The Champion (59 page)

“Never again, Barnes,” Gredok said. “Never choose anything over team.”

Quentin didn’t think that
catching a terrorist
exactly counted as
choosing over team
, but he didn’t want to argue the point.

“What about the
Touchback’s
design flaw, Gredok? Whykor said someone could use it to take control of the ship. What are we doing to fix that?”

“We are installing temporary counter-measures,” the Leader said. “To properly solve the problem, the
Touchback
needs to be in dry dock for a month. We obviously can’t do that until after the season is complete.”

“If you’re putting her in dry dock, you should also fix the aft lift,” Quentin said. “Fix it for good, I mean, not the tinkering Kate’s crew does. No offense, Kate.”

“None taken,” she said. “This bird is old. We keep fixing things, but these problems will keep mounting up. I’ve been telling Gredok for years we need a new ship.”

“Nonsense,” Gredok said. “The
Touchback
is perfectly serviceable.”

Quentin thought of his tour with Trevor Haney.

“New Rodina’s ship is only a few years old,” Quentin said. “And they’re Tier
Two
. Weird they have a bus that’s better than the reigning Galaxy Bowl champs, don’t you think?”

Gredok’s pedipalp hands toyed with a rather obnoxious jade pendant dangling from a thick rope of silver. It took Quentin a second to realize the jade pendant looked like Gredok’s face.

“I shall consider this,” the Leader said. “Perhaps it is time for the City of Ionath to forward a bond issue in order for us to acquire a new team bus.”

Quentin frowned. “You’re rich as hell. The citizens of Ionath don’t profit when we win, you do. So why don’t
you
just buy one?”

“You still have much to learn, Barnes,” Gredok said. “For centuries, owners of sports teams have understood a critical element of our trade — why spend our own money when taxpayer money spends just as well? And it is
free
. To us, anyway.”

“A new ship,” Kate said, her voice full of longing. “It would be nice.”

Gredok’s manipulations never ceased to amaze Quentin.

“You asked me up here, and I came,” Quentin said. “Now I have to get back to preparing for this week’s game against the Pirates. I’m heading down to the stadium. Do you need anything else?”

“Just one thing,” Gredok said. “You didn’t tell me about Yitzhak, or Froese’s interest in him. With regard to this Zoroastrian Guild business, is there
anything else
you want to tell me, Barnes?”

Quentin had just promised he wouldn’t choose anything over team, true, but Kimberlin and Procknow
were
team. Quentin wanted to believe they were giving up the Guild — or
anti-
Guild, or whatever they called it — and focusing on football.

“No. Nothing else.”

“Then you may go,” Gredok said.

Quentin left the bridge. Gredok’s question stuck with him, though, made familiar concerns bounce around in Quentin’s thoughts.

Was
Kimberlin really done? And even if he wasn’t, didn’t he need to pay the price for his previous involvement? And the big one: was Quentin finding a way to give Kimberlin a pass simply because the man was critical to the offensive line?

“The Pirates are five and two,” he said to himself as he headed for the lift. “You need to focus on that. You’re not a gangster, and you’re not a cop — you’re a football player.”

Saying that made him feel a little better. Yes, he was a football player, and Michael Kimberlin was his teammate.

Things would work out. Quentin knew they would.

From
Galaxy Sports Magazine

EXCLUSIVE:
CULT OF PERSONALITY
BECOMES “CULTS”

MAJOR SPLIT IN
CHURCH OF
QUENTIN BARNES

by
YOLANDA DAVENPORT

IN THE GALACTIC FOOTBALL LEAGUE’S
twenty-eight seasons, it’s safe to say that the organization has consistently produced larger-than-life personalities. None of those personalities has generated quite the exposure and interest as Quentin Barnes, quarterback of the Ionath Krakens. He’s not the first player with a church named after him, nor the first with millions of followers who look upon him as a demigod — but he is the first to see that following grow so large it fractures under its own weight.

