by Scott Sigler
The lights started to flicker. Quentin had seen enough newscasts to know decompression wasn’t a pretty sight. He scanned the three doors in the room — the one at the far end showed the welcome orange circle. Just as he ran forward, the room tilted steeply to the right. He kept his balance and kept moving forward, but the tables rolled into his path. He hopped backwards as one rolled just in front of him and slammed against the wall. He took three steps forward before the room shifted again, this time hard to the left.
The tables rolled back across his path. He hurdled the first and kept moving forward, but the second table caught him on the hip. The solid metal surface dug into him and tossed him into the far wall. Quentin barely managed to stay on his feet. The floor shifted yet again, but this time he was ready for it, angling his body to the left to compensate.
[DECOMPRESSION IN FIFTEEN SECONDS]
The door opened and he again looked down a hall, this one much shorter — and at the end sat an open airlock door leading into an escape pod. Inside the pod he saw the welcome sight of shock-webbing designed to hold him in place during the rough ejection process.
Quentin sprinted down the hall and launched himself through the door, slapping the “close” button in mid-air. The door hissed shut behind him as he flew into the shock-webbing. The webbing bent elastically under his weight, absorbing his momentum even as free strands of the pliable biomechanical material wrapped around his body, ready to hold him securely against the wild and unpredictable G-forces that accompanied any emergency escape.
He breathed hard from exertion and from stress, from fear. He waited for the sudden, jarring impact of jettison.
But none came.
Instead, one wall of the rounded pod smoothly lifted up. Quentin gasped in disbelief. The other side of that wall should have been nothing but the deepness of space. Instead, he looked into a large room filled with flying and fidgeting Creterakians, two blue-skinned Humans, a Quyth Leader, and three huge Humans wearing silver security uniforms and holding shock-wands. They weren’t moving towards him, but their stance made quite clear what they would do if Quentin tried to get past them to the Quyth Leader beyond. More than a dozen holotanks hung on the walls. It only took a second to realize that the small three-dimensional images were of him during various stages of his frantic evacuation.
“Candidate 113, please rise,” said one of the blue-boys. The shock webbing slithered off him like a thing alive, gently lowering him to the ground, then returning to its dormant, hanging state. Quentin stood up, adrenaline still racing through his body, his muscles on fire with exertion. Sweat soaked his yellow body suit. His eyebrows knitted together in deep anger.
“This was all a test?”
The blue-boy nodded. “Yes, that is the first test of the Combine. While it is not the last, it is the most important, because it tests to see if you’re pure. If you’re not pure, there is no point in the other tests. If you’ll step to the staging area,” the man said, gesturing to a yellow circle painted on the floor in the middle of the room, “we’ll review your performance.”
Quentin shook his head in amazement. He’d been fighting for his life, awash in near heart-attack panic, only to find it was all part of the Combine. Well la-de-da. Someday he’d kick someone’s rear for this. He didn’t know who, and he didn’t know when, but someday.
He walked to the circle. As he did, the hinged “escape pod” hissed shut behind him.
“You tested very high for your position.”
“What did you test?”
“The stings you felt were bio-samples: skin, blood, muscle, bone. You have been tested for biomechanics, cybernetics, biotech, drugs and stimulants. You passed all those tests.”
“Of course I passed,” Quentin spat, the fury flowing through him like molten magma. “You think I would have come here if I had any mods?”
The man simply nodded. “You are the 113th candidate. You’d be interested to know that twenty-seven of the candidates before you have already been dismissed.”
“Twenty-seven ...” Quentin said in a surprised whisper. “That many?”
The man nodded again. “Yes. It is a statistically common amount. Some were eliminated immediately from the instant testing of the bio samples. Others were eliminated because of unnatural strength.”
Quentin nodded slowly. “The restraints?”
“Yes, the restraints are sophisticated strength-measurement devices. Historically we find that only conditions of severe stress induce full-strength exertions.”
“What about the run to the escape pod?”
