THE ALL-PRO (3 page)

John sat for only a second before he stood — wild eyes wide and grinning mouth open — to shout over the top of Rebecca and Somalia. “Holy
crap
, Q! On the shucking
glass
? Do you have any idea how
awesome
this is going to be?”

“I hope so,” Quentin said. He wasn’t as excited as John — no one ever was, about anything — but Quentin was still pretty fired up. He’d seen holocasts of Dinolition’s insanity, but word was you had to see a match in person to really appreciate the carnage.

If it hadn’t been for an invitation from the Dinolition Commissioner and the commissioner’s promises of high security, Quentin would have never thought to attend this match. He didn’t travel much. When he did, it certainly wasn’t out in the open like this, as a celebrity.

The people who had bombed the Ionath Krakens’ victory parade eight months earlier could still be out there. Gredok had “taken care of” the cell directly responsible for that lethal attack, but no one knew if there was a bigger organization behind it, possibly plotting another attempt on Quentin’s life. If, indeed, Quentin had been the actual target. Such threats reduced the desire to travel, to go anywhere that involved a crowd.

But the Dinolition invite had come from the top. Even Gredok the Splithead, owner of the Krakens franchise, had looked into the trip and declared it safe. Relatively, anyway — their team bus, the
Touchback
, was the only truly safe place for Quentin and his fellow Krakens.

Quentin would have had the trip checked out by his private detective, Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga, but Fred hadn’t been heard from since halfway through the Tier One season some seven weeks ago. Frederico was supposedly off searching for Quentin’s family. Quentin didn’t know if the hunt was successful, didn’t have any information at all, really, save for Fred’s pay that came out of Quentin’s bank account every week.

When the Dinolition invitation had come in, Quentin couldn’t think of a better person to take along than his teammate and friend, the deadly John Tweedy, Ionath’s starting middle linebacker. John loved
all
sports, really, but seemed extra-special-crazy for Dinolition. Quentin had planned on inviting Coach Hokor, since they were all on Wilson 6 for the same scouting trip, but the second John learned there was a total of four tickets, he asked if he could bring Rebecca.

Becca “The Wrecka” Montagne, the Krakens starting fullback and girlfriend of John Tweedy. Becca was an excellent blocker, smart and she caught everything thrown her way. She had taken over the starting slot from veteran Paul Pierson near the end of the Tier One season. Off of the playing field, however, Quentin couldn’t stand the HeavyG woman. She didn’t
get
football, didn’t
get
that it was a violent game and that sentients got hurt, sentients died. The look on John’s face, however — so excited, so eager — had made Quentin say
sure, bring her along
.

That, of course, left Quentin needing a date of his own. A check of touring schedules resulted in a wonderful coincidence — Trench Warfare was playing five shows on Wilson 6. A call to Somalia’s management resulted in an instant date.

Quentin reached his open seat. Seats in most stadiums barely accommodated his 7-foot-tall, 380-pound body, but this one was quite comfortable. The League of Planets had more HeavyG citizens than any other government. Laws prohibiting racism ensured that the massive Human variants weren’t discriminated against with Human-sized facilities.

Somalia sat in the seat on his right. Graceful and athletic, she curled her long legs up onto the seat and slid her sinewy arms around Quentin’s right bicep. Quentin was aware of sentients taking pictures, shooting holos — that had happened on their first date, a dinner in Ionath City. The paparazzi had come out of the woodwork. Quentin had no idea how the camera crews found out so quickly, but that was their business and they were probably very good at it. The experience had made dinner quite uncomfortable — he didn’t like the attention. He was already nervous enough dating a superstar. Dozens of cameras stalking his every move made it even worse. Pictures and holos of the couple hit hundreds of networks before the appetizer was even served.

The Dinolition crowd consisted mostly of modded Humans and minority HeavyG. Plenty of Quyth Leaders, Warriors and Workers dotted the stands, as did several well dressed Ki. Very few Sklorno were in attendance — the species was not welcome on League of Planets worlds.

To Quentin’s left sat an overweight Human with a long, white beard. The man dressed in the strange, slightly fuzzy clothing preferred by League citizens. Quentin quickly looked him up and down, searching for any protrusions that might show the handle of a knife, the shape of a gun. He saw nothing.

