“I don’t think so, those look like…”
His voice trailed off as Choto the Bright walked up, a gin-and-tonic in hand, his eye a hazy shade of orange. Choto’s family had made the food, and Quentin could only imagine Choto’s reaction if he called it “crap.”
“It’s fine to eat,” Yitzhak said. He reached out and picked up one of the fried critters by a long front leg. He dangled it over his mouth, biting off a two-inch chunk. “Just bio-mass, perfectly digestible. Quyth and Human digestive physiology are quite compatible, you know.”
Virak and Choto stared at Quentin, obviously waiting for him to eat. He gingerly reached out and picked up a critter by its leg, as Yitzhak had done. He held it in front of his eyes, his stomach simultaneously growling with hunger and churning at the thought of that thing in his belly.
“Eat!” Choto said. “Is good!”
Quentin lifted the thing to dangle over his lips. He opened his mouth and started to lower it, when Virak’s phone buzzed loudly. Pretending to be polite, Quentin set the critter down as Virak answered the call. The Quyth Warrior’s eye changed from orange, the color of happiness, to pitch black almost instantly.
“What’s the matter,” Quentin said as Virak put the phone away.
“Donald Pine is in the hospital. He has been attacked.”
QUENTIN WALKED into the room not knowing what he’d see. He didn’t want to feel guilty — he hadn’t been the one to gamble up a huge debt and start throwing games, after all — but when he saw Pine in the hospital bed he couldn’t stop waves of the nasty stuff from washing over his soul.
Pine was resting at a 45-degree angle, his bandaged head up high, both legs immersed in the pink liquid of a rejuvenation tank. A large, enamel-white, tube-like machine hid most of his left arm. Light-blue bandages covered his forehead and his right cheek.
The hospital room would have seemed large were there fewer beings in it. With three Ki linemen, John Tweedy and Mitchell Fayed present, Quentin could barely see the walls.
“Hey, kid,” Pine said. “Great game.”
“Thanks,” Quentin said automatically.
“I watched it on tape. Seems I wasn’t in much of a condition to watch it live.”
“Yeah,” Quentin said. He didn’t know what else to say.
Tweedy’s brow seemed larger than ever. SOMEBODY’S GOTTA PAY scrolled across his forehead in black letters. “We’re gonna find the sentients that did this,” he said in a low growl. “Nobody messes with our quarterback and lives.”
The Ki linemen — Sho-Do-Thikit, Kill-O-Yowet and Bud-O-Shwek — grunted in monosyllabic agreement. Quentin had a brief image of wandering into a dark alley and facing Tweedy and the linemen. He shivered at the thought, then pushed it away.
“Virak, Kopor the Climber and Shayat are out looking for the culprits,” Fayed said. “They think it was someone from the Bigg Diggers, trying to soften us up for next week. Virak thought it could be the Glory Warpigs, seeing as it might be us or them for the championship, but the doctors say your injuries may be healed by that time.”
“Too bad for them,” Tweedy said. “Our number two can win games just like our number one, eh boys?”
Fayed nodded, the Ki’s made their one grunt, they all looked at Quentin with pride.
“I need to talk to Quentin,” Pine said. “Alone. You guys give us a minute?”
The five Krakens players filtered out of the room, leaving Pine to stare at Quentin.
“I haven’t had a hit of sleepy since my Tier Three days,” Pine said. “I’d forgotten what a great trip it is. You ever hit that stuff?”
Quentin shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Pine said. “Wonderboy would never touch a drug like that, eh? Well, at least he’d never take a drug like that. But I’ll bet that if he wanted to, he could get his hands on an extra-large dose.”
“It’s not my fault you’re in here, so don’t try and guilt me out,” Quentin said, although he was about as guilted-out as one could get. He should have known better than to leave Pine alone when Mopuk’s goons would be looking for revenge.
Pine nodded. “I know it’s not your fault, kid.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. “They messed you up pretty bad,” Quentin said finally.
Pine shrugged. “Not so bad, really. They didn’t want to mess up their investment. Notice they didn’t touch the right arm, and they didn’t touch the eyes. Hell, if rehab goes well, I’m back in the lineup in two weeks.”
Quentin looked up and down Pine’s body. The man had been in surgery and then in a hospital room for three hours. With the speed of modern medicine, the fact that he still looked so rough was a testament to the beating he’d taken. Mopuk’s men had probably cut on him for quite a while.
“Don’t think this guilt trip is going to go over on me,” Quentin said, mustering far more conviction than he felt. “I’m keeping the starting spot this time.”
Pine nodded slowly. “Maybe. Maybe, kid.” He looked away. “I guess I’ve messed things up pretty bad. If I don’t start… well… I guess I’m not much use to them anymore.”
Pine wasn’t begging for his starting spot, just talking out loud. Yet the sentence hit home to Quentin, even more than the injuries, even more than his own run-ins with Mopuk. Pine owed money. As long as he could throw games, he was an asset to Mopuk. If he wasn’t starting, if his career was on the way out, well, Mopuk would have to do something about the debt. Quentin had seen Stedmar Osborne deal with enough fixers and loan sharks back on Micovi to know what would happen. If Pine wasn’t playing ball, he was a good as dead.
“I’ll take care this,” Quentin said.
Pine looked hard at him for a few seconds. “Stay out of it. This ain’t your business. You did the right thing, taking me out of the game. We’re still in the playoff hunt, thanks to you. I brought this on myself. You get involved, you’re just going to get messed up.”
“I can’t let you go alone on this, Pine.”
The veteran laughed. “You can’t? Why not? You hate my guts. You’ve wanted me out of the picture since your first day with the team. Well, now you’ve got what you want, so just let it be. I don’t want to destroy two careers with my stupidity.”
“Can we go to Gredok?”
Pine looked away. “He’ll kill me faster than Mopuk would. Gredok finds out I threw his games, I’m dead. Hell, I guess it doesn’t matter, I’m dead one way or another.”
Quentin nodded once, then walked out of the room. Outside, Tweedy, Fayed and the linemen were waiting. They started to talk, but Quentin held up a hand, silencing them.
“Call a team meeting, immediately. Get everyone, especially Shayat. Tell Choto to clear out the Dead Fly, we’ll meet there. No coaches. Hokor and Gredok can not know.”
“What’s this about?” Fayed asked.
“Just trust me,” Quentin said.
“What about Virak?” Tweedy asked. “He’s one of Gredok’s bodyguards, totally loyal to him.”
“Get him, too. And tell him not to say a word to Gredok, that I’ll explain later. Tell him our playoff hopes hinge on his silence.”
QUENTIN WALKED into the Dead Fly bar. He saw a sea of familiar faces (or what passed for faces) looking back at him. There were no other patrons in the place, only Krakens.
“This better be good,” Virak said. “Gredok does not like secrecy.”
“He’s not going to find out,” Quentin said. “No one is going to tell him. No one is going to say a word about this… this stuff, to anyone. That’s the way it’s going to be. Got it?”
Quentin looked around the room. There was no sign of dissent. He’d called all these players together, and they’d come. They looked back at him, waiting to hear what he had to say. Quentin realized that his on-field performance had elevated his status amongst his teammates. At this moment, he was their leader.