaten the crap out of him back on The Deuce, and had tried to rough him up on The Ace. That was when Virak the Mean told the bodyguards that if he faced them again, he’d kill them. Quentin wondered if the two guards remembered the threat.

Tikad stood nervously, his pedipalps repeatedly cleaning his eye, which glowed a neon pink. Mopuk’s eyes, of course, remained perfectly clear. Sobox, Mopuk’s Creterakian lieutenant, perched comfortably on Mopuk’s small shoulder.

Virak and Choto each took a small step to the side. Quentin walked between them and sat down on a Human chair, directly across the table from Mopuk.

“Quentin Barnes,” Mopuk said quietly. “You saved me the time of coming to find you again. You’ve cost me a lot of money this season, money you will have to repay.”

“I owe you nothing,” Quentin said. “But I am here about money. He pulled out a contract box and slid it across the table. As the box crossed the glass, the insect-like creatures swarmed towards it, pressing hungrily against the glass top’s underside.

Mopuk picked up the contract box. “What’s this?”

“Four-point-one million. Every penny that Donald Pine owes you.”

Mopuk’s eye instantly changed to translucent black. He slid the contract box back across the glass. The bugs vainly tried again to eat it.

“That’s not enough,” Sobox said. “Mopuk the Sneaky does not accept your offer.”

“He’d better,” Quentin said. “Pine’s debt to you is paid. Now you stay away from him, and everyone else on the Krakens.”

Mopuk’s eye shifted to an even deeper shade of black.

“You come in here and tell me what to do? I say that’s not enough money.” Mopuk gestured to the glass table. “Get out of here before I feed you to my pets.”

“You will accept this,” Quentin said, leaning forward. “You don’t have a choice.”