Scott Sigler: The Rookie

“Ionath Krakens.”

Quentin frowned. The Krakens… a Tier Two team. He’d hoped for a Tier One franchise, like the up-and-coming Alimum Armada, or even his boyhood dream of the To Pirates.

“The Krakens? You’re sure?”

Coach Graber nodded. “I’ve got the contract right here.” He handed Quentin a messageboard. Quentin looked at the readout — it was a done deal, all right. All he had to do was put his thumbprint on it to make it official.

The Ionath Krakens. If that was his ticket out of the Purist Nation, that was good enough for him. And it was a team based in the Quyth system, where millions of Nationalites had fled during Butcher Smith’s cleansings. He’d often prayed his parents weren’t dead, but had actually fled to the Quyth system and couldn’t return or contact him in any way. Maybe now he’d find out. Tier Two teams still enjoyed galactic broadcast coverage — even if his parents weren’t in the Quyth system, there was a chance they’d see him play, see him and join him. He’d have a real family.

“Now Quentin, you know full well that’s going to take you out of the system. You’ve still got the option of religious refusal.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said dryly. “I have that option.”

“There’s a lot of people in the Purist Nation, including me, my son, who hope that you stay in-system until your thirtieth birthday so you can be confirmed. A person with your fame could go far in the Church. You could be a Bishop, or even a Mullah, if you applied yourself.”

Quentin nodded, only half listening. He loved it when people used the words ‘my son.’ Someday, someone would use those words and it would mean something, something real. Right now, it meant jack.

He could take religious refusal, which would negate the contract. If he did that, a different Tier Two or Tier One team could pick him up — but only after the next PNFL season. League rules specified his contract could only be sold once per season, and if he refused that contract, that meant another year with the Raiders.

Another year of Tier Three ball. Another year of dirt and mud and the never ending drone of the atmosphere processors.

“Coach, I’ve always wanted to play Upper Tier ball. To tell you the truth, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Then stop ignoring your religious calling. Get confirmed, see the galaxy as a missionary spreading the faith.”

Quentin hated the Church with all his soul. He loved the High One, believed deeply in the High One, but he knew in his heart that the Church was rife with flaws, half-truths and outright lies, all designed to keep certain families in power and keep the majority of the population from questioning their lowly place in the Purist Nation. He would always believe, but would never preach the Gospel of Stewart.

“I’m no missionary, Coach. You know that.”

“Someday you’ll feel the calling. But you have to be careful about going out-system before your soul is prepared! Satan lives out there. We can see him on the news every day, he takes the shape of the Whitok, Ki, the Sklorno, the Quyth, and disguises himself in Human form in the Planetary Union, the League of Planets, the Tower — ”

“Yeah, Coach, I got it. I’ve heard this speech before. In fact, I’ve heard it all my life, a few too many times from a few too many people.”

Coach Graber’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a speech you need to listen to, son, not just hear. ”

“I’m not your son,” Quentin said. “And I’m not part of your Church.”

“Do you dare blaspheme against the High One?”

“I believe in the teachings of the High One,” Quentin said. “I just don’t believe in the Church. There’s a big difference. The best football players are aliens, and I want to play against the best.”

“Satan takes many forms, Quentin. Are you going to consort with crickets and salamanders and Satan’s other minions?”

“I’m not going to consort with anyone, Coach. I don’t have to associate with them, just win ballgames with them. If Satan himself can run a post pattern, I’ll hit him in stride for six.”

Graber’s breath shot out in a huff. “That’s blasphemous! And besides, you’re not ready to play Tier Two. You couldn’t handle the speed.”

“Shuck that. I’m going to rip Tier Two apart.”

“Quentin, I think you just need another season or two to prepare yourself. You’ve only been playing the game for four years, my son. Imagine how much you can learn with just one more season!”

“One second I shouldn’t go because it’s sacrilegious, the next I shouldn’t go because I’m not good enough yet? Maybe you just want me to stick around and win you a couple more PNFL championships, is that it?”

Graber leaned back, his eyes wide with hurt. “Quentin, you can’t think that I have anything but your best interests at heart. I don’t want Satan to swallow your soul, boy, and that’s what will happen if you go out-system and mingle with the sub races.”

“I’m not a boy.”

“You are until you’re thirty! You know the Scriptures!”

Quentin stood up. “You can toss your Scriptures into the Void. No one here gave a crap about me before I threw a football. You all talk of the glory of the Purist Nation and the purity of Humans, but all I see is a galaxy ruled by off-worlders. If the Purist Nation is so great, if we’re the chosen ones , then why are we ruled by the bats? I’ll win the PNFL championship for you next week, but then I’m out of here.”

“You’re not ready.”

“Is that right, Coach?” Quentin held the message board inches from Graber’s face, then slowly brought his left thumb towards the imprint spot. He stared into Graber’s angry eyes as his thumb punched home his destiny. The board let out a small confirming beep.

“I’ll be here for practice this week, and I’ll win your stupid PNFL championship for you,” Quentin said. “And as soon as that game is over, you can kiss my butt goodbye.”

Coach Graber’s shoulders sagged. “Your decision is made. May the High One have mercy on your soul.”

Quentin laughed. “My soul? Coach, without me, you’d better be worried if the High One will have mercy on the Raiders.”

Quentin walked out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

SEVEN DAYS AFTER SIGNING the Krakens’ contract, Quentin Barnes walked out of the Raiders locker room for what he hoped was the last time. He’d left them with a 35–14 win over the Sigurd Norsemen, and another PNFL championship.

In his left hand he carried his duffel bag. In his right he carried the PNFL Championship MVP trophy. High One knew he’d earned it, with a record-setting 24-for-28, 363-yard performance. That and four TD passes. Not a bad day’s work.

He walked outside, where the constant sound of the atmosphere processor greeted him. He hated that noise, and he hated this place. A hundred people waited for him, many of them wearing the blue tunics of the Church. Most of the others, and even some of the tunic-wearers, wore some kind of Raider gear — shirts, hats or banners. He looked out at a throng of silver and black, most of it from Raiders’ jerseys marked with the number “10” — Quentin’s number.

Once again his eyes searched for a certain face that he did not yet know. For a pair of eyes that looked like his. For a smile that only a parent could have for a child.

Once again, he saw nothing but strangers.

The crowd surrounded him. At seven feet tall, he towered over everyone. Kids thrust messageboards at him, begging for his thumbprint and maybe a few words.

“Oh Elder Barnes you’re the greatest!”