The Champion

  The fact that such items were stored haphazardly in the basement was a testament to the financial power of both the League of Planets and the city of Hittoni. On Micovi, just one of those old data drives might be the centerpiece of a collection held by the colony’s richest person. Here, they were heaped in piles, covered in dust and cobwebs.

  Quentin waited by a bulky, whitish space suit hanging from a hook in a back corner. Blue and red dials — or nozzles, he wasn’t sure which — dotted the chest and stomach. On the sternum, a stitched name patch read SCHMITT.

  “I wonder what this guy did?”

  Choto reached out a pedipalp, tapped a holotag on the suit’s shoulder. The information display flared to life.

  “It was worn on Luna, Earth’s moon,” Choto said. “Some seven centuries ago.”

  No wonder the suit was down here, forgotten — millions of sentients traveled to and from Luna every year.

  Quentin reached out, felt the suit’s fabric. “Was he the first to go there or something?”

  Choto leaned closer to the display. “It says he was the twelfth.”

  Quentin shrugged — not much significance in being twelfth. Still, the suit’s age alone probably made it valuable.

  He heard footsteps approaching, the heavy, predictable sound of John Tweedy. The big linebacker entered the storage room.

  “Manny is here,” John said. “Wait... are we talking to him or killing him?”

  “Talking, John,” Quentin said. “Just talking.”

  John nodded. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  He walked out of the room.

  “Quentin,” Choto said, “has it ever occurred to you that John might not be the most stable individual?”

  “Why, no, Choto. That never occurred to me at all.”

  John returned with Manny Sayed and Messal at his sides. John stood back as the two stepped forward.

  Manny was as fat as ever. He wore the blue robes of a confirmed member of the Purist Church, but decorated with embroidered jewels down the sleeves and at the hem. Across his chest, an infinity sign done in emeralds: the logo of his church and also his team, the Buddha City Elite.

  “Praise to the High One for blessing our journeys here,” Manny said, smiling. “And congratulations on your win.”

  He offered his hand. Quentin shook it.

  “Praise be to High One for bringing us together,” Quentin said.

  “You have brought our system honor.” Manny’s smile was both wide and genuine. He was a businessman, sure, but in that moment he was also a Nationalite, proud that one of his own had attained such heights. “You were phenomenal, Quentin. What a game. And to sacrifice your own finger? Just amazing.”

  “Thank you, Manny, but it was a team effort.”

  “Of course, of course. That won’t stop people from going crazy when they watch the game and see a Nationalite quarterback win the GFL tide for the first time ever.”

  The game had ended four hours earlier. The punch-beacon carrying the first quarter’s action would just now be hitting Loppu Waypoint, where the data would transfer to another beacon that would reach Earth a half day later, transfer again, and arrive at Allah in the Purist Nation a half day after that.

  “The holy men won’t like it,” Quentin said. “I’m excommunicated, remember?”

  Manny shrugged. “You’re famous now, perhaps the most famous sentient in the entire galaxy. If you return to the Nation, you’ll find the holy men have changed their tune about you. They’ll be so busy trying to be seen in your company that they won’t have time to remember any blasphemous acts you might have committed. Although, that press conference will ruffle some feathers. That anything is possible bit? That’s the last thing they want the common people to think.”

  Manny looked around, eyes greedily taking in the discarded treasures.

  “Quite a place,” he said. “To think of such historical finery sitting unused, collecting dust. Oh, how I could use this material to decorate my yachts.”

  Manny glanced at Choto, then at Messal, then behind Messal at John.

  “Quentin, it is late,” Manny said. “Most of the crowd has left the stadium, and I wish to get to several post-game parties. I came here to talk privately.”

  “They’re staying,” Quentin said.

  Manny’s smile faded. “I doubt you’d want to talk about playing for the Elite in front of your teammates. So, why don’t you tell me the real reason I have been brought to this basement?”

  “I need your help.”