“Again, severe stress tests the Human body to the utmost of its potential, be it natural or augmented. The computers recorded your strength, your speed, your mental acuity, your stress levels and your resistance to pain. The rolling tables, for example, let us test your reflexes and acceleration from a complete stop.”
Quentin thought back to the long hallway. “Let me guess, the hallway is exactly 40-yards long?”
“Yes. And you set a position record for the Combine — a 3.6 second 40-yard dash.”
Quentin’s jaw dropped. He’d been timed at 4.0 before, but his fastest speed was a 3.8. A 3.6? That was fast for a running back, but he’d never even heard of a quarterback with such speed.
“Does everyone go through this?”
“The tests are different based on position,” the man said. “With your record-setting performances in the PNFL, you were assigned the most demanding tests we have to offer.”
Quentin swallowed, knowing his next question held the key to his fate. “But I passed, right? I qualified for Tier Two?”
The man nodded. “Yes, you qualified. You are finished for the day. Please exit out the blue door and follow the blue path back to your room. There will be more tests tomorrow, but rest assured nothing as stressful as today.”
Quentin let out a long breath. He still wanted to kick someone’s butt, and the blue-skinned League of Planets native would have done just as well as the next guy. The three giant men with the shock-sticks, however, stood between him and any of the test monitoring staff.
The escape pod hissed open. Before Quentin left the room, he saw a new man — his suit numbered 114 — tangled in the shock webbing. Quentin shook his head and walked out, following the blue path.
Excerpt from “A History of the Game: The rise, fall and rise of the GFL,” by Robert Otto
The civilized galaxy consists of sixty-two populated planets, hundreds of colonies and thousands of intergalactic vessels with populations the size of small cities. With such diverse habitations, each with its own length of day, measurements of “weeks” and “months” or their cultural equivalents, and completely different “seasons,” deciding on a calendar-based GFL season seemed fraught with difficulty.
Demarkus Johanson, the League of Planets cultural scientist who invented the GFL in 2658, tried to adapt the “season” concept created by the National Football League of ancient Earth, just as he adapted the majority of rules, strategy and league organization. Based on Earth seasons, which were as random a choice as any other planet’s orbital cycles, the GFL’s first seventeen seasons involved a fixed 16-game schedule that began at the same time every year.
In 2665 Purist Nation officials seized the team bus for the New Rodina Astronauts and executed all non-Human players. Following that event, the Creterakians shut down the GFL. That shutdown created what League of Planets sociologist Clarissa Cho dubbed an “entertainment vacuum.” Ki businessman Huichy-O-Wyl filled that vacuum with the creation of the Universal Football League.
While the caliber of UFL teams was far below that of the GFL, the new league had two distinct advantages. First, it had very few regulations regarding new franchises. Anyone with the money to afford a payroll, equipment, and an interstellar-capable team bus could bring a new team into the league. Second, the UFL embraced the Creterakian calendar, a year of which is 241.25 Earth days. The UFL played a 12-game season with a two round playoff, allowing two �
��seasons” each Creterakian year.
This resulted in many new teams and a constant football presence. By 2668, the UFL boasted 32 teams and had crowned six champions. The “never-ending season” format worked so well and created so much fan interest, the Creterakians modified it when they forcibly disbanded the UFL and reinstated the GFL. The first half of the year is the Tier Two season. The second half is for Tier One. Tier Three runs constantly, with two seasons a year. Roughly half of the Tier Three leagues run simultaneously with the Tier Two season, and the other half run simultaneously with Tier One.
The result of this “back-to-back” scheduling is that some rookies moving up from Tier Three to an Upper Tier team have only two weeks before the season’s first game. Rookies must be cleared through the Combine, and can only be brought in for the roughly one week that remains of the preseason. After the preseason, teams can fill roster gaps only by grabbing free agents who have already played on a GFL roster.
• • •
THE SECOND DAY, the computer woke Quentin and told him to dress. He followed directions, and didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and something started to come through, to float through. Quentin jumped away from the door, his back hitting the small cell’s wall.
