“It’s so good to see a Nationalite here,” Warburg said with a warm grin. “These sub-races can challenge the will of any man.”
“Uh-oh, there we go again with the sub-races chat.” A smiling, 6-foot-6 blue-skinned Human pushed through the crowd and extended his hand to Quentin. Despite the Nation’s limited GFL coverage, Quentin had no problem recognizing the man — Donald Pine, quarterback for the GFL Champion Jupiter Jacks in ‘75 and ‘76. Quentin found himself caught between a burst of hero worship and a sense of revulsion at touching blue skin. But that wasn’t who he was anymore — he shook Pine’s hand.
Pine smiled, his teeth a sharply white contrast against his blue skin and darker blue lips. “Warburg, you’ve always got such a friendly outlook on things.”
“The truth should never be blurred over, eh Pine?” Warburg said. He was also smiling, but there was nothing happy about it. “You were born this way, you know I don’t hold it against you.”
Pine laughed. “Well, let’s just hope that Quentin doesn’t hold it against me, either. I see he’s not wearing forehead makeup, so maybe he doesn’t think quite like you, eh?”
Warburg’s smile disappeared. “I’ve told you before, blue-boy, it’s not makeup, it’s a holy mark.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Pine said. “Yeah, you did tell me that. So sorry your Holy Holiness.”
Warburg nodded, his features melting into a dark, dangerous scowl. “One of these days, blue-boy, you won’t be the starter anymore.” Warburg tilted his head to indicate Quentin. “And that’s going to happen sooner than you think. And when it does, you and I are going to settle up. Quentin, I’ll see you at dinner.”
Warburg walked away.
“Charming fellow,” Pine said. “Not entirely indicative of all the Nationalites I’ve met, but not far from it, either.”
“He’s confirmed,” Quentin said, not sure if Pine’s comments were a slam on Warburg or on all Nationalites. “Confirmed Church members are rather set in their ways.”
Donald Pine nodded. “And I see you’re not confirmed. Does that mean you’ve got that ever-so-rare Purist Nation resource known as an open mind?”
Quentin shrugged. “I’m set in my ways, too. They might not be the same ways as Warburg.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Pine said with a smile. “It’s my duty to show you around the ship and get you ready for practice, give you any help you might need.”
As a teenager, Quentin had idolized Pine, watching pirated broadcasts of the Jupiter Jacks’ games, marveling in the man’s effortless skill. All Pine needed was enough time and he could dissect any secondary. But that was in the mid-70’s — recently, Pine’s star had fallen and fallen fast. After three straight losing seasons, the Jacks traded Pine to the Bord Brigands in 2680. He lasted only one season there, before the Krakens picked him up, hoping he would lead them back to Tier One. The Krakens were still hoping. Considering they had picked up a certain Quentin Barnes, that hope no longer seemed to hinge solely on Donald Pine.
“I don’t need any help,” Quentin said coldly. “I’ve learned to figure things out for myself.”
Pine’s smile faded, just a little, then returned as he shrugged. He waved another man over. “Suit yourself. Let me introduce you to another Krakens’ QB, Yitzhak Goldman.”
Yitzhak stepped forward and shook Quentin’s hand. At 6-foot-4, he was very short for a quarterback. He had the bleach-white skin of a Tower Republic native of the planet Fortress, along with equally white hair and eyebrows. The only things of any color were his deep black eyes. The irises were just as black as the pupils, giving the man an eerie, haunting stare.
“Welcome aboard,” Yitzhak said.
Quentin simply nodded. He’d seen Yitzhak play last year when Pine was out two weeks for knee replacement. Quentin had been less than impressed.
Through the flurry of meet-and-greet, a strange creature crawled forward. Quentin couldn’t help but take a step back — he’d never seen the like before. It resembled a Quyth Leader, or Warrior, or at four feet tall maybe something in-between. It had only one eye, which was much smaller than a Leader’s or a Warrior’s. The creature’s pedipalps were long, almost three feet long, and so thick they seemed like Human arms. It smelled like onions.
The creature reached out with one of the pedipalps and gently tried to take Quentin’s bag. Quentin turned his shoulder, pulling the bag slightly away. The demonic-looking creature made his skin crawl, but he concentrated on staying his ground, dead-set against repeating the embarrassment he’d felt when he hit the deck at the sound of Swizzle’s flapping wings.
“What’s the matter?” Pine asked. “Pilkie here will take your bag for you.”
“Pilkie?” Quentin said, never taking his eyes of the creature.
“It’s okay, Quentin,” Yitzhak said. “You look tense.”
Quentin looked at Yitzhak, then at Pine, then lifted the bag-strap off his shoulder and set it down on the deck. Without a sound, Pilkie grabbed the bag and walked towards a door at the edge of the landing bay.
Pine laughed. “You okay, boy? You act like you’ve never seen a Quyth Worker before.”
Quentin shrugged. “I haven’t.”
Pine and Yitzhak laughed, then stopped when they realized that Quentin wasn’t kidding.
“Sorry about that, Quentin,” Pine said, clapping Quentin on the shoulder. “I forgot you’re fresh off the Purist Nation. Come on, we’ve got a position meeting in twenty minutes. Hokor handles the quarterback meetings, and trust me, you do not want to be late.”
“So are there any other kinds of Quyth?” Quentin asked. “I’m getting kind of tired of surprises.”
“Just the females,” Yitzhak said. “But there’s none of those onboard. Females are sacred in Quyth culture. No non-Quyth are even supposed to lay eyes on them. Females never leave their home planets.”
“Can we see the field?” Quentin asked.
Pine nodded. “Right this way, kid.”
A central tunnel, large enough for heavy equipment, ran from the flight deck all the way to the other end of the ship. The tunnel, with its arched ceiling and curved walls, acted like a main highway — every thirty feet or so, smaller tunnels branched off at right angles, leading into the ship’s numerous sections. Quentin followed Pine straight down the main tunnel, until it opened up into the huge space that was the Krakens’ practice field.
The clear dome revealed the black expanse of space. Thousands of bright sparks glittered; the stars of the Milky Way Galaxy. Ten yards or so past the end zones and sidelines, the ship’s decks rose up eighteen levels high.
They walked onto the field, entering at the orange end zone. The surface had some give and felt a lot like the Carsengi Grass that covered most Purist Nation fields, but he could tell this was artificial. Hundreds of flat, circular, white creatures, each the size of a pancake, moved around the field. They moved slowly, but quickly scooted out of the way of approaching feet.
“I think you guys need to call an exterminator,” Quentin said.
“Those are clippers,” Yitzhak said. “This is nanograss, self-replicating mechanical cells that grow constantly to give us a good practice surface. The clippers are little robots that keep the nanograss at a constant height.”
“They ever get underfoot?”
Yitzhak shook his head. “Naw, they steer clear of anything that moves.”
As they walked past the 50-yard line, Quentin noticed that the white disks cleared out in front of them, then closed in behind as the Humans passed by. He looked around, trying to take it all in — this is where his destiny would start.