Authors: Scott Sigler
DAN:
Tarat, yes, I
know
they don’t obey it — that’s the point. Just like teams don’t obey no-contact rules. And we already know Barnes doesn’t care about no-contact rules.
AKBAR:
Yolanda Davenport’s article sure made that clear.
DAN:
So, Smasher, let’s hear it.
TARAT:
My source told me that the Pirates are going to offer Barnes a hundred ninety megacredits for ten years.
DAN:
A hundred ninety
million
credits?
AKBAR:
For ten years?
TARAT:
Yes. And yes.
DAN:
But that will make him the highest-paid player in the history of the game.
AKBAR:
He’ll make more than Rick Renaud.
TARAT:
Correct.
DAN:
Smasher, are you sure?
TARAT:
It is a very reliable source, Dan.
AKBAR:
But Barnes isn’t proven.
TARAT:
When Barnes is proven, he might cost even more. The Pirates want to commit to him now, lock him up.
DAN:
Well, you heard it here first, the same place you
always
hear it first, from the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show. Quentin Barnes could be the face of the To Pirates, for at
least
a decade. We’ll talk about this breaking story with the callers, right after this message from our sponsor Kin-Al-Brin’s Fresh-Kill Farm. When you have that desire for prey that’s still kicking and screaming, let Kin-Al round up dinner. We’ll be right back.
• • •
QUENTIN MUTED THE VOLUME
on his holotank, but the words still echoed in his ears.
One hundred ninety million credits for ten years.
Ten years, with the To Pirates.
He watched the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show whenever he could, usually bits and pieces between practice, meals and study. It was hard to get used to them talking about
him
, like he was the same as all the other GFL stars they discussed. This time, however, they’d said the To Pirates weren’t just interested in him but had already put an offer together. There was no position more prestigious than starting quarterback for the Blood Red. Nothing more iconic, nothing more storied. It was the pinnacle of not only football, but of sports at any level.
Quentin Barnes, starting quarterback for the To Pirates.
And to think he’d once considered himself
rich
for just
one
million a season.
Then Akbar’s words hit home — it was illegal to make contract offers in the middle of the season. What if the Commissioner found out? No, not
what if
, but
when?
The story had been on GGSS. Froese probably knew already. Quentin was on thin ice enough as it was. What would this do to contract negotiations overall?
“Computer,” he said. “Get Danny Lundy on the line.”
[CALLING DANNY LUNDY]
Quentin’s stomach churned as he waited. What would Froese do? This couldn’t be good, not at all, but still —
190 megacredits
and
ten years
for the shucking
Pirates
?
The holoscreen blinked, showing the image of rainbow-skinned Danny the Dolphin behind his conference table. “Quentin, boobie, what can I do for my favorite client?”
“Danny, I was just watching the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show.”
“Me too, I never miss it.”
“They said the Pirates are going to make a huge offer. Is that true?”
Danny’s head bobbed. “Well, that’s just a
rumor
, Quentin. But were it true and I don’t doubt that it is—” Danny winked one black eye “—then I’d say congratulations, my fine, finless friend. You would be a very rich sentient and play for the team you always wanted to play for. All your dreams are coming true, at the negligible cost of fifteen percent for yours truly.”
Quentin understood. Danny couldn’t actually say the deal was for real, not with Commissioner Froese possibly monitoring communications, but the wink said it all — the offer was verified.
“But, Danny, how did Tarat the Smasher find out?”
“Well, I imagine someone close to the situation told him. Very close.”
Quentin stared.
Danny
had leaked the information?
“I know this game, buddy. I called an audible.”
“But you broke the rules! Froese could fine me, or suspend me. We have six more games and—”
“Relax, guy. You can’t get in trouble because it’s just a rugged rumor, a giddy gossip, an innocent innuendo.”
“But it’s
not
a rumor.”
“I don’t have an offer on a contract box or an official communication, which means
it’s a rumor
.” Danny winked again. “If this rumor were true, though, the only way you don’t play for the Pirates next year is if the Krakens offer you more.”
