He stared at the sign, then nodded.
Quentin walked toward the shuttle, which was painted in Krakens’ orange and trimmed in black and white. A large Krakens logo — the iconic reddish-orange “I” inside a yellow shield, with six white, stylized tentacles spreading off behind it — decorated the side.
Other first-shuttle Krakens filtered into the landing bay. Quentin saw the blue-skinned Don Pine, two-time Galaxy Bowl winner and now Quentin’s backup. Denver and Milford, along with Scarborough and Hawick, the starting Sklorno receivers. Mum-O-Killowe, the twelve-foot-long Ki defensive tackle that had gone from rookie to starter in one season, just like Quentin had done at the quarterback position. Aleksander Michnik and Ibrahim Khomeni, the monstrous, knuckle-dragging HeavyG defensive ends, each 525 pounds and nearly seven feet tall. Kill-O-Yowet, the dominant offensive tackle and seeming alpha sentient of the Krakens’ seventeen Ki players. Third-string quarterback Yitzhak Goldman, who enjoyed first shuttle privileges because he had been born and raised in Ionath City, and as such was a local hero. And the big, tattooed, wild-eyed, and semi-sane Human middle linebacker, John Tweedy.
Standing next to John was Yassoud Murphy, the Krakens starting running back by default.
Default
because ’Soud was the only one left on the roster — starter Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed had died, and backup Paul Pierson had lost a leg.
Yassoud and John had become Quentin’s closest friends. He worked hard to spend time with everyone on the team, but John and ’Soud were
Human
. Quentin had spent nineteen years of his life being programmed to think that Human was the only race that mattered. Logically, he could separate himself from that propaganda, but emotionally, he still felt more comfortable with his own kind.
“Hey ’Soud, Uncle Johnny,” Quentin said.
John turned, his crazy stare-into-nothing changing to a smile.ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL?scrolled across his face. John had a sub-dermal tattoo, thousands of tiny light emitters embedded under his skin. With his cyberlink control, John could dial up any words or phrases he liked. Quentin was getting used to it, but seeing letters dance across John’s face was still a bit disturbing.
“Q,” John said, and held out his fist. Quentin reached out his own for the obligatory fist-bump, then did the same for Yassoud.
“Hey,” Quentin said to the running back, “did you
braid
your beard?”
“It’s called a Persian, big boy,” Yassoud said, then stroked the eight inches of matted, black, curly beard he’d bound together with a thin, orange string. “Orange and black, Q, Ionath-style.”
Quentin smiled and nodded appreciatively. Yassoud loved the Krakens just as much as Quentin did.
Most of the first-shuttle team was there, save for Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright, two Quyth Warrior outside linebackers.
“Hey, Uncle Johnny, where are Virak and Choto?”
“Off doing some work for Gredok,” John said. “Rumor is they’re at Buddha City Station for the heavyweight championship fight.”
“No way,” Yassoud said. “Oh yep, I
got
to get on Gredok’s good side. Virak and Choto get all the fun.”
Fun
. That wasn’t how Quentin saw it. Before he’d arrived last season, Virak and Choto had been football players second, gangland thugs first. Any time they accompanied Gredok, the two were probably involved in something illegal, something that could get them hurt. And if they got hurt, that affected the team. Hopefully nothing would happen. The season was just a few weeks away.
The shuttle’s entire side hung open, lowered via a bottom hinge that turned it into a ramp. Head coach Hokor the Hookchest stood at the top of that ramp. It still struck Quentin as strange that Hokor, a Quyth Leader, was technically part of the same species as Virak and Choto. Where Virak was 6-foot-2 and 375 pounds, Hokor was only 3-foot-1, probably 90 pounds if he’d been swimming and his black-striped yellow fur was soaked with water. Leaders and Warriors alike were bipedal, standing on folded legs that had one segment rising up from the hips to a knee, then a foreleg that pointed down, connecting to a long, three-toed foot. Their middle arms had a similar design: upper arm that pointed up and back, then a forearm that pointed down parallel to the upper arm, ending in a thick, three-fingered pincer. Their chests continued up from the middle arms, tapering to a head with a single eye. On either side of and below the eye, a set of pedipalps ended in dexterous, finger-like appendages. The middle hands were for heavy lifting and grunt work, while the pedipalps handled fine skills, like art or computers.
