The Starter (36 page)

PLANET DIVISION

2-0 Isis Ice Storm

2-0 Lu Juggernauts

2-0 To Pirates

2-0 Wabash Wolfpack

1-1 Hittoni Hullwalkers

1-1 Mars Planets

1-1 Themala Dreadnaughts

0-2 Yall Criminals

0-2 Alimum Armada

0-2 Ionath Krakens

0-2 Coranadillana Cloud Killers

SOLAR DIVISION

2-0 Bord Brigands

2-0 D’Kow War Dogs

2-0 New Rodina Astronauts

1-1 Bartel Water Bugs

1-1 Jang Atom Smashers

1-1 Jupiter Jacks

1-1 Sala Intrigue

1-1 Shorah Warlords

0-2 Chillich Spider-Bears

0-2 Neptune Scarlet Fliers

0-2 Vik Vanguard

SINCE SOMETIME IN THE MIDDLE
of last season, Quentin had known this time would come. The worst of all possibilities. Something that went totally against the teachings of his childhood, of his religion.

Was it killing another Purist Nation citizen? No.

Was it idolatry? Worshiping a false idol? Nope.

Sleeping with a woman before marriage? Nuh-uh.

Far worse than all of those — it was time to break bread with the Ki.

He shuddered at that term... “breaking bread.” He’d heard they didn’t even eat bread. At least Don Pine was with him, there for both moral support and to caution against cultural faux pas.

“Just relax, kid,” Don said as they walked down the corridor toward the Ki section of the ship. “It’s going to be gross, but I’m sure you’ve seen worse.”

“Really?” Quentin snapped. “And why is that? Because I come from the
Purist Nation
? Because I was
poor
?” Quentin was sick and tired of everyone thinking of him as a
hick
, as
backwater
. The Purist Nation wasn’t great, but it had its good points.

Don rolled his eyes. “Hey, Q, you ever seen anyone burned at the stake?”

Quentin ground his teeth.

Don raised his eyebrows. “Well, have you?”

“Yes.”

“How about stoned to death?”

“Yeah, sure,” Quentin said.

“How about skinned to death? I hear that’s a form of public torture.”

“Well, yeah, but just one time.”

Don laughed and held his hands palms up at shoulder height, a gesture that said
well, there you go
.

Quentin let out a long breath. Don wasn’t his enemy here. It was a stressful situation, but Don was only here to help.

“Sorry,” Quentin said. “When you grow up with it, you don’t think it’s strange. I guess I have seen some bad things.”

“You have,” Don said. “I wonder how long it will be before you realize just
how
bad. Maybe being around a normal life — if you’ll pardon the expression — will show you just how truly messed-up your homeland is. Hey, I heard you talked to Denver and Scarborough about the trade rumor going around the sports talk shows. What did you say to them?”

Quentin shrugged. “I told them it was just that, a rumor. I won’t let them be traded.”

“You said
that
?”

“I did,” Quentin said, feeling immediately defensive. “I’m not going to trade them, and I told them so.”

Don shook his head and sighed. “Wish you hadn’t. What if you have to pull the trigger?”

“I won’t,” Quentin said just as they stopped at the door to the Ki wing of the
Touchback
. “No trades, and that’s that. Now can we get on with this?”

Don reached up and squeezed Quentin’s shoulder. “Kid, you been in the Ki section yet?”

“Just the pool in the locker room.”

“Ah,” Don said. “Well, at least you know the smell. Some important stuff you need to know. Try not to flinch.”

“Flinch at what?”

“At anything.”

“Wow, that narrows it down.”

“Just remember that nothing in here can hurt you,” Don said. “Well, not that much, anyway.”

Don pushed a button in the wall and the door slid up into a recessed housing in the ceiling. Quentin was somehow expecting things to fly out the door, but inside was just a small, empty room with another door on the other side. Don stepped in. Quentin followed. When Don pushed a button to close the first door, Quentin realized he was in an airlock.

“Hey Don, what does
not that much
mean, specifically?”

“It means don’t be a baby.” Don hit the button for the inside door. As soon as the door started to slide up into its recessed housing, a swarm flew out. Quentin ducked and swayed as the buzzing
things
hit his face.