  “I see,” Manny said. “Lying to me — and wasting my time in the process — isn’t a good way to ask for a favor.”

  Messal shuffled from foot to foot.

  “Elder Sayed, any miscommunication is entirely my fault. Elder Barnes would never waste your time.”

  Manny looked like he wanted to say something angry, but he visibly checked himself. He was a powerful man with powerful friends, but he wasn’t about to forget that Messal belonged to Gredok the Splithead — who was far more dangerous than anyone Manny knew.

  “Apology accepted, Messal. However, I’m afraid I don’t have time for this. Good day to you all.”

  Manny turned to leave, but John Tweedy stood in his way.

  IN A HURRY, CHUM? flashed on John’s face.

  Manny cleared his throat. He turned, started to walk past Quentin and head in the other direction, but found Choto blocking his path.

  Manny stopped in his tracks.

  “My, Quentin, how you’ve changed,” he said. “I remember the wide-eyed young man on a ship to the Combine, who wanted nothing more than to play football. Look at you now — your underling lying to get me here, your gang muscle making sure I don’t leave, and you’re about to ask a favor, for which I’m quite sure I won’t have the option of saying no. You really take after your shamakath, don’t you?”

  Quentin’s face flushed red. “I’m not like Gredok, and he’s not my shamakath.”

  Manny smiled and bowed his head, a common Purist gesture of subservience to someone higher up in the church.

  “As you say, Quentin.”

  “I’m not like him. And of course you have a choice.”

  Manny raised a doubting eyebrow. “I do?”

  “Absolutely,” Quentin said, although he had no idea what he would do if Manny said no. He would just have to make sure the man said yes.

  “Manny, you always told me that if I needed anything, you would get it for me. Didn’t you say that?”

  Manny licked his fat lips. He looked nervous. “I did. But it was implied that the request would be within reason.”

  “I need a luxury ship that can comfortably carry eleven large sentients and a Harrah,” Quentin said. “I need it loaded with food and supplies for a long voyage.”

  “A voyage to where, exactly?”

  “Prawatt Jihad space. Don’t worry, it will be safe.”

  Manny’s eyes narrowed. “You need me to send one of my multi-million-credit yachts to Prawatt space. I see. Couldn’t be safer, right? Why ever would I worry? Is that all you need?”

  “No,” Quentin said. “We need a second ship that will carry eleven large sentients, but my name can’t be on the flight plan, nor can the people coming with me.”

  “And where is this one going?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Quentin said. “When we do, Messal will give you the coordinates.”

  Manny made a show of looking through the pockets of his robe. “I’m sure I have a pair of extra yachts on me somewhere that I can just misplace from my inventory. I mean, who doesn’t just lose starships from time to time?”

  “I’ll pay,” Quentin said. “Whatever you want.”

  Messal suddenly stepped between them.

  “What Elder Barnes means is that he will pay for an open-ended lease for the ships,” Messal said. “And since this will be a cash transaction, Elder Sayed, and considering Elder Barnes’s stature and current position as the primary endorser of your company, I
imagine you’ll generously offer him a rate far below market value.”

  Quentin stared. Messal always acted subservient, kind of ... twitchy. Not now. He seemed so confident and in control that it took Quentin off-guard.

  “Messal,” Quentin said. “A word?”

  Quentin walked a few feet away and knelt. Messal followed. Quentin looked into the Worker’s one big eye, spoke quietly enough that Manny couldn’t hear.

  “Messal, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Procuring you the best deal possible, Elder Barnes.”

  “I didn’t tell you to do that. I’ll handle this. Just do as you’re told.”

  For the first time Quentin had ever seen, Messal’s eye swirled with black — the color of anger.

  “With the utmost respect, Elder Barnes, I remind you that you are not my shamakath — Gredok is, and I will protect his investment. You are his employee. I will not stand by while you waste your money and end up a pauper.”

  “I don’t care about my money.”

