Scott Sigler: The Rookie

“What a great game! Can you sign this ‘To Anna?’”

“Elder Quentin, sign my pad, please !”

They called him “Elder,” a term of respect, even though he was no more a part of the Church than the Creterakian occupiers. He didn’t bother to correct them.

Stedmar Osborne was waiting for him, leaning against a jet-black limo, Sammy and Frankie and Dean his ever-present bodyguards.

Quentin signed quickly, but he signed every messageboard thrust his way. He didn’t have time for personalized messages, so he pressed down thumbprints as fast as he could. The satisfied kids and their parents started to drift away as he kept signing. At the end, the weak children finally found their way to him. His heart sank as he looked at some of them — more than a few had Hiropt’s Disease, all of them assuredly from Micovi’s slums, where the roundbugs grew to the size of housecats. One of the boys, dressed in the blue tunic of a Church ward, was missing an arm.

“What happened to you?” Quentin asked the smiling boy.

“My family lived on an ore hauler over on the North Coast,” the boy said, his eyes wide with hero worship. “One of the engines blew and I got hurt.”

“You here with your family?”

“High One took them, Mr. Barnes,” the boy said, a smile still on his face as if his family’s tragedy was the most pleasant of conversations. “Died in the explosion. The Holy Men have told me it was part of the High One’s plan. I’m in the Church now, someday I’ll be confirmed.”

Quentin smiled sadly at the boy. An orphan. Without a family sponsor, he had little or no chance of being confirmed. Not unless he could run a forty in 3.8 seconds and haul in passes with his one arm. This boy would spend the rest of his life in the mines. But at least the boy’s parents hadn’t abandoned him.

Quentin shook away the thought. Who was he to question his own parents? Maybe they were out there, somewhere. Millions fled the planet during the cleansings, fled or died. Maybe they just couldn’t find him… right, couldn’t find the most famous athlete in all of the Purist Nation.

He pressed his thumbprint to the boy’s messageboard. Quentin opened his duffel bag and handed the boy his sweaty game jersey. The boy’s eyes widened to white marbles dotted with flecks of blue.

“Take it,” Quentin said. The boy dropped his messageboard as he grabbed the jersey with his one arm. He clutched the jersey to his chest, his face the very picture of joy.

“Let’s go Quentin,” Stedmar called.

Quentin nodded at him and knelt to pick up his bag. He paused there, looking at the bag, then reached in and started passing out the contents. To each of the remaining kids he gave something: shoes, game pants, a T-shirt, even the bag itself. When he had nothing left to give, he stood and walked past the clamoring children to the waiting limo.

Stedmar was laughing at him. “Traveling light, kid?”

Quentin shrugged. “Don’t need that stuff anymore, sir.” He had to look down to talk to Stedmar, who at six-foot-four was a full eight inches shorter than Quentin.

One of the bodyguards held the door. Quentin and Stedmar got in the back. The bodyguard drove the limo towards the spaceport, a mere five minutes away from the stadium.

“I’m surprised you didn’t give away the trophy,” Stedmar said with a smile.

Quentin held it out. “I saved that for you, Mr. Osborne.”

The smile vanished from Stedmar’s face. “Don’t you mess with me, kid.”

“No sir,” Quentin said. “Four years ago you found me and gave me a chance. I’m off this planet because of you. ”

Stedmar slowly took the trophy. He looked at it, a strange expression on his face, then looked back at Quentin.

“I made a pretty penny on you, Quentin. I won’t lie to you about that. I was already underpaying you, and I sold that same contract to Tier Two, where it’s not even close to what you’re worth.”

Quentin shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be able to renegotiate next year.”

“Sure, unless by some crazy fluke the Krakens make it to Tier One. Then you’re a protected player for two years, and they can keep paying you what you’re making now.”

“I’ll make the money back eventually, Mr. Osborne.”

Stedmar nodded. “Somehow I know you will. But listen, kid, you’re in for a lot of changes. Some people like the big time, some don’t. I’ve seen a lot of Nationalites go out-system with big dreams, and most of them come running back. They can’t handle being in the same cities with the aliens, being on the same busses, shuttles and transport tubes. I mean, have you ever seen a Sklorno up close?” Stedmar’s face wrinkled with disgust. “You can see right through their skin. And they drool. It’s a big adjustment.”

“I’m not leaving to make friends,” Quentin said. “I’m going to win a Tier One championship.”

“And I hope you do, kid. Just remember that if you don’t like the galaxy, you’ve always got a home here with the Raiders.”

“And how do you think your Raiders will do next season?”

Stedmar looked out the window. “I don’t think we’ll be worth a dead roundbug. But you’ve still got something to learn, Quentin.”

“You’re not going to give me the Holy Man speech, are you? I got that from Coach Graber.”

Stedmar laughed. “You know me better than that. I don’t buy into the Church any more than you do. But what you’ve got to learn, Quentin, is that time always wins, and there’s always someone to take your place. I won’t be able to replace you next year, or the year after that, but you know what? Someone will line up at quarterback for the Raiders. The team won’t shut down because you’re gone. We won’t win another championship next season, but eventually, we will. And when that happens, there will be some other quarterback coming out of that locker room, mobbed by kids wanting autographs.”

Quentin smiled politely. Stedmar was the owner, after all, and deserved respect. He also had the power to have Quentin whacked anytime he saw fit, and that definitely deserved respect. But Stedmar clearly didn’t understand football.

“Yes sir, Mr. Osborne.”

Stedmar grinned, as if he’d just passed on some great pearl of wisdom and now felt better of himself for the charity. “We’ll have your things shipped to the Krakens’ team bus. The league wants you to go straight to the Combine.”

“Don’t I get a chance to meet the team? The coaches?”

Stedmar shook his head. “That’s not the way it works, kid. You’ve got to go to the Combine to make sure you’re not using any disguising technology to hide gene modification, cybernetic implants or anything like that.”

“But I haven’t got any of that bush league garbage.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid, every rookie has to go through it. Besides, it’s a chance for you to see the home planet of our beneficial rulers. ” Stedmar spat the last word out like it was a poisonous spider crawling around in his mouth.

“Creterak,” Quentin said distantly. “What’s the Combine like? I’ve heard a lot of stories.”

“You mean the stories like how it used to be a prison station, how they take samples from all over your body, how they jack your brain into an A.I. mainframe to test your analytical powers, how they throw you in a cage with a live Grinkas mudsucker to test your reflexes in a life and death situation?”

Quentin looked out the window. “Yeah, stuff like that.”

“I don’t know, kid. It’s probably all bull. The League doesn’t want the merchandise damaged, if you get what I’m saying.”

The red and yellow buildings of the city gave way to the wide open spaces of the spaceport tarmac. Disabled anti-orbital batteries dotted the landscape, rusted and pitted with forty years of neglect. The huge relics were once capable of taking out a dreadnought as far away as a light-year, or so the story went.