Scott Sigler - The Rookie

Mopuk leaned back, seemingly speechless, then looked to his left and gestured a pedipalp at one of the Ki. The two big creatures started to move forward, but hadn’t even managed two steps before Virak and Choto launched into action.

Virak moved forward at blinding linebacker speed. He touched his pedipalps together once — when he pulled them apart, a thin glowing silvery line ran from one to the other. He looped this line around the first surprised Ki and then yanked it tight — black blood exploded like a water balloon as the Ki’s upper torso fell away from the lower body.

Choto moved almost as fast, producing a fat blade from a hiding spot inside the carapace of his right arm. He jammed the blade into the second Ki’s hexagonal mouth, bent it downwards, and thrust it right down the Ki’s throat.

Sobox flew up in alarm and reached into his tiny vest. Quentin didn’t know if they made entropic accelerators that small, but he wasn’t waiting to find out. He threw the contract box like a missile. It smashed into Sobox, knocking the Creterakian backwards. Sobox hit the wall and fell to the floor, limp.

Just before Choto’s opponent hit the floor, Tikad pressed a button on his belt. The holographic wall vanished and an alarm screeched through the bar. The music kept playing, joined by noises of fear and surprise from the patrons. Flashbugs started filtering in, pre-programmed to diffuse evenly through any open space.

The two Ki bodyguards were not Mopuk’s only protection. Two Quyth Warriors sprinted towards the back room, each pulling a small pistol as they ran. Before the guns cleared their concealed holsters, flashes of black cloth hit them like phantasms. Both guards went down under the weight of a pair of Sklorno females: Hawick and Scarborough on one, Mezquitic and Denver on the other. As soon as the Quyth Warriors hit the ground, John Tweedy slid out of a booth, head down, hateful eyes up, moving like a silent tiger. DON’T MESS WITH DON PINE scrolled across his forehead. With a growling snarl, he put his fist clear through the first Quyth Warrior’s eye and deep into the brain. Clear liquid splashed up and out, covering Tweedy’s psychotic face.

The second Quyth Warrior kicked out, knocking Denver on her back. The Warrior’s pedipalps whipped like snakes, wrapping around Mezquitic’s slender neck. Tweedy flew through the air, dropping all his weight on the prone Warrior.

As John Tweedy and the Warrior grappled, deafening roars erupted, far louder than the bass-driven music. Five sets of waving, multi-jointed arms drew all eyes as the Krakens’ offensive line, who had been quietly dancing only moments earlier, stood tall on their rear legs, twelve-feet high and more imposing than a rabid Mullah Hills bull-cat. Bar patrons needed no further urging — they ran for the door, a stampede of every species moving as one panicked mass.

Tweedy rolled on top of the Quyth Warrior, grabbed his thick head in both hands and jerked to the right. A loud crack marked the end of the conflict as the Quyth Warrior quivered once, then fell still, motionless save for a quivering pedipalp.

“Touch my quarterbacks, you loser,” Tweedy said in a growl. “Losers don’t get to make that mistake twice.”

Black blood spread across the floor like a giant amoeba. Quentin had never imagined Ki had so much blood in their tubular body. He felt his lunch rising up in his stomach, but he steeled himself against the sickness. The game was on, and he’d stick with it.

Tikad cowered on the floor, his body already covered in black gore as he rolled about, quietly begging not to be killed. Mopuk was still in his chair, his eye now the pure blue of total fear. Streaks of black blood covered him, even on his eye — he was too stunned to clean it off. Virak and Choto stood rock still on either side of him, awaiting Quentin’s orders.

Quentin picked the contract box up off the ground. He walked back to his chair and sat, then slid the contract box across the table once again. The insects seemed angrier than ever, but the glass still held them at bay. The contract box slid off the glass and onto Mopuk’s lap.

“Last chance,” Quentin said. “You get your money, Pine is free and clear. Do you accept?”

Mopuk picked up the contract box. He slid the tip of one pedipalp finger inside. The box’s light switched from red to green, signifying a completed transaction.

“That’s that,” Quentin said. “Now that you’re paid, I don’t have to worry about you coming after us. I don’t want to see you again. And don’t think of letting it slip to Gredok as a way of getting back at Pine. You know what will happen to Pine if Gredok finds out, but you also know what will happen to you if Gredok finds out you were messing with his team and his players, right?”

“Yes,” Mopuk said. “I agree. We will keep this to ourselves.”

“And what about them?” Quentin asked, gesturing to the two dead Ki that took up half the floor, and the two dead Quyth Warriors.

“An accident,” Mopuk said. “You will not be involved.”

Quentin nodded again. The music continued to blare, but over the horrible noise he heard the high-pitched rhythmic chirp of constables approaching.

“Tikad,” Quentin said. The Quyth Worker didn’t seem to hear. Quentin reached out with a toe and kicked him.

“Yes Elder Barnes!” said Tikad the Groveling. “Please is there anything I can do for you?”

“You got a back door in this place?”

“Yes Elder Barnes! Right this way!” Tikad scrambled to his feet, his body trailing dripping black strands of thick Ki blood. He ran deeper into the club. Quentin followed, Virak and Choto in front of him once again, the rest of his teammates behind. As the first constables ran into the Bootleg Arms, Quentin and the Krakens were nowhere to be seen.

IN LESS THAN twenty-four hours, the bandages were gone, the rejuv bath had been removed, and Don Pine’s healed arms crossed over his chest as he lay back in his hospital bed, staring incredulously at Quentin.

“So you paid it?” Pine said. “Are you kidding me?” While his eyes showed doubt, they also showed just a flicker of hope.

“Yes,” Quentin said. “The debt is paid.”

They were alone in the room. Teammates sat outside. Not a moment had gone by when there weren’t at least two Krakens players guarding their veteran quarterback.

“But they’re not going to just let me go,” Pine said, shaking his head. “They make more on one game than my debt is worth, easy.”

Quentin shrugged. “It’s taken care of.”

Pine looked away. “Those Ki scumbags that broke my legs, cut me up… they’ll be after me again, I know it.”

“They won’t be after anyone, ever,” Quentin said. “Virak and Choto saw to that.”

Pine’s expression relaxed into wide-eyed amazement. “But why, Quentin? Why would you do this?”

“I didn’t do it, the team did it.”

Pine nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure of that, but off the field most of these guys can’t even stand to look at each other. Someone had to make them work together, and I know it wasn’t Virak and Choto. It was you. So why did you do it? All you had to do was stay out of it, and the team was yours.”

Quentin looked at the floor. “I don’t know. You needed help, and I helped. That’s it.”

Pine extended his blue-skinned hand. Quentin had shaken the man’s hand before, but this was different. Quentin stared at it for a second. Ten weeks ago, to think a blue-boy would be a true friend, well, that was simply unthinkable.

Quentin shook Donald Pine’s hand.

“I won’t forget this,” Pine said. “Not ever.”

QUENTIN ROLLED to the left as the rest of the team moved right. Hokor had held the naked boot in reserve all day, but played that card late in the fourth quarter. The Krakens held on to a slim 2019 lead, and they needed to put the Bigg Diggers away.