Quentin turned to look at the people behind him, giving them the same once-over. Some of the spectators recognized him, smiled at him, the expression people have when they unexpectedly find themselves near someone famous. Quentin’s eyes paused on the person directly behind him, a Human teenager not more than sixteen.

The kid’s eyes narrowed in anger.

Quentin’s body tensed. Was the kid strapped with a suicide bomb? Normally, Quentin would just run, but that wasn’t an option with Somalia, Becca and John sitting right there.

The kid sneered. “What are you lookin’ at, butt-nugget? Turn around. And by the way, the Krakens suck.”

Quentin’s gaze dropped to the boy’s shirt — white, with the boot-print logo of the Hittoni Hullwalkers, a team the Krakens played every year.

The kid was just a football fan.

Quentin felt the stress ease away. “Good luck to your Hullwalkers this year.”

“In all games but one,” John Tweedy said. John had turned around in his seat. He stared at the boy. John had a full-body, subdermal tattoo that let him flash colors, images and words anywhere on his skin. He usually used it to scroll messages across his face. This time, his forehead read:
I’M PUTTING THE HULLCRAPPERS IN A SHALLOW GRAVE, SO START DIGGING NOW AND SAVE US ALL SOME TIME
.

“John, knock it off,” Quentin said. “He’s just a kid.”

John shrugged. “He’s gotta grow up sometime. Hey, kid, you’re going to watch the match all nice-like and not bother my friend, right?”

The kid’s eyes widened as he looked at John Tweedy. Quentin was quite a bit bigger than John, but perhaps people just feared linebackers more than quarterbacks.

“Sure,” the kid said quietly. “Yeah. All nice-like. Sure.”

The scene was a little embarrassing, but the fact that John hadn’t come over the seat and started a brawl made Quentin count his lucky stars.

Movement from out in the wide, circular arena drew Quentin’s attention. On the dirt oval’s far side, the arena walls receded. A hover-platform slid out, floated to midfield. On the platform was a tall wheel split into twenty pie-like sections, each a different color. In front of the wheel stood three Humans and two HeavyG, all holding long, brass trumpets that gleamed in the noonday sun. Red banners dangled from the trumpets, banners that matched the trumpeters’ red, gold-braided uniforms. A small, Human woman stood off to the side. She wore a yellow dress with silver stripes that complemented her silver boots, gloves and tiara. Quite the spectacle.

Quentin leaned forward to look to his right, to John Tweedy. When he did, Quentin locked eyes with Rebecca — she had been staring at him, an expression of narrow-eyed anger on her face. She instantly looked away.

“John,” Quentin said. “What’s going on?”

“Opening ceremonies,” John said. “Pageantry and all that.”

The trumpeters ripped out a short bit of music that echoed from the speakerfilm lining the stadium walls. Smithwicks Arena wasn’t as large as the Krakens’ home field. Ionath Stadium seated 185,000 screaming fans, while Smithwicks held maybe 40,000 at most. The playing area was larger and rounder than a football field, the size used for some obscure sport called
cricket
. At the ends of the oblong stadium, fifteen rows of seats were cut away to make room for ornate, thirty foot high double doors.

John pounded on the glass.

“Here it comes, Q! Time for the big boys.” The words
PALEONTOLOGY ROCKS
danced on John’s face.

The trumpet music stopped. The woman in the loud, yellow dress spoke, her voice magnified by the sound system.

“Welcome to
Die ... no ... litionnnnnn!
”

She waited for the crowd roar to die down. “I am your host and league commissioner, Rachel Guestford. This contest is a three-round affair with a 10,000 total kilo weight limit. No replacement mounts allowed. And now, your contestants. Hailing from Roughland on Rodina, with a record of seven wins and two losses, I give you, the Roughland Ridgebacks!”

The big double doors to Quentin’s left opened. He knew what was supposed to come out, yet when it did, he could barely believe his eyes.

“High One,” Quentin said. “Oh ... my.”

A giant, lizard-looking creature, covered from head to toe in gleaming, red armor. It stomped out of the doors, head low, powerful legs carrying it forward. A long tail trailed behind, parallel to and ten feet above the ground. Behind this huge creature’s head rode a Human wearing ornate armor of black and red. The Human sat in a leather saddle and carried a long, black lance. The monster walked forward. Its jockey raised the lance high, saluting the crowd.