It floated at chest height, a white, tapered, flattish creature about four feet across and six feet long. At the outer edges of the body, thick skin moved in undulating waves, like the long wings of a stingray or a skate. A row of six deep, black sensory pits lined the creature’s curved front.
A Harrah.
“My goodness,” the creature said. “Are you all right?”
The creature hadn’t said it, because Quentin didn’t see movement from anything that might be a mouth. He realized that the words came from a small metal machine strapped to the creature’s back.
He recognized the creature as resident of one of the five gas giant planets that made up the Harrah Tribal Accord. He’d never seen one in person, just on holos as GFL refs. He’d also studied them in the classes that taught every Purist Nation child how to kill the sub-races. The common nursery rhyme jumped unbidden into his head:
A punch in the pit, any of them will do
Grab the wings and pull down, so blessed are you
Bring up your knee, oh so so so high
Let this enemy of High One die
He remembered that kind of move put sudden compression on the Harrah’s heart, causing it to rupture.
The Harrah’s sensory pits combined to produce a kind of sonar that let them “see” everything via sound waves. A curled tentacle sat outside the leftmost and rightmost black pit — the Harrah equivalent of hands. It wore a pack of some kind on its back, an orange-and-black pack with many compartments and pockets.
Quentin stared for a second before he realized his hands were balled up into tight fists. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the Krakens’ team doctor. You may call me Doc. Please relax, my good man. I’m here for your physical.”
“I don’t get a Human doctor?”
“Harrah make excellent doctors, I assure you. I’ve been studying multi-species sports medicine for fifty years. I realize that my appearance may be a bit startling to you, Quentin, but I pose no danger. Now please, sit and relax.”
Doc reached a tentacle into his backpack and came out with a bracelet done in a bluish metal.
“Please disrobe and hold out your wrist.”
“I want a Human doctor.”
“That’s fine. But I’m the team doctor for the Ionath Krakens. If you want to play for the Krakens, I have to examine you. If you want to go back to the PNFL for another year so you can find a team with a Human doctor, that is your prerogative.”
Quentin gritted his teeth. He wasn’t waiting another year. He stripped out of his bodysuit and held out his hand.
Doc’s tentacles shot to the long scar on Quentin’s right arm. Quentin managed not to flinch as the alien examined the old wound.
“How did this happen?”
“Grinder accident when I was a kid, working in the mines. I almost lost my arm.”
“But that scar ... did they use stitches? With a needle and thread?”
“It was a pretty bad injury, I think they did a great job. They grafted the bone together, repaired the muscle connections and stitched the whole thing up.”
“Stitches and bone grafts,” Doc said quietly. “Sheer barbarism.”
Doc fastened the bracelet around his wrist.
“This device will check all of your vital signs. I already have a great deal of physical information on you from yesterday’s test, so this is somewhat of a formality. Now I’m going to check your joints — machines can’t always find what can be found by touch.”
Quentin’s lip curled involuntarily at the thought of that thing touching him. But he’d have to get used to aliens, so he might as well start now.
Doc’s tentacles gripped his arm. They were warm and soft, not cold and clammy as he’d expected. Doc bent his arm at the elbow, then straightened it, pushing against the joint.
“Does it hurt when I do this?”
“No,” Quentin said. Doc continued his examination, moving from joint to joint.
“PNFL doesn’t give out medical records. What sports-related injuries have you sustained?”
“None.”
Doc paused. “There’s no use in lying, my good man, I’m going to find any injuries you’ve had.”
“Search all you want,” Quentin said.
The Harrah doctor continued looking. After five minutes of gentle poking, prodding, and bending, he stopped. He pulled the device off Quentin’s wrist, looked at it for a moment, then returned it to his backpack.
“How is it,” Doc said, “that you played football for four years yet you have no injuries?”
Quentin shrugged. “I don’t get hit very much.”
“Yes, well I suppose you don’t. Now we have just one more test, Quentin. We must check you for a hernia.”
