At this time, there are far more questions than answers. While the galaxy has lost three sentient races, it has also gained three in the HeavyG, the Prawatt and the HeavyKi. Population explosions and diaspora have all but ensured the fourteen sentient races are too numerous and spread out to be made extinct, as no species is confined to a single planet.
Are there still sentient races yet to be discovered, or that might discover us? Exobiologists currently use a simple rule of thumb — if there are 200 billion stars, and 500 million explored stars have produced 14 life-evolving planets, then basic extrapolation means the remaining 199,500,000,000 stars could possibly hold 5,600 additional life-evolving planets.
It seems clear that the Milky Way holds many neighbors. It is only a matter of time before we are introduced.
LIFE-EVOLVING PLANETS
• • •
IT TOOK THREE DAYS to reach the Ki Empire planet To. The Touchback had to punch from Ionath to Chillich, then the short punch to Chickchick in order to make a mid-range punch to Mallorum, then a long punch to Faso, and finally a mid-range punch to To. The short punches took a half-day each to recharge the engines, while the long punches took over a day before they could continue on.
Five punches, five trips to the bathroom, five rounds of fear-induced vomiting. He could hold back the hurls when eating the most disgusting fare the Ki had to offer, apparently, but the safest form of travel in the galaxy had him spewing like clockwork. Instead of getting used to the trips, his fear of flying was growing progressively worse. True to form, though, he cleaned up and headed for the observation lounge, eager to see yet another new world, another new culture.
For the first time, he found the observation lounge filled with Ki — a big clutching ball of offense on the left side, a big clutching ball of defense on the right. Unsurprisingly, there were few other Krakens there to watch. The lounge still had plenty of room, but seventeen bodies at over five-hundred pounds each sure made it feel crowded.
He threaded his way through the thin space between the two writhing balls of Ki. He saw black eyespots lock onto him as he walked. They looked at him... oddly. Was that respect in their eyes? No, this was something different. He knew their look of respect, as he’d earned that back in Tier Two with the win over the Sky Demolition. In that game, Yalla the Biter had torn Quentin’s hand wide open. The wound should have put Quentin out of the game, but instead he’d had Messal the Efficient stitch up his hand using a machine designed to repair the Kevlar-fabric jerseys. Quentin had returned to the field and thrown the game-winning touchdown. After that, the Ki linemen had accepted him as a war leader. Yes, that was respect.
But this? This was different. The look in their eyes... it was one of acceptance. Acceptance, because he’d eaten dinner with them. It stunned Quentin just a bit to realize he could identify many emotions in the eyes of creatures he once thought of as soulless spawns of Satan.
He walked to the window. The two slithering piles contracted a bit, making room for him between them. When he reached the window, the balls expanded again, pressing lightly against the backs of his legs.
The Ki culture was all about physical contact. Both the offense and defense were touching him. They all felt like giant, muscled anacondas.
Quentin looked out onto a world of green oceans and yellow clouds. A single continent lined with three long mountain ranges. Between those ranges lay massive swaths of red. Even from orbit, he could see the sparkle of To’s giant domed cities. The Ki could survive in the planet’s open atmosphere, as could the Quyth and the Harrah, but other species had difficulty. Humans could acclimate, apparently, if they spent a week vomiting due to the noxious atmosphere.
[FIRST SHUTTLE, PREPARE FOR DEPARTURE]
Quentin turned. He pushed gently at the swarming, sliding Ki legs and bodies. They let him pass without incident. He walked out of the observation deck and headed for the landing bay, aware that first-shuttle riders Kill-O-Yowet, Mum-O-Killowe and Sho-Do-Thikit were scuttling along behind him.
• • •
AS THE SHUTTLE APPROACHED the city of ToPor, Quentin couldn’t help but notice the similarities to Ionath City. Both were domed, the dome being the only thing that allowed a multi-species citizenry to interact on an otherwise unwelcoming planet. Both featured circle-and-spoke road design, and both featured a sports stadium in the dome’s dead center.
