“Couldn’t you just come up with a virus or something?”
“The planet is now some sixty percent original growth,” Choto said. “Any virus might spread to the core and destroy the structural integrity. We would be killing our own planet.”
“So you can’t kill it, you can’t replace it, and you can’t stop it,” Quentin said.
Choto’s pedipalps quivered. He seemed oddly proud of the growth. “Much like the Quyth themselves.”
The shuttle banked to the right. Here Quentin could discern no “downtown,” because all of the huge buildings reached up into the crystalline canopy. Three centuries had given the buildings plenty of time to grow to towering heights. Like The Deuce, thick tendrils connected the city’s buildings. Unlike The Deuce, however, wherever the shuttle flew, Quentin could see hundreds of the insect-like ships cutting away at unwanted growths. Thousands of small curls spiraled out from every possible place — the start of new growths that also would eventually need thinning.
“How many beings live here, in this city?”
“This is the city of Madderch, with fifty million residents in the city proper, which you see before you, and another hundred million in the underlying tunnels. It is the biggest city on The Ace, because it is the only one that supports life for non-Quyth. All other cities were completely irradiated when the Creterakians attacked.
Quentin shook his head in amazement. Such numbers. Fifty million in what he saw before him, in a space only a few miles across. The same amount of space in New Mecca housed only ten million, and he had thought that impossibly overpopulated.
Another bank to the right ended the conversation as Beefeater Gin Stadium, home of the Orbiting Death, came into view. It was a round stadium, set deep in the ground. The first two decks were actually below the city’s surface level. The next two decks towered high above, both sets connected by steeply sloped seats. Long, thick, curved buttresses arced out from four equidistant spots around the curved stadium, reaching up to support the upper decks. The playing field looked impossibly tiny and distant, a testament to the stadium’s size. He’d seen several colors of playing surface, but this was the most unusual yet — jet-black. So black that the white lines and numbers popped out in contrast, so sharp he could read them from the shuttle. The fact that the translucent blue stadium sat deep in the ground had caused some witty Human of years gone by to dub the stadium “The Ace Hole.” The name had stuck.
Where all other parts of the city seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the slow-but-wild growth of crystal, the stadium seemed to be a perfect, shimmering, symmetrical jewel. Quentin saw several dozen insectile ships working away on the stadium, carving away even the smallest budding protuberance.
The shuttle banked over the stadium, then actually flew inside a hole in one of the huge buttresses. Once the ship set down, Quentin stepped out into a massive crystal room as elegant as an imperial palace. A short hallway, decorated with holoframes and memorabilia of the Orbiting Death, led the team to the visitor’s central locker room.
As the races filed into their respective dressing rooms, Quentin stopped to look at the back wall, painted metal-flake red with a ten-foot high flat black circle.
“What the hell does that mean, anyway,” Quentin asked Choto.
“That is the Quyth symbol for death,” Choto said. “The circle. No beginning, no ending — a fighting death for one Quyth means life for many others.
Quentin nodded to himself as Choto walked to the Quyth Warrior locker room. The Orbiting Death wanted to die fighting? No problem, because Quentin Barnes aimed to please.
QUENTIN JUST WANTED to be alone. He didn’t want to see his teammates. He didn’t want to think about riding the bench. But that was all he could think about.
He sat in a mixed-race bar, hiding in a shadowy back-corner booth, a Galaxy Sports Magazine messageboard in one hand and a magcan of Miller in the other. His eyes merely glazed over the words and pictures. His mind couldn’t get around the fact that he was backup to a tanker.
“Hello, Quentin.”
Quentin looked up to see Mitchell Fayed and Virak the Mean.
“Are we disturbing you?” Fayed asked.
Quentin shrugged. “Just wanted some time to myself, you know?”
Fayed nodded. “We saw you and wanted to invite you to join us for dinner. We’re going to discuss ways to keep our winning streak alive. But if you want to be left alone, we understand.”
“Thanks.”
Fayed put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. It made Quentin uncomfortable, but he didn’t knock it away. “Stay strong,” Fayed said. “Keep working hard and good things will come.”
With that, Fayed walked away and Virak followed. Quentin stared after them, hating Fayed for his positive attitude. He finished his Miller. Then another. Then another. He lost count — it wasn’t until he stood to leave some four hours later that he felt the effects. The room spun around him, and he had to put a hand on the table to keep his balance.
A Creterakian civilian flew up and perched on his table. Quentin stared for a second, then recognized him — Sobox, the voice of Mopuk the Sneaky.
“You messed up, Human,” Sobox said.
“What are you talkin’ bout,” Quentin said. His words sounded slurred — his balance wasn’t the only thing failing him.
“Mopuk told you what to do, and you didn’t do it. Now you’ve got to pay.”
Quentin saw two large shadows move towards him. Not shadows — Ki, so big they blocked out the bars’ lights. He saw a blur before something smashed into his face and the room twisted wildly. He fell back into his booth. Hot blood coursed out of his nose and onto his upper lip.
“You’re never going to play again,” Sobox said. “My boys will see to that.”
A blow to his stomach. Air shot out of him — he tried to breath in, but couldn’t. His mouth gasped open like a fish out of water. Strong arms lifted him up out of the booth and held him up.
“You’re going to pay,” Sobox said quietly.
“Put him down… now.” The voice was quiet, but carried deadly authority.
Quentin finally drew a gasping breath. The two Ki enforcers held him by his armpits. Sobox was still on the table. All three faced Virak the Mean and Mitchell Fayed.
“I said, put him down,” Virak said.
Sobox glared at the Quyth Warrior. “Mind your own business, you grunt. You don’t want to mess with Mopuk the Sneaky.”
Virak turned from the Ki and stared directly at Sobox. “You insignificant worm. Gredok is my Shamakath. He is also the Shamakath of Mopuk the Sneaky. Quentin Barnes is Gredok’s property. Now you put him down, or this will get ugly.”
Sobox stared hatefully for a moment, then gestured to his enforcers. “Put him down. Let’s go. You haven’t heard the last of this, Virak.”
“Yes I have,” Virak said. He turned to the two Ki enforcers. “You two face me again, in any capacity, and I’ll kill you.”
The Ki grunted some kind of return threat, then scuttled away, Sobox hovering over their heads as they left the bar.
“Quentin, are you okay?” Fayed said as he grabbed a napkin and held it to the bleeding nose.
“Yas, fine,” Quentin mumbled.
“What was that about?” Virak said. “What are you doing associating with Mopuk the Sneaky? What did he want with you?”
“Beats me,” Quentin said. “Maybe he didn’t like my hair.”
“Stop lying,” Virak said, his voice a dark growl. “I have to tell Gredok about this.”
“No!” Quentin said, feeling his buzz suddenly fade away. “You can’t do that.”