Hokor wore a tiny little orange and black Krakens jacket and a tiny little black baseball hat with a Krakens logo glowing on the bill. He always dressed in team colors.
At the base of the ramp stood three Krakens players, all wearing jerseys that Quentin had never seen before. Krakens home jerseys were black with orange numbers, away jerseys were orange with black numbers — these players wore white. White jerseys with orange numbers and letters trimmed in black. Orange sleeves led to black-trimmed orange flashes running down the flanks.
Where had he seen these before? It hit him — he’d seen those jerseys in the stands, worn by some of the thousands of fans packing Ionath Stadium.
Throwback jerseys.
Paul Pierson wore one of the white jerseys, number 31. Paul refused to wear a realistic prosthetic lower left leg — instead, he wore a chromed post that ended in a metallic foot. The leg had been torn off by Yalla the Biter, a Quyth Warrior linebacker for the Sky Demolition. Since Paul had lost his leg “in combat,” as he called it, he wanted the universe to know he’d given his all on the gridiron.
Next to Paul stood the Ki lineman Wen-Eh-Daret, number 66, a right guard who had hurt his back in the Tier Two semi-final game against the Texas Earthlings. The injury had proven more severe than anyone thought, forcing the Ki’s retirement. Aka-Na-Tak, the backup, had also been hurt in that semi-final. Aka-Na-Tak was still recovering — he wouldn’t see the field until the third week of the season.
Around twelve feet long, the Ki body bent at the middle. Six feet of body stayed parallel to the ground, supported by three pairs of legs. The body bent up at the front. Two pair of arms stuck out near the thick neck and head. The head? That was the stuff of nightmares. A row of five equidistant eyes gave the species three hundred and sixty degree vision. Six leathery lips covered the six black teeth of their hexagonal mouths. Vocal tubes stuck up from the top of the head, making the Ki look a bit like a Human with smooth, short dreadlocks.
Next to Wen-Eh stood the final white-jerseyed player, another Human. Pancho Saulsgiver, number 48. Pancho, the third tight end on the roster behind Yotaro Kobayasho and Rick Warburg, hadn’t played much during the Tier Two season. Pancho had been with the Krakens for ten years — an eternity in the brutal world of the GFL.
Ten years.
A missing leg.
A broken back.
And then Quentin understood the reason for the special jerseys.
Hokor spoke in his small but gravelly voice. He was tiny, even downright cute in his little jacket and little hat, but when he spoke, everyone listened.
“Gredok the Splithead cannot be here today,” Hokor said. “He has business elsewhere, but told me he is proud of all of you.” Quentin just hoped that
business
didn’t involve Virak and Choto playing the role of gangland muscle.
Coach Hokor continued. “Tomorrow afternoon, Ionath City is throwing us a parade to celebrate our promotion to Tier One. Then we have a week off, then three weeks to prepare for the Isis Ice Storm. Right now it is time to descend to Ionath, a trip that marks the official end of our Tier Two season. As such, we honor the players that are retiring as Krakens.”
Hokor’s words echoed through the mostly empty shuttle bay then faded out, leaving silence. Quentin didn’t know what to say. He imagined his teammates didn’t either.
“These three players wear white,” Hokor said. “The white jerseys are the original jerseys the franchise had in the year of its founding, 2662. To wear the white is the highest honor the Krakens organization can bestow. Pierson, Wen-Eh-Daret, and Saulsgiver played hard, they gave everything they had, but all careers must end. Active players, pay your respects to them as you board the shuttle.”
Quentin watched the Krakens starters filter onto the shuttle, each stopping to say something to the three white-jerseyed, soon-to-be-ex-teammates. Quentin watched until he realized he was the only active player standing in the shuttle bay.
He walked up to Pierson. Quentin offered his hand, which the running back shook. Pierson was 29, a decade older than Quentin. Years in the league had aged the man — Pierson looked ready for a rest.
“Sorry you won’t be joining us,” Quentin said. “Gonna be a hell of a year.”
Paul laughed. “I played two seasons in the bigs, with the Dreadnaughts. You think our T2 season was tough? Good luck, brother, I hope you do well.”
Pierson’s smirk made it clear he thought he would have the last laugh, that
he
had been tough enough to last a decade, but Quentin was not. Pierson radiated disdain and jealousy of Quentin’s rising star.