This was really happening. The To Pirates. Quentin suddenly imagined prepping for a game, laying out his blood-red armor and blood-red jersey instead of the Orange and the Black.
“I don’t know, Danny. You work for me. You’re supposed to do what I tell you to do.”
“Am I supposed to run the plays that are called?”
Quentin felt his breath lock up in his chest. That was what Hokor always said ... said to Quentin.
“But there are
rules
.”
“Quentin, if Rick Warburg comes into your huddle and tells you what play he wants you to call, do you run it?”
Quentin stared at the holotank. He always felt two moves behind whenever Danny Lundy was concerned. Were Quentin’s onfield manipulations of Warburg that transparent, or was Danny just that perceptive? Either way, Quentin felt embarrassed that sentients knew. “How I handle my huddle is different.”
“Why? Don’t you do things the way you do because you know more than the others?”
“Well ... yeah.”
“And I know more about this than you do, buddy,” Danny said. “Contracts are
my
huddle, guy, and negotiation is my Sunday afternoon. You hired me to do a job. I’m doing it and doing it well. If you want to yell at me for making you the shucking
star
of the shucking
galaxy
, well, you’ll have to call Brenda and schedule time with me next week. I have a young tennis player coming in five minutes that is so good she makes me want to grow legs and change species. Go get a beer and relax, buddy — you certainly can afford it.”
Danny broke the connection, leaving Quentin standing speechless in his own room.
• • •
QUENTIN WAITED IN THE TUNNEL
of Beefeater Gin Stadium, standing first on his left foot and shaking out his right leg, then shifting to his right foot and shaking out his left. Back and forth, burning off nervous energy and loosening up. His teammates packed in around him, the aura of rage radiating off of them, preparing for the battle ahead. Ju Tweedy was on his left, John Tweedy on his right. Ju would be the honorary captain this week, a slap in the face to Anna Villani and the Death fans that had turned their back on the former hero of OS1.
Quentin’s second trip to the Black Hole, home of the Orbiting Death. They’d won here back in his rookie season. They’d win here again today. He looked out the tunnel to the stadium beyond: four decks filled with fans clad in flat-black and metalflake-red. Sunlight sparkled off the stadium’s translucent blue crystal architecture, the living material that made up the artificial planet’s skeletal structure. Over 133,000 fans in attendance — a small stadium for the underground city of Madderch, which boasted a population of 50 million. Would the Death spectators throw trash on him? Even worse, could there be real danger from these fans?
The crowd chanted in fuzzy, loud unison, two lines of three syllables each. Quentin leaned forward, trying to understand the words. Then the sing-song message clarified. They chanted:
WELCOME-home, MUR-DER-er
.
Quentin turned to his right, to Ju Tweedy, the man that had become his comrade in arms. A year ago, John, Quentin, Becca, Choto, Sho-Do-Thikit and Mum-O-Killowe had saved Ju from certain death at the hands of Anna Villani. How had Ju repaid that debt? By intentionally fumbling, trying to throw games so that the Krakens would lose confidence in Quentin and instead accept Ju as the team leader. Quentin and Ju had settled their difference late in the season. Quentin won that brawl, maybe with a little “help” from Doc Patah’s old fight-game tricks. Was that only a year ago? Seemed like forever. Since then, Ju had proven his mettle. A galaxy’s worth of hatred had centered on Quentin and Ju, bonding them together as they fought against false accusations.
Quentin reared back and punched Ju in his well-armored shoulder.
“Hear them out there, Mad Ju? Do you? Those are your old fans wishing you well.”
Ju nodded so rapidly his helmet bobbled, hiding then revealing his wide, intense eyes. “Hell yes! I’ve got lots of love to show them right back. Gonna super-stomp them into the ground.”
Quentin’s head rocked to the side — John Tweedy had just head-butted him.
“
Yeah
, Q! And I’m gonna
mega
-super-stomp that pretty boy Condor Adrienne.” John held up his thick, scarred fists.UNCLE JOHNNY WANTS HIS SCALPSscrolled across his fingers and knuckles.