The Church of Quentin Barnes recently suffered a schism, or a splitting into multiple factions. Three factions, to be precise. This reporter has learned that Richfield, the High Priestess of the Church of Quentin Barnes and a former teammate of his, will announce that split tomorrow.

“Her Holiness Richfield will make the official announcement tomorrow,” said a CoQB representative, who requested to remain anonymous for reasons of personal safety. “This is a sad day. The differences in the factions are stark, bordering on violent. There is no way these divisions can be repaired. Richfield is a hero for taking the peaceful way out.”

As of now, the Church of Quentin Barnes has an estimated membership of 70 million. When the split occurs, some 25 million of those sentients will form the Orthodox Barnesian Separatists, and another 18 million will become the Reformed House of Quentinism.

“
I will state categorically that I have nothing to do with these organizations
.”

QUENTIN BARNES

This instantly diminishes the power of the original CoQB, obviously, taking it from the largest sports-based Sklorno ministry to simply a mid-sized church.

As of tomorrow, the two new churches will be officially recognized by the Creterakian Ministry of Religion.

This reporter asked Quentin Barnes for a reaction to the story and learned that he has been aware of this growing schism for quite some time.

“I will state categorically that I have nothing to do with these organizations,” Barnes said. “However, internal disagreements threatened to cause significant bloodshed. Secret meetings facilitated through Commissioner Rob Froese ensured that representatives of the three sects could meet with me. Together, we were able to avoid bloodshed. The three divisions will go their separate ways. I’m not a part of it, but I have made it clear that I will not endorse violence of any kind.”

Richfield will remain as High Priestess of the CoQB. The Orthodox Barnesian Separatists, or the BoS, will be led by the “Grand Pope,” a position filled by Hoyt Bogard, a Human. The Reformed House of Quentinism’s top position will be called “Quetzalcoatl,” held by Who-Love-Q, a Ki.

“THANK YOU, QUENTIN.”

“Thank
you
, Kelp Bringer,” Quentin said. “I’m sure I’ll see you again at the press conference after the Pirates game.”

The Leekee walked away from the conference room’s table. One of his symbiotes fell off, then scrambled across the carpet and jumped on his back before he walked out the door. Those spindly things were so gross.

Quentin took in a slow breath, calmed himself; he knew who was up next.

Messal entered the room. “Your next interviewer is ready, Elder Barnes.”

“Good, good, and ... the uh, other reporters, they’re waiting outside, too?”

“They are, Elder Barnes.”

“And they’ll be able to see him enter?”

“As you requested, Elder Barnes,” Messal said. “If I may be so bold, it is most unusual to see you this concerned about a reporter. I know that you are not on best terms with Gredok, but if there is a problem, he has certain resources that could be of assistance.”

Quentin was so freaked out, he actually gave that a moment’s thought: Gredok’s thugs might prove helpful. But if they were in the room, they would know, and that would end Quentin’s chance to put this behind him. That was the same reason he hadn’t brought Choto, John or Ju.

He had to do this on his own.

“Thank you, Messal, but I’m fine.”

The Worker bowed. He walked out; seconds later, Jonathan Sandoval walked in. The tall reporter sat at the table across from Quentin.

Sandoval did
not
look happy.

“You set up this private interview crap just to talk to me,” he said.

Quentin nodded once. “Yeah, and all those famous reporters saw you come in, didn’t they?”

Sandoval leaned forward, elbows on the table. Quentin couldn’t stop himself from leaning back in his chair, keeping as much distance as he could without standing and running.

“You better have my money,” the reporter said. “It’s been a
month
, Barnes. You get paid every week, I get paid every week, remember?”

“Don’t bother,” Quentin said. “I know you saw Yolanda’s story. It’s over. I’m not paying you anything.”

Sandoval tried to look confident, like he had everything figured out, but Quentin could see a hint of doubt in the man’s eyes.

“You think you’re out of danger,” Sandoval said. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

Quentin smiled. “Smart? I don’t know, but I sure ain’t dumb. At least not as dumb as you seem to think football players are.”

