The Starter by Scott Sigler Page B

because now the team was his to lead. Don Pine had said so, passing the torch of leadership in front of High One and everyone else. And all of this screaming, adoring insanity from the fans? Don was right, this was just the beginning. If these sentients thought they were happy now, wait until Quentin Barnes rode down these streets, holding the Galaxy Bowl trophy high in the air.
    Like they did whenever there was a crowd, his eyes scanned the Human faces, hunting for a familiar one, one he assumed he would remember but could not be sure.
    Quentin again felt an elbow hit his left shoulder. Yitzhak leaned in close to Quentin’s ear.
    “Q, come on ,” Zak said. “This is face-time for you, pay attention to the crowd.”
    “I am paying attention.”
    “No, you’re staring these sentients down like they’re linebackers showing a blitz. This is part of the game, Q. We need to bring your popularity up so we can get you some fat endorsement money.”
    “I get paid plenty.”
    Yitzhak threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, right. Who’s your agent?”
    “I don’t have one.”
    Yitzhak leaned away, gave Quentin a funny look. “Seriously?”
    Quentin shrugged. “Gredok bought my existing contract, I don’t need an agent.”
    “Hooooo,” Zak said. “Brother, I’ll make a few calls. I can help you.”
    Quentin shook his head. “Thanks, third-string, but I can actually change my own diapers from time to time.”
    Yitzhak waggled the MVP trophy in front of Quentin’s face. “ Third-string? Hayseed, just run your hands across this bad boy!”
    Quentin took the offered trophy. It was rather nice. A wooden base with a thin chrome pole that supported a regulation-size football made of faceted crystal. The trophy caught the lights from the sun high above, sparkling with intense, rainbow colors.
    “Nice, huh?” Yitzhak said.
    Quentin handed it back, and nodded. “Yep, I got to admit, that’s a sweet piece of hardware.”
    “Damn right it is,” Zak said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to revel in my moment.”
    Yitzhak raised the trophy high in both hands, smiling and showing off for a crowd that roared in approval.
    Quentin sat, his hand waving like an automaton while his eyes went back to searching the crowd.
    And then he saw something that held his attention. Off to the right, on the outside of the ring road, a Human wearing a Krakens’ jacket. The man visually scanned the parade vehicles much the same way Quentin scanned the crowd. Not looking at something, looking for something. Something in particular.
    Quentin laughed to himself — he was looking at the crowd like it was a defense. That Human guy he’d just noticed, for example: the guy’s eyes darted around like a linebacker hunting for an open gap, looking for a lineman’s pointing foot to give away the direction of the play. And those two big Humans in front of the linebacker-man, they might be defensive linemen...
    Quentin stared closer. The two big Humans, they held that same aura of intensity as the first man. And they were right in front of the linebacker-man, one on his left, one on his right.
    Positioned in front, just like blockers.
    Blockers that were about to clear a hole.
    Quentin had spent a decade working in the mines of Micovi, a place where people died almost every day. Sometimes they died from cave-ins. Sometimes from roundbugs. Sometimes from the stonecats that lurked in the bigger crevices, waiting for a miner to stray too far away from the others. But most often, people died because they were killed by other people. Everything from vendettas, to loan sharks making an example, to basic theft gone wrong, or — most often — simple arguments that quickly blossomed into honor fights. To stay alive, you had to learn to read people, read their faces, scan for bad moods, for desperation, for anything that could make one person want to kill another. Sometimes Quentin had to fight. When he did, he made sure everyone understood that to