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And, he wanted a beer. Several beers. Back on Micovi, he didn’t care who he offended with his preference of beverage, but these people were so nice, and Warburg really had tried hard to make him feel at home. For the first time in Quentin’s life, he didn’t want to offend the people around him.

He finished his fourth helping of habanero falafel biscuits, his mouth a dichotomy of tasty pleasure and fiery, burning pain. He stood and smiled. “Thank you all for your hospitality.”

“You’re leaving?” Warburg said amidst the groans from the other patrons.

“This is my first time in the city,” Quentin said apologetically. “I want to walk around a bit.”

“You want me to come with you?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, thanks. You stay. I just want to take in the sights by myself.”

Warburg stood and shook Quentin’s hand, starting a cavalcade of hand-shaking and back-patting from smiling, happy expatriot Nationalites.

Father Harry stood. That took some effort thanks to his ample girth. He handed Quentin a plastic call chit. “Quentin, my son, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, you have but to call. We have a network of Nationalite business owners and travelers who can help you no matter what the problem.”

Quentin took the chit. The offer didn’t surprise him — he’d received preferential treatment ever since he’d started his first game two years ago. But this was different. Before, he’d been treated with deference just because he was a quarterback, but here he had the feeling it had nothing to do with football. Well, almost nothing. It was mostly because he was a Nationalite.

“There is one thing.”

“What is it, my son?”

“I… I’m looking for my parents.”

“Are they on Ionath?”

“I, um, I don’t know. I haven’t seen them since I was maybe three. I think they left Micovi but I don’t know.”

Father Harry nodded knowingly, a sad nod, a supporting nod. “I see. Don’t be embarrassed, Quentin. Your story is quite common. Many of us, even in this room, had to leave the Nation suddenly, either leave or die. Families are scattered throughout the universe.”

“So how do I find them?”

“What are their names?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin said, staring at the ground. “I don’t remember. I know their last name is Barnes, but that’s all.”

“Do you have any other family?”

Quentin held his breath. Here it comes, he thought. Now they find out I have no family, and they treat me like garbage, just like they treated me back on Micovi.

“Quentin, do you have any other family? Brothers? Aunts or uncles?”

“No,” Quentin said in a whisper.

Father Harry clapped Quentin on the shoulder. “Then we’ll have to start from scratch, my son. We’ll put the word out. Last name Barnes, left Micovi about sixteen years ago?”

Quentin looked up, into Father Harry’s eyes. The man was still smiling, still supportive. “Yeah, fifteen or sixteen years ago.”

“If they can be found, we will find them. Now go enjoy your sightseeing. You are welcome here anytime.”

Quentin mumbled thanks, then walked outside. He didn’t know what to make of it. These people were a support network, a small tribe in a hostile land. He felt the sense of community, of brotherhood. They offered to help him not because he was a football player, but because they automatically considered him to be one of them. He had to travel hundreds of light years from his home to be accepted by his own people. It was so confusing it made his head hurt.

He started walking. He’d never been treated like that before. Those people were so nice to him, so gracious and friendly and loving — just because he was a Nationalite. And yet, those same people hated everything that was different from them. Not just hated, but wanted to destroy.

He had walked only a few short minutes when the environment changed. The buildings looked the same, but the glowing signs showed alien words. Strange music flowing from open doors. If you could call it music — some horrible screeching sound with rhythm. Quentin looked around him, realizing he’d walked right through the Human District and into the Sklorno Cultural Area. Tall Sklorno females wrapped in heavy clothing walked about. Sklorno males abounded, but here the tiny creatures moved in an orderly, calm fashion, nothing like the bouncing madness he’d seen at the game.

He also realized he’d drawn a crowd. Looking about, he saw he was surrounded by Sklorno females. They kept their distance, a good fifteen feet, but ringed him nonetheless.

“Well, well, well, look who’s out on the town!”

Quentin cringed when he heard the deep Human voice — John Tweedy. He turned to see Tweedy and Yassoud standing there. Perhaps leaning was a better description. Both men held magnicans of beer, and both looked like they’d been drinking for hours. They were both stylishly dressed, although the clothes looked a bit worse for the wear, as if they’d both fallen down several times during the night. Tweedy also wore a bandoleer filled with magnicans. TAKE ONE DOWN PASS IT AROUND scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.

“Hey, Q,” Yassoud said.

“Hey,” Quentin said, staring at Tweedy, bracing himself for some kind of conflict.

“So what’s a racist waste of skin like you doin’ in the Sklorno District?” Tweedy said, his words slurring slightly.

Quentin started to answer, but Yassoud cut him off. “Aw, leave him alone, Johnny. He’s here, ain’t he?”

Tweedy seemed to seriously consider this for almost five seconds, as if it were an advanced trigonometry problem. “Uh… yeah,” he finally said with a definitive nod of the head.

Yassoud laughed. “I’m finding our world-class linebacker ain’t too sharp after you get a few in him.”

Tweedy reached into his bandolier and pulled out a magnican. “Hey, Q, you want a beer?”

It was the last thing he’d expected to hear from John Tweedy. “Sure,” Quentin said, and took the offered can. He twisted the top, feeling the can grow instantly cold in his hand. He took a long drink — the amazing taste exploded in his mouth. He looked at the can: Miller Lager.

“Where the hell did you get this?”

Tweedy’s face furrowed in confusion. “From a beer store.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, how much did this cost?”

Yassoud laughed. “Five credits for a ten-pack.”

“Five credits? You’re joking.”

Yassoud and Tweedy looked at each other, then at Quentin, and both laughed.

“Okay, fine, so it’s cheap beer,” Yassoud said. “Go to the store and get what you want.”

“No no, it’s great!” Quentin took another long pull, draining the can. “I don’t know how you got it for that price. Is there any left at that store?”

Yassoud laughed and shook his head. “Are you kidding me? There’s a whole wall of it.”

They had to be joking, of course. Miller Lager was ten credits a can back home.

Tweedy and Yassoud started to walk towards a door. Quentin didn’t know what the building was until he saw the glowing holosign: some logo he didn’t recognize, with words he couldn’t read, but in the middle of it was the familiar outline of a football — a sports bar. Tweedy and Yassoud made it as far as the wall before they fell down in a heap. Yassoud attempted to rise, while Tweedy didn’t move.

Quentin sighed. All of the sudden he was the sober one, and knew he had to get his teammates home. He signaled a grav-cab and helped Yassoud stumble in. Then he struggled to lift Tweedy’s 310-plus pounds, breaking a sweat before he rolled the big, muscular man onto the cab’s floor. The vehicle was built to carry all types of sentients, including Ki, which meant there was still plenty of room.