“Ugh! What in High One’s name is this?”

“Didn’t I tell you not to flinch?” Don walked through the second door.

Quentin stood and waved his hands as he hurried to catch up to Pine. One of the flying creatures landed on his hand. He remembered Don’s words and fought the urge to smash it. Quentin lifted his hand close to his face and examined the critter. It
sort
of looked like an insect, but none that Quentin had ever seen before. Soft, roundish body with four legs sticking out the bottom, pointy feet resting on his skin. A ring ran around the center of its body, kind of making it look like a little planet. The ring seemed flexible and strong, even though the diameter wasn’t more than an inch from edge to edge. The ring fluttered and the bug rose up, hovered, then settled back down again. On top of the rounded body, Quentin saw five equidistant eyes — the same configuration as that of the Ki.

The little creature tensed, then sprang off his hand and flew up fast. Before it even passed the height of Quentin’s head, something dove straight for his face. He ducked — again — and had a glimpse of something the size of his head, something with roundish wings and a pointy mouth that snatched the bug out of mid-air before flying off.

“Q,” Don called. “Quit dinking around, we’re late for dinner.”

Quentin jogged after his teammate. It didn’t look like he was in a ship at all anymore... it looked like he was in a jungle. There were no corridors here, no hallways; as near as he could tell it was just one big open space. On either side of a three-foot-wide path grew some kind of inch-high red moss, which itself quickly vanished under a mat of waist-high plants with broad, red leaves. He could see only about five feet from the edges of the path before long, thin, brownish-yellow vines grew up from the waist-high plants to cling to the ceiling, so thick they could have been crazy, angled prison bars of some forest jail. More red moss hung down from the vines, clinging to everything save for the hot lights mounted up in the twenty-foot high ceiling.

“Don, this is really messed up right here.”

“We need to hurry,” Don said. “The appetizer is the only thing already dead, so you’ll want to fill up on that.”

They walked into a clearing of sorts, about thirty yards in diameter. At the outer edges, Quentin saw dozens of wide, silvery hammocks hanging at shoulder height. Five or six silver cables ran from each hammock and wrapped around one of the thousands of vines running from floor to ceiling. The long, tubular Ki were in some of those hammocks, multi-jointed arms dangling over the sides or held close to their head, holographic interfaces glowing in the air.

Scattered around the clearing, Quentin saw more of his Ki teammates sitting at what had to be workstations and holotables. The displays showed glowing images of football players wearing bright pink uniforms with dark pink polka-dots and black numbers. The uniforms of this week’s opponent, the Shorah Warlords.

“They’re studying?”

“Yep,” Don said. “That’s pretty much all they do, study or eat.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Why?” Don said. “You study, practice, run, or lift all the time, seems like. Why would they be any different?”

“Well, they’re
linemen
. How much do they have to study the sentient they’re facing off against?”

Don nodded, understanding. “It’s not just brute strength, Q. There’s a lot that goes into each snap, especially when it’s Ki versus Ki. You ever watch the HeavyG wrestling leagues?”

Quentin nodded.

“It’s like that,” Don said. “Every snap, every play, there’s a hundred moves and counter-moves being made. Your offensive line studies to make sure they are prepared; make sure they can keep you safe.”

“Maybe they need some extra credit. My nine sacks says they’re flunking all their classes.”

“I heard that,” Don said.

In the center of the clearing Quentin saw what had to be the evening’s focal point — a long, flat, stone table. A narrow trench ran around the outside of the table, just inside the edge. It only took Quentin a second to realize what it was — a blood trough.

“Don, are you
absolutely
sure I have to do this?”

Don didn’t even turn his head to look at Quentin. Instead, he held up his right hand, fingers outstretched. The two Galaxy Bowl rings sparkled in the hot, bright lights.

Quentin nodded. “Okay, then let’s get it over with.”

The two quarterbacks walked forth from the edge of the clearing. Quentin’s feet stepped on moss, leaves, and sticks. Other than the lights above and the bits of ceiling still visible through the moss and vines, he would have no way of knowing he was in a spaceship.