The differences, however, were dramatic. First and foremost was the size — the ToPor dome was five times the diameter of Ionath City, and perhaps three times as high at the apex. New road spokes started at the eighth circle, then the fourteenth, then the eighteenth, and every four rings out from there. And where radioactive wasteland surrounded the Ionath dome, beyond ToPor was an endless vista of red jungle.
The final difference was rather odd — ToPor’s city-center stadium was for the Ki’s national sport of rugby, not gridiron football. The Ki had modified the game of rugby, starting with a larger ball they could clutch in all four arms. The sport perfectly fit the Ki body type. Gridiron, while popular, was a distant second.
Quentin felt a shoulder slam into him, pushing him to the left.
“Hey, John,” he said, not needing to turn to see the culprit.
“Mighty Q,” John Tweedy said. “You ever see a Ki Rugby League game?”
“Nope.”
“The stuff is crazy, I tell ya. Crazy. We’ll have to come back in the off-season and catch a game.”
Quentin nodded, hoping there was an off-season, which they would get only if they stayed in Tier One.
The shuttle dove for the dome, which blurred open just like the dome of Ionath City. It closed behind them the same way.
“That’s weird,” Quentin said. “It’s just like Quyth technology.”
“Because it is Quyth technology,” John said. “Whatever the best tech is in any category, the Ki buy it. They’ve got the best of everything. You’re in for a real treat, Q — world class wine, women, and song.”
The mention of women and song set Quentin’s thoughts spinning around the memories of Yolanda Davenport and Somalia Midori. When could he talk to Yolanda again? Not soon enough. And Somalia... did she really want to see him again, or was that some kind of showmanship thing? She couldn’t actually be interested in him, could she? She was a famous musician, he was an orphan from Micovi.
The shuttle shot across the city. Quentin looked down, noting ToPor’s perfection and order. He also noted the amount of greenery — or, in this case, “reddery” — that dotted the city. Every third ring was split into two, thinner rings; the inner half comprised of perfectly-formed buildings, the outer half filled with dense red jungle.
The shuttle circled the gridiron stadium. Open-air, like most dome-city stadiums. Quentin could see down to the red field with it’s black-trimmed white lines. The end zones were simple, both white with red words trimmed in black: “TO” in one end zone, “PIRATES” in the other. At the 50-yard line, the Pirates’ galaxy-famous logo — a red Ki skull showing three eye sockets and bloody fangs, two black leg bones crossed beneath it.
Quentin’s chest fluttered at the sight of that logo. When he was nine, he’d bought a black-market Pirates T-shirt. He’d kept it hidden in a floor crack during the day, and slept with it under his pillow at night.
Six arcing towers curved in from outside the stadium, thick at the base and tapering to a point where they hovered high over the field. That design, that six-pointed design; it looked familiar. He’d seen it, but where? Then it hit him — six points, like the six sides of a Ki’s pointy-fanged mouth. Quentin smiled, admiring the construction, the symbolism — the stadium was a gigantic maw waiting to gulp down its enemies.
“Yeah,” John said. “Pirates Stadium, home of the five-time galactic champs. Pretty bad-ass, eh?”
Quentin nodded. “That it is, man.”
“We have practice when we land, but tonight we’re free. You want to hit the town?”
Hit the town, head out into a city full of
To Pirates supporters, fans, players themselves, possibly, and — the thing Quentin wanted to avoid — team representatives. Perhaps that Creterakian civilian, Maygon. Maygon worked for Kirani Kollok, the Pirates owner. That was the last thing Quentin needed, for the Pirates to try and recruit him again, get him to tank games as they had requested he do during the Tier Two season.
“Not tonight,” Quentin said. “It’s the To Pirates, man, I’ll be studying.”
“You sure? We have to leave right after tomorrow’s game to make it home for the Wabash Wolfpack next week. Tonight’s your only chance to see a new city.”
John was right. It killed Quentin to not see the sights of ToPor. If he just ignored the Pirates’ efforts to recruit him, maybe that situation would go away.
“Thanks, but no,” Quentin said. “You tear ’em up.”