High above midfield, a holoscreen flared to life. Quentin saw a close-up of the huge animal and its jockey — a squat man covered head-to-toe in high-tech armor that was designed to look ancient, lined with runes and scrolls and filigree. Various holologos advertising dozens of products blazed from the armor’s curved skin. He looked as decorated by endorsements as the Essadari rocket-sleds of the racing leagues. Above the image of monster and jockey, Quentin saw the red and black logo for the jockey’s team, the Roughland Ridgebacks.

Text scrolled out below the images.

POUGHKEEPSIE PETE, CAPTAIN, RIDGEBACKS


And below that:

TYRANNOSAURUS REX, 6,432 KILOS


John pounded the glass even harder. “That’s Pete! Come on, Pete! Eat someone!”

Quentin remembered John’s description of Poughkeepsie Pete. The Human stood all of three feet tall. Hard to tell when he was on the back of a shucking red-armored dinosaur, that was for sure.

Pete’s mount walked out fifty yards, halfway to the center of the arena, then stopped.

“He’s always on Old Bess,” John said. “That’s his favorite ride. I can’t wait to see what he brings out with him.”

As if on queue, more red-armored dinosaurs strode out of the doors. Three fast-and lethal-looking creatures, much smaller than the T. rex. Quentin thought he saw feathers sticking out from spots in the red armor, from the short arms and from between head-armor plates. He looked up to the overhead holo.

TONY KOESTER / BEISHANLONG GRANDIS / 542 KILOS


CRITTER CLARK / GALLIMIMUS BULLATUS / 501 KILOS


IAN BAHAS / ACHILLOBATOR GIGANTUS / 709 KILOS


“John, why are those so much smaller?”

“They’re speedsters,” John said. “You never know what game will come up on the wheel, Q. You only get ten thousand kilos total weight for all three rounds. Twenty games, different strategies for each game, sometimes you need mass, sometimes you need speed, sometimes both. Just wait and see.”

The trumpets blared anew, as did Rachel Guestford.

“And their opponent,” she said. “Hailing from The Reef in the outer reaches, I give you the Reef Stompers!”

The big doors at the opposite end swung open. Giant,
blue
-armored creatures strode out. These looked more like huge, six-legged spiders, or perhaps six-legged crabs — and all had one eye.

“Eww,” Somalia said. “Those are just
disgusting
.”

The first creature’s lance-wielding jockey didn’t look Human. Quentin looked up to the holodisplay. The image showed a spinning logo for the Reef Stompers. Below that, a live image of a blue-armored Quyth Leader rider.

SABAT THE NIFTY, CAPTAIN, STOMPERS


The Leader caste dominated Quyth culture. Even though they were all of three feet tall, they controlled both the Worker and Warrior castes. The Warriors on the Krakens roster were all six feet or taller, around four hundred pounds. Like the Warriors, Leaders had two legs — thighs that pointed up and back, forelegs that angled forward and down, kind of like a frog. The body rose up from those low hips. Two large middle arms extended from the sides, ending in clumsy hands good for hitting or walking on all-fours. The real dexterous work came from the pedipalps — limbs that stuck out from the bottom of the head, below the species’ single eye. On a Warrior, the pedipalps were as thick and muscular as a Human arm. On a Leader, however, the limbs looked thin, more suitable for delicate work. A Leader’s softball-sized eye looked huge in its head, while the larger Warrior’s baseball-sized eye stayed mostly hidden behind thick ridges of chitin. Other than those differences, the Warriors had hard-chitin skin, while fur covered the Leaders. Workers were somewhere in the middle on all counts — about four feet tall, thickly built for manual labor.

Quentin had never seen a Leader participate in any athletic event, let alone wear armor into a dangerous contest. And
The Reef
? He’d never heard of it.

“Somalia, where did the announcer say the Stompers were from again?”

“A crazy place,” she said. “The Reef is a huge-huge artifact on the galaxy’s edge. Bigger than four or five planets combined or something. We played a show out there.”

“Galaxy’s
edge
? How many punches to reach that?”

Somalia’s eyes narrowed as she thought. Quentin found the look incredibly attractive.

“Twenty-four, I think,” she said. “Yeah, twenty-four punches, one way. Took us three weeks of travel to get there.”

By Quentin’s count, that would be forty-eight punches worth of motion sickness. Not a good time. “That’s a really long trip. How many shows did you play?”