This whole process made Quentin uncomfortable, and he didn’t know why. The chrome of Paul’s foot reflected the landing bay lights, streaky flashes visible even though Quentin wasn’t looking at it.
Wen-Eh-Daret was next. Quentin stood in front of the monstrous creature, unsure of what to say or do. Wen-Eh’s black eyespots stared blankly. The pink hexagonal mouth twitched, lip flaps hiding the disturbing triangular teeth. Quentin still didn’t understand the Ki all that well — did Wen-Eh want to say something?
The Ki four-armed lineman reached up his two right arms, then smacked them against his tubular chest. If he had been wearing football armor, the movement would have produced a
clack
sound — the Ki equivalent of saying
I will go to war with you
.
The gesture hit Quentin much harder than Paul’s condescension. Somewhere during the season, the Ki had accepted Quentin as a fellow warrior. He’d led them into battle, led them to victory. Fighting and winning were all that seemed to matter to the Ki.
Quentin swallowed the lump in his throat, then brought up his right fist and pounded it twice against his chest. That was all that needed to be said.
He finished with Pancho, who stood just outside the shuttle door.
“Quentin, you little rascal, I’m gonna miss you this year.”
“You and all the shuckers trying to tackle me,” Quentin said, laughing that Pancho had called him
little
. Quentin had two inches and more than a few pounds on the man.
“It was great to be your teammate, Q,” Pancho said. “Let me be an old fart and give you some unsolicited advice. Cool?”
Quentin rolled his eyes. “Sure, Pops, go ahead.”
“Pro football is a marathon, not a sprint. Just remember that. Paul and I both made it ten years, which is damn near impossible. We were
good
players. You’re a
great
one. If
you
last ten years? You’ll re-write every record in the league.”
“Just ten? At that point, I’ll just be getting warmed up.”
Pancho smiled and nodded. “I hope so, Q. Have a great season. Ever been fishing?”
Quentin shook his head.
“If you need a break, just let me know. I’m heading back to Earth, to a little town in a place called Michigan. Anytime you need to get away from it all, you call me.”
Where Paul’s well-wishing had reeked of bitterness, Pancho’s rang with genuine affection. The tight end raised his right fist and banged his chest twice. Quentin did the same, then turned and boarded the shuttle.
All that touchy-feely emotional stuff was fine and good, but those three players just creeped him out. Correction; those three former players. All of a sudden, Quentin had to admit he didn’t want to be anywhere near them. It was stupid to feel that way, he knew, but those three retired players suddenly seemed almost... diseased.
Quentin found a Human-sized seat near Hawick, the Sklorno receiver. He sat and buckled in. She trembled a little, but not as bad as Denver or Milford would have done. Quentin was still trying to deal with the fact that Sklorno now
worshiped
him like some kind of false idol. Hawick was clearly in awe of Quentin, although apparently she wasn’t an official member of the “Church of Quentin Barnes,” or the
C-o-Q-B
as they called it.
He braced himself as the landing bay catapult tossed the shuttle out into the void. He stared out a view port, taking in the void’s star-speckled blackness. The shuttle floated for a few minutes until it cleared the
Touchback
, then the engines kicked in.
The shuttle banked. As it came around, the planet Ionath slid into view. Red, cracked, cratered. From this far up, Ionath was an image of death, of the folly of constant war, of how things were before the Creterakians took over. For all the authoritarian rule of the bats, at least they kept the peace.
A chime sounded. Quentin automatically looked up to holo-icons floating near the roof. Graphics showed an unbuckled seat belt, and next to it simple pictures of walking Ki, Humans, Quyth, and Sklorno. The HeavyG players thought the signs were racist, because they showed the rough dimensions of a normal-G Human. Quentin thought that was ridiculous — two arms, two legs, a body, and a head were two arms, two legs, a body, and a head. You didn’t hear the Quyth complaining about their icon, despite the drastic size difference between Leaders, Warriors, and Workers.
He unbuckled, then walked to one of the shuttle’s larger view ports. Only a few of the Krakens players onboard moved within the cramped space. Some of the vets had seen the orbital approach so many times they were no longer impressed. Michnik and Khomeni were among those, apparently — that, or they were too busy eating the huge sandwiches sitting in their laps. The only movement came from Shizzle, the team’s translator and lone Creterakian. Shizzle fluttered to keep his balance on Kill-O-Yowet’s shoulder.