Quentin’s heart sank. He’d forgotten about that most invasive part of the sports physical.
“I don’t have one.”
“I need to check. Please stand.”
Quentin sighed.
Tentacles on my testicles, he thought. I’m really moving up in the world.
4
THE TEAM
QUENTIN SPENT two days at the Combine, but experienced nothing as arduous as the initial test, or as disturbing as his exam with Doc. League officials continued to test his reflexes, his strength and his endurance. The initial exam created a baseline of his physical capabilities. Subsequent tests further developed that analysis, and were combined with extensive measurements of intelligence, analytical thinking and mental reaction time. Meal trays slid through a slot in his cell walls, three times a day, the same time every day. The best of that food tasted like a bland nothing, the worst like some kind of rancid sawdust. He ate it anyway. Quentin wondered if the food would be like this on the Krakens’ team bus — the thought made him shudder. He wanted some good old-fashioned Nationalite cooking.
After his last test, a holographic video game that had him slapping colored balls in a pre-described pattern as fast as his hands could move, Quentin returned to his cell to find new clothes laid out on his metal bunk. Loose fitting sweat pants and a sweatshirt, new Nike football shoes and socks, all in the orange-and-black colors of the Ionath Krakens. A orange-and-black bag sat next to the clothes, containing a second set of sweats and the clothes he wore when he arrived at the Combine. The last item, the one that really caught his attention, was an Ionath Krakens jersey.
A jet-black jersey, it had an orange “10” with white trim on the front and the back. He was glad to see he’d keep his old number from the Raiders. Orange, black and white Krakens logo patches were sewn onto each shoulder. A “Kraken” was a huge oceanic predator native to Quyth, the Concordia’s capitol planet. As long as two-hundred feet, with a twenty-foot-wide tail and six tentacles that ended in sha
rp, jagged hooks, the Kraken was a vicious hunter. Quentin thought it a fitting nickname for a football team, much better than, say, the scientific-based names of League of Planets teams like the Wilson 6 Physicists or the Satirli 6 Explorers.
This is it. I’m on my way. I’ll be on every holotank in the freakin’ galaxy. My parents will find me for sure.
A buzz sounded from the speakers, followed by the computer voice.
[ATTENTION PROSPECTS. GARB YOURSELVES IN THE CLOTHES PROVIDED, AND WHEN YOUR DOOR OPENS CARRY YOUR BAG AND TAKE ONE STEP OUTSIDE. YOU WILL BE GUIDED TO YOUR TEAM REPRESENTATIVE AND TAKEN TO TRAINING CAMP]
Quentin quickly removed the sweat-stained yellow body suit and stepped onto the mesh circle. A nearly invisible cloud of tiny machines flew up from the mesh like a hazy fog. He moved slowly, raising his arms, lifting his feet, letting the nannites reach his every nook and cranny. The tiny, tingling machines scoured his skin, gobbling up every piece of dirt and dust, scrubbing away sweat and grime. While effective, the nannites did not offer the pleasure of a steaming water shower.
In less than a minute, the cloud disappeared, fading back into the metal mesh. Quentin couldn’t contain his excitement as he put on his new team clothes. Tier Two or not, he felt a surge of pride as he slipped on the orange and black. This was his team now, the team he would lead to victory.
The door to his cell hissed open. Quentin hurriedly pulled the sweatshirt on over his jersey, grabbed the bag, and stepped outside. Up and down the hall stood smiling young men with similar clothes, but all in different colors — Alonzo in the red and blue of the Earthlings, Olaf in the grey-on-black stripes of the Klipthik Parasites, a player in the cherry-red dots of the Satah Air-Warriors, and another in the multi-shaded purple of the Sky Demolition, a team in the Quyth Irradiated Conference along with the Krakens. There were far fewer players than Quentin had seen the first day. By his rough estimate, around thirty percent of them were gone. He wondered what fate awaited those men — either an ignoble ride home for a trivial offense, surgery and prison for any removable mods, or possibly they had already been executed.