  “You don’t have to, because I do that for you,” Messal said. “If you spend all your money to make this trip and you do not find your sibling, I know that you will make another trip — and how would you pay for that one? If you are broke and desperate, you might listen to offers from other team owners.”

  Quentin’s temper flared up hot and fast. “I would never throw a game.”

  “Even if doing so meant acquiring the finances to continue your search for Jeanine?”

  Quentin opened his mouth to speak, to yell, but the words wouldn’t come — Messal was right. Quentin would do anything to get his sister back, even betray the sport that was his entire life.

  The black swirls faded from Messal’s cornea.

  “I just saved you an estimated thirty million credits,” he said. “Do you have an extra thirty million credits, Elder Barnes?”

  That much? Quentin didn’t care about the money, true, but that was everything he had and then some. Quentin had assumed he had more money than he could ever spend — but, apparently, that wasn’t the case.

  “No, I don’t have an extra thirty million.”

  “Then may I continue negotiating on your behalf?”

  Quentin nodded, but they both knew his approval was no longer needed. He and Messal walked back to Manny.

  “Elder Sayed,” Messal said, “I have tendered a valid business transaction that is fair to both parties. The next and only logical step is for you to accept.”

  Manny glared down at the Worker. “I can’t help but wonder what Gredok would think if he found out about this.”

  “An excellent question,” Messal said. “If Gredok asks me about this encounter, I will have no choice but to tell him that you tried to blackmail Quentin into breaking his contract with the Krakens.”

  Manny stared, the threat’s ramification hitting home. “But I haven’t tried to blackmail Quentin into anything. You told me he wanted to join my team!”

  “I told you no such thing,” Messal said. “I hypothesized about Elder Barnes’s desires, but I cannot read his mind.” The uniformed Worker turned and spoke to John. “Mister Tweedy, as an impartial observer, do you agree with my observation that Manny tried to force Quentin to join the Buddha City Elite?”

  John crossed his thick arms. “I do. Shameful, really, although I can’t blame Elder Sayed for trying. Fancy-pants pretty-boy Quentin Barnes playing for his home system? Any owner of the Elite would do whatever it took to make that happen.”

  Messal turned back to Manny. “Corroboration, Elder Sayed, is an important part of any testimony.”

  Quentin felt stunned. Messal had moved from subtle manipulation to outright lies and strong-arm tactics.

  Manny’s chubby face turned a deep shade of red. The fat man glared at Quentin.

  “I’ll have a choice, will I, Barnes?”

  Quentin had hoped to make a fair offer, but he’d lost control of the situation. Jeanine’s life was on the line, and so, too, was Messal’s — no, Manny didn’t have a choice, and Quentin couldn’t afford to give him one.

  “Sorry about this, Manny,” Quentin said. “It’s important.”

  “Everything is important when you gangsters want something.”

  Quentin’s face flushed again, hotter this time. After such coercion, he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t just like Gredok after all.

  Manny sighed, then rolled his eyes. “Fine, you win. I’ll provide the ships. Give me a couple of days.”

  “Tonight,” Quentin said. “Make it happen tonight, Manny.”

  The man shook his head in disgust. “Tonight or else, right? Sure. May I go now, or will this bit of theater require you to rough me up to make it official?”

  Messal handed Manny a small chip. “Use the information on this chip to complete the transaction. Do not contact me any other way. Do you understand?”

  Manny took the chip, then left the basement. When he did, Messal’s air of confidence seemed to evaporate. Once again, he was the twitchy underling Quentin had known for the past four years.

  “There is more to be done, Elder Barnes,” he said. “Gredok will expect you on the Touchback tonight, so we must leave Hittoni before you and the others are missed. I arranged for only a limited time in this basement. May we leave, now, before the staff returns?”

  After that unexpected show of dominance, Messal was asking for permission?

  “Sure,” Quentin said. “Lead the way.”

  The Worker scurried out of the room. Quentin followed, John and Choto falling in at his sides.