“This isn’t over.”

“Yeah, it is,” Quentin said. “The CMR recognizes
three
churches dedicated to me — not just
one
. Religious divisions happen all the time. The three sects have separate accounting and separate facilities. They’re even located in separate
regions
of space. Not one of the three churches is big enough to be of concern to the CMR.”

Sandoval leaned back in his chair and tried to look cool, like that news didn’t bother him.

“The CMR will see through it, eventually,” he said. “I know your travel schedule inside and out. You didn’t have any
secret meetings
like Yolanda reported in that story. If you don’t pay me, I’ll tell CMR that those meetings never happened. Then the bats will know this
schism
is a load of crap.”

“But the meetings
did
happen. Rob Froese brought Richfield and the others to a pair of them, about ten days apart, that took place aboard the
Touchback
. You can research the flight plans of the
Regulator
if you like. So if you tell the CMR that those meetings didn’t happen, who do you think they’ll believe? You, or the commissioner of the GFL?”

Sandoval stared through narrowed eyes. His payday had just vanished.

“I’d like to rip that smile off your face, Barnes.”

Quentin pointed to the wall. “Those reporters saw you come in. Messal logged the time of this meeting. You kill me, you’ll answer for it.”

“Maybe I’ll just break that left arm of yours.”

“Maybe,” Quentin said. “But then what? What do you think will happen to you if you do
anything
to me? The bats will be after you. And something tells me those mods you have mean they can track you no problem. So you get a moment’s satisfaction, then you’re going to prison, or to a coffin.”

Quentin watched the man. Were their positions reversed, Quentin probably would have been wondering,
How bad can prison really be?

Sandoval would do the smart thing, though. Quentin was sure of it.
Almost
sure.

The reporter held the stare for almost a full minute. Quentin didn’t flinch. Finally, Sandoval groaned and looked at the ceiling. He’d known it was over before he’d entered the room, had just been trying to bluff his way to one last payday.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “The CMR wasn’t happy that I somehow missed this whole split coming. So guess what, Barnes? Not only is my power over you gone, I’m out of a job.”

“Both jobs?”

“Nah, I get to keep being a reporter,” Sandoval said. “The CMR is keeping their word on that, near as I can tell. But they no longer have faith in my ability to track a religion. I don’t get to do
that
anymore, which means the mods are coming out.”

“Bummer,” Quentin said. “Will that be painful?”

Sandoval glared. “More painful than having them put in, I’m told, and that part didn’t exactly tickle. This is your fault.”

Quentin held up both hands, palms out. “I didn’t make you go under the knife for this, and I didn’t make you try to blackmail me.”

“That’s the funny part,” Sandoval said. “If I’d just taken the CMR’s money and told them what was what, told them the real numbers, you’d be dead and I wouldn’t have to go through this. Maybe they would have kept me around for the next hotshot quarterback that drove the Sklorno crazy.”

The man’s greed had inadvertently saved Quentin’s life; but Quentin wasn’t about to give him a cookie for it.

“When do the mods come out?”

“After the Galaxy Bowl,” Sandoval said. “They promised I could keep being a reporter no matter what. Mod removal and recovery will have me totally laid up for a full month. As soon as the Galaxy Bowl is over, all these goodies go bye-bye.”

That was the best news Quentin had heard all day.

The conference room door opened. Messal walked in.

“I am afraid your scheduled time is up, Mister Sandoval,” the Worker said. “Elder Barnes’ next appointment is ready.”

Sandoval stood. He offered his hand. Quentin looked at it for moment, thought of the powerful machinery inside.

“No thanks,” Quentin said.

The reporter smiled. “So
smart
. Maybe you’ll find out that I’m smart, too. Later, Barnes.”

The tall man left.

Quentin wanted to collapse on the floor and go to sleep — he’d done it.

“Elder Barnes, are you unwell?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Fine. Send in the next one. Oh, and do me a favor?”

“Of course,” Messal said. “Anything in my power.”

Quentin looked at the closed door.