As they approached the table, Quentin heard a heavy rustling from the surrounding jungle. Don stopped at the edge of the table, as did Quentin, who had to force himself to stay calm. Sure, these were his teammates, but they had only been his teammates for the past three months. For the nineteen years prior to that, he’d known the Ki as demons, as devils, as the eaters of men and the swallowers of souls. Now here he was, deep in some semi-artificial jungle, in their natural environment,
surrounded
by them.

They poured out of their silvery hammocks and scuttled to the table. Others actually
slithered
out of the underbrush, moving like huge snakes, legs tucked against their bodies. The Ki lined up around the table; ten long, tubular bodies bent up at the middle. The
smallest
Ki present — Gan-Ta-Kapil, the backup center — was eleven feet, eleven inches long. One of the Ki wore a strange back brace. It was Aka-Na-Tak, the injured starting right guard.

“Aka-Na,” Quentin said, nodding to him. “We need you back this week, need you bad. Will you be ready?”

The Ki ripped off a bellowing roar of a sentence that lasted for fifteen seconds, then walked to the table.

Quentin nudged Don. “What did he say?”

“Basically, he said
uh-huh
.”

“It takes that long to say yes?”

“It’s a strange language.”

Quentin watched the linemen moving in for dinner, then realized there were many “faces” missing, including Mum-O-Killowe. The Ki at the table were offensive line only.

“Where’s the defense?”

“They live in separate quarters, remember?” Don said. “If they live together, they are too buddy-buddy in practice.”

“We going to eat with the defense as well?”

“Later,” Don said. “The offense is a little more... civilized. I wanted to break you in easy.”

The Ki surrounded the table. One of them — Quentin recognized him as Cay-Oh-Kiware, the backup left guard — carried a heavy black sack.

A black sack, that
moved
.

Kill-O-Yowet also had a bag; a smaller bag that, thankfully, wasn’t moving. He held the bag over the table and upended it, spilling its contents onto the stone surface. Shiny objects clattered, finally coming to rest in a scattered pile of candy-apple red.

Quentin recognized the creatures. Covered in clear, glossy candy shells, but he recognized them nonetheless — shushuliks, the little creatures that had drained the blood of Mopuk the Sneaky.

“Ew,” Quentin said. “Don, I can’t eat that.”

“You will if you want to respect the Ki culture.”

Quentin felt his anger rising. “You know what? Why do I have to respect every culture in the galaxy, yet no other culture seems to be required to respect
mine
? I can’t dare to offend any sentient, but no sentient has a problem offending me?”

Don shrugged. “I don’t know, kid. I guess some people just have to take the higher ground, or none of us would ever get along.”

Don reached down and picked up a candied shushulik. He popped it into his mouth. It made a crackling sound when he bit into it. “The Ki eat dessert first,” he said as he chewed. “You’d do well to make a show of eating a
lot
of these things.”

“Why?” Quentin picked one up. The candy shell started melting immediately, covering his fingertips in sticky red.

“Because then you’ll be
full
,” Don said. “I don’t think you want a lot of room left in your belly when the main course starts to scream.”

Quentin looked at the older quarterback to see if he was joking — he wasn’t. Quentin shoved the stiff shushulik into his mouth, then bit down. The candy tasted sugary but also a little bitter. His teeth cracked through it into something soft. Soft, and also
crunchy
. His brain registered the word
bones
before that something popped and fluid shot out of his mouth, a gelatinous purple glob
hitting
his chin and dangling in a long streamer. He quickly wiped it away, then had to clench his teeth as his stomach started to rebel.

“Don’t you
dare
throw up,” Don said softly, glaring hard. “I kind of want to get out of this alive, if you catch my drift.”

Getting out of it alive. Yes, that would be just fine. Quentin chewed, forced himself to swallow. He heeded Don’s advice and reached for another. The Ki were scooping them up two at a time, popping them into their hexagonal mouths. They didn’t seem overly concerned if the shushulik juice splattered all over. Within minutes, the table was covered with streamers of thick purple gloop.

Quentin picked up his sixth shushulik. He just stared at it. He couldn’t possibly eat it and not hurl.

Sho-Do-Thikit let out a long, barking sentence.

Quentin looked at the Ki, wondering if somehow he’d offended his hosts. “He mad I’m not eating?”