Ju grabbed Quentin’s facemask, snapped it around so they could look eye-to-eye, so lost in pre-game madness that he didn’t realize how hard he pulled.
“You
do not stop
giving me the ball,” Ju said. “Yalla the Biter is
mine
. I want a piece of that scumbag’s soul.”
The announcer called Ionath to the field. Quentin led the charge onto the jet-black, white-lined surface. He was ready for this stadium’s unique form of welcome. Most of the 133,000 flat-black-clad fans in the stadium’s four decks instantly fell silent, creating a strange stillness broken only by the 20,000-odd Krakens faithful — Ionath ex-pats or fans that had made the short, halfday trip to OS1. Last time, this roar-to-silence treatment had taken Quentin by surprise. But not this year. This was his third season. He had grown far beyond the wide-eyed orphan miner that once viewed the galaxy with bewildered surprise.
This was no time for innocence. In minutes, he would face the most lethal player in the history of the GFL — Yalla the Biter, middle linebacker for the Orbiting Death. If you didn’t have your head in the game against Yalla, he’d tear it off, then probably punt it 30 or 40 yards just to be extra mean.
The Krakens reached the sidelines and gathered: jumping, hitting, pushing, yelling, chirping. Quentin knew better than to start the pre-game chant — a hellstorm of noise was about to cut loose.
Without any prompt from the announcer, the crowd erupted. The OS1 Orbiting Death ran onto their home field. Flat-black leg armor, flat-black jerseys decorated with numbers and letters done in blue-trimmed metalflake-red. Afternoon sunlight sparkled off of metalflake-red helmets, sun that was eaten up by the flat-black circle logos on the sides of each helmet.
Quentin raised his left fist. “Krakens, to me.”
He led his teammates, his friends, his
family
through their pregame chant. Feelings of hatred and desire raced through his soul. He wanted to win every game, no question, but this?
This was special.
Chant finished, he stood there as the players filtered away. He rocked slowly from toes to heels, every atom of his body waiting to get out on that field and shut this crowd right the hell up.
“Quentinbarnesquentinbarnes
quentinbarnes!
”
That voice — the tone, the intensity, so unmistakable. Quentin turned, a smile already breaking on his face even before he saw her standing there, dressed head to toe in gold, silver and copper clothes, a visitor’s pass dangling from a lanyard around her long neck.
“Denver! What are you doing here?”
“A bye week, oh my Quentinbarnes
quentinbarnes!
Since my Jupiter Jacks and your Ionath Krakens do not play each other in the regular season, I asked Coach Hokor if I could come surprise you.”
“And Hokor said yes?”
“He told me I was not allowed to memorize anything or he would strike me dead with a meteor the size of a small moon,” Denver said. “So I will most assuredly not memorize
anything,
Quentinbarnes, for I do not wish to be smushed.”
Quentin laughed and gently pushed his old friend. “Hey, hell of a season you’re having, Miss Superstar.”
“I love Jupiter! Love-love-
love!
I catch many passes!”
“Well, Denver, you stay out of the way and enjoy the game. We’ll talk after, okay?”
“Oh yesyesyes, Quentinbarnes! I love-love-love to talk to you! Are you going to use your holy powers to inflict damage on the Orbiting Death?”
Quentin nodded, then turned back to face the field, to get his head into the game.
Inflict damage? That was
exactly
what he was going to do.
• • •
QUENTIN BROKE THE HUDDLE
and slowly walked to the line. The Orbiting Death had wasted no time, winning the toss, taking the ball, then scoring on their third play from scrimmage. Condor Adrienne managed to get Stockbridge isolated in single coverage on Death wide receiver Brazilia — Adrienne hit his teammate for a 42-yard strike. Adrienne’s first three plays? Three completions, 72 yards and a touchdown. If Quentin didn’t match Condor’s performance, the Krakens would be in trouble. This was it, the long-awaited showdown between the league’s hot young guns. Everyone thought Adrienne was better?