The shuttle dropped to the base of one of the tooth-towers, then slid into an opening. The shuttle landed, the door opened, and the Krakens players filed out for the customs inspection. Quentin went through the motions, now barely registering the fact that he was in the home of his childhood heroes.
The time for childish admiration was past. The To Pirates weren’t his heroes anymore, they were an obstacle standing between him and his second win.
• • •
IT HAPPENED MIDWAY through the first quarter.
The first two drives were a slice of heaven. To even be on that red field, doing battle with the Pirates in their blood-red jerseys with the white-lined black numbers, the skull and cross-bones logo on both shoulders, their blood-red leg armor with the white-lined black stripe running from hips to black shoes, their blood-red helmets with the single white-lined black stripe down the middle, it was literally like living a dream.
He had protection now. Two drives where he had a chance to drop back, check through his routes and deliver a pass. He’d completed eight passes on twelve attempts in those drives, hitting orange jerseys right on the black numbers. His accuracy forced the linebackers to cover the passing routes, not cheat up to stop the run. This, in turn, gave Yassoud a little more room, a fraction of a second longer to make reads and cut accordingly. ’Soud carried the ball six times for thirty-two yards and a touchdown, his best first quarter of the year.
And then disaster struck.
It was on a boot right, Quentin rolling out so he had the option of passing, or — if the defense didn’t respect his feet — just tucking and running. On that play Aka-Na-Tak had scuttled back just a bit then run to his right, down the line of scrimmage as a lead blocker for Quentin. Everything went fine until Bob Merrell — the To Pirates star linebacker — drove in hard and hit Aka-Na head-on. The big Human linebacker drove at Aka-Na’s mid-section, the place where the Ki body bends from horizontal to vertical. A loud, clacking collision sent both players to the ground.
Even as Quentin hurdled the two fallen players, he saw Aka-Na’s sickening twitches. Queanbeyan, the Pirates strong safety, closed in and brought Quentin down for a short loss. Quentin almost wanted to be tackled, so he could finish the play and get back to his teammate.
When he did, he knew it was bad.
• • •
THEY RUSHED AKA-NA-TAK off the field. Shun-On-Won returned as right offensive guard, performing as ineffectually as he had for the first three games. Yassoud ran hard through the second quarter, but as the hits started to add up his effort declined.
From there, just like he had the first three outings, Quentin spent the rest of the game either running for his life or flat on his back. The To Pirates defense was just too good to not take advantage of the hole in the Krakens offensive line. Quentin started trying to force the ball, to make something happen, and that’s when the mistakes began. He finished with two touchdown passes (one to Crazy George Starcher, one to Scarborough), but also two interceptions and four sacks.
His counterpart for the Pirates didn’t have those problems. Quentin watched from the sidelines as Frank Zimmer showed why he was still considered the best quarterback in the game. Zimmer picked the Krakens defense apart, throwing for four touchdowns and 356 yards. The old man made it look effortless.
When the final gun sounded, the Pirates had doubled-up on the Krakens by a score of 42-21. Quentin quickly shook hands and even hurried through the chance to talk to his boyhood hero, Frank Zimmer.
He had to get back to the locker room and check on Aka-Na-Tak.
• • •
QUENTIN RAN INTO THE visitor’s locker room, hoping for the best. His teammates’ mood told him he wouldn’t get it. He’d seen this before, seen the entire team packed together in a communal locker room, Coach Hokor in the center by the holoboard, waiting for the last of the Krakens to filter in. He held a messageboard in his pedipalp hands. He waited for everyone to arrive, because it was an announcement that no one wanted to make twice.
Messal the Efficient stood quietly by, a metal box in his middle hands. Quentin recognized that box. Inside was an engraving tool. The same one that Messal had used to carve Mitchell Fayed’s name into the carapaces of the Krakens’ Quyth Warrior players.
That was what the Quyth did when one of their teammates died.
“Krakens,” Hokor said. “We have lost one of our warriors. Aka-Na-Tak suffered a recurrence of the injury that had kept him out of the lineup this season. The injury was severe. Doc Patah said he could have saved Aka-Na’s life, but Aka-Na would have had paralyzed legs and would have been a sextapalegic. Aka-Na chose euthanasia.”