  “Quite surprising,” Choto said. “Messal has abilities beyond his caste.”

  John nodded. “If you mean that Messal just whooped some ass, you’re right. Too bad he’s not bigger — with that mean streak of his, he’d make one helluva linebacker.”

  Quentin agreed with them both. He just hoped Messal knew what he was doing — and he’d find that out soon enough.

  4

  Quarterbacks

  QUENTIN WAS THE LAST ONE to leave the locker room. Even seven hours after the game, with night fading into morning, there were still sentients who had waited for a chance to see him, to take a picture with him or record his thumbprint, to get some tiny piece of the Galaxy Bowl MVP that they would remember all their lives. As he had done back on Micovi in his Tier Three days, Quentin answered each request. He signed, he smiled and posed, he thumbed messageboards, he said thank you over and over to the star-struck well-wishers. And as he did this, his teammates quietly slipped away one by one, heading for the stadium’s loading dock, where Messal had told them to gather.

  Finally, when there was but a handful of sentients left, Messal came for him and pulled him aside.

  He quietly handed Quentin an access card and gave him instructions: exit the locker room into the main player-entry corridor, turn right at the hall between the home and visitor’s locker rooms, look for a blue service elevator, use the access card to take the elevator straight down to the loading dock, find a ground truck where everyone else was waiting to depart.

  “Time is of the essence, Elder Barnes,” Messal said quietly. “The ship leaving Hittoni will not wait — if the ground truck is late, the ship leaves without you.”

  “I’m going,” Quentin said. “Just a few more minutes.” He returned to the waiting fans and rushed through the final autographs and thumbprints. These sentients had waited for hours, and a few had probably spent some — if not all — of their savings on outrageously priced Galaxy Bowl tickets and hotel rooms for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He wanted to make sure they all got that extra bit of satisfaction.

  Messal shifted from foot to foot as he always did when timelines were in danger of slipping, a motion that Quentin always thought of as the pee-pee dance.

  “Elder Barnes, we are only thirty-four seconds ahead of schedule. Time to go.”

  After the final autograph — a T-shirt labeled “Ionath Krakens: Galaxy Bowl XXVII Champions” — Quentin pul
led his suit coat from his locker, slipped it on, then walked across the empty locker room as Messal guided the last stragglers out another door.

  Quentin exited into the main corridor. He walked toward the visitor’s locker room. Before and after the game, this place had been an insane hive of buzzing activity. Now it was quiet as a tomb. He saw one Human worker hurry past, going in the other direction — a small man, wearing a stadium staff jacket, little different in size and demeanor than the random Quyth Worker who would have probably been doing a similar random job back in Ionath Stadium. The same work had to be done everywhere you went: the only difference was the species that did it.

  Up on the right, Quentin saw the hallway that separated the home and visitor’s locker rooms. He was just about to turn down it and head for the elevator when a door to the visitor’s locker room opened up.

  Out stepped Don Pine.

  He wore a tailored suit, the dark purple complementing his blue skin. He looked every bit like the elite Tier One quarterback that he was. He saw Quentin and smiled.

  “Imagine meeting you here,” Don said. “The Galaxy Bowl MVP stayed late to sign some final autographs?”

  Quentin nodded, already conscious of the delay this was causing. “You got it. And you?”

  The locker room door opened again. Three Human kids ran out, all wearing gold, silver and copper Jupiter Jacks jackets. A man came out behind them.

  “Thanks again, Mister Pine,” the man said. “You have no idea what this means to them.”

  Don gave an easy wave. “My pleasure.”

  The man nodded one last thank you, then chased after the screaming kids. Quentin watched the four of them run down the hall. He noticed that two of the kids ran awkwardly, like they barely had enough strength in their legs to support the out-of-control joy that came with meeting a hero.

  Quentin nodded after them. “Those kids okay?”

  Don sighed. “Not really. Meeting me was kind of their last wish.”