Messal opened the box and took out the engraving tool. The Quyth warriors lined up; Virak the Mean in front, Choto the Bright right behind him.
“Wait a minute,” Quentin said. “Euthanasia? What does that mean?”
Hokor looked at Quentin. “It means Aka-Na chose to die.”
“Chose to die? What are you talking about? If Doc Patah could have saved him, why would he want to die?”
Sho-Do-Thikit let out a long string of unintelligible Ki language. Coarse, guttural, proud, yet carrying the weight of tragedy.
Then Don Pine was at Quentin’s shoulder, listening to Sho-Do’s speech. Don’s uniform was immaculate, his jersey an unblemished, blazing orange. Quentin’s, on the other hand, was stretched, ripped, streaked with red both from the field and from his own blood.
Sho-Do-Thikit stopped speaking.
Quentin turned to face Don, waiting for an explanation.
Don started to talk, then stopped and looked down. He was fighting back tears. Don’s pause lasted a few seconds, then he nodded once and looked up, looked Quentin in the eyes.
“Doc Patah could have saved Aka-Na, even made him walk again,” Don said. “But it would have required prosthetics, artificial nerves, implants. The injury was bad, Quentin, it wasn’t just the legs, there was also damage to the digestive tract. Even with artificial implants, Aka-Na would have required constant care. He would have been dependent on doctors, nurses, his friends, his—”
“So what? So what if he would have needed help? What the hell is all this GFL money for if someone can’t get help when they need it?”
Sho-Do-Thikit let out another short burst. Quieter than the first, slower. Quentin could hear a tone in those words he couldn’t understand — a tone of patience.
The room’s only sound came from the chitin chisel. Quentin looked to that sound, saw that Virak was finished. Messal was now engraving Aka-Na’s name into Choto’s middle left forearm. Killik the Unworthy was next in line.
Don put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Sho-Do said the Ki Warrior’s way is to not be a burden. They feel it is better to die in battle than live life as a cripple.”
Quentin felt his face turning hot again, tears blurring his vision. “But he could have lived! He didn’t have to die. It’s not right!”
“Quentin, Aka-Na didn’t want a life without football. He didn’t want to go from being a world-class athlete to an invalid. Right or wrong doesn’t matter here, it was his choice.”
Quentin tried to talk, b
ut his throat locked up. Another teammate, dead. He roughly pushed past Pine, part of his mind hoping that Pine would take offense, start something, give Quentin something to hate, something to hit. Don just let him go. Quentin’s thoughts melded into something incoherent, something that spun in all directions at once. He walked to the holoboard, lifted his helmet and started smashing it into the device. Plastic and glass shattered. He hit it over and over again until the helmet split against the harder machinery inside and a jagged piece of something drove into the base of Quentin’s thumb.
Strong arms grabbed him, stopping him. Quentin turned, ready to do the one thing he knew well, to fight. Sho-Do-Thikit was there, black eyes staring, hexagonal mouth opening and closing to alternately expose then hide the pointy, back-slanting teeth. The Ki held Quentin with two of his arms. The other two arms lifted something, offering it.
Quentin looked down. A cup of black liquid. He didn’t have to ask — it was Aka-Na-Tak’s blood. Ki tradition, to mark yourself with the blood of your fallen comrade. Quentin dipped his left fingers into the cup, put them on his right shoulder and dragged diagonally to his left hip. Aka-Na’s black blood streaked across the beat-up numbers “1” and “0” on the front of his jersey.
Quentin heard someone crying. He looked for the source and found it — John Tweedy. John’s big head sat heavily in his big hands. The epitome of violence seemed unashamed of his tears. Through the fingers, Quentin could see letters flashing across John’s face — IT WAS AN HONOR TO PLAY WITH YOU.
Seeing that message was the final straw. Quentin felt the tears pouring down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. The crowd broke up — there was nothing more to say. Quentin walked to the Human locker room, the weight of a galaxy making his cleated feet drag. He stripped off his armor and headed for the Ki baths.