The Rookie

by Scott Sigler

  Every player let out a single, deep, guttural grunt that transcended language, then the circle broke apart, the players gathering in groups: kickoff team, defense, offense and second-stringers. Across the field, the Woo Wallcrawlers broke from their own huddle. They wore pinkish leg armor and white jerseys with letters and numbers in light-blue rimmed by purple. Each jersey had the word “‘Crawlers” stretched across the chest above their number. A stylized purple creature on the right shoulder of each jersey spread forth long tentacles: two down the chest, two down the back, and two down the right arm (or arms, in the case of the Ki).

  Five graceful, boneless Harrah floated onto the field. Their soft wings undulated in wave-like patterns, carrying them smoothly forward. They wore black-and-white striped jerseys custom fitted to their flat bodies. Quentin suddenly understood why the Harrah made great refs — they could fly up to monitor the twenty-foot-high mid-air battles between Sklorno receivers and defensive backs. A grounded ref could never accurately judge interference.

  Pine walked up next to Quentin. He saw the younger QB looking at the refs.

  “Never seen flying refs before?”

  Quentin shook his head. “No, but it’s a great idea.”

  “Stupid zebes, they hate the Krakens. We always get crap calls.”

  “What’s a zebe?”

  “That’s what they call refs.”

  “But what is it?”

  “I think it’s short for Zebra.”

  “What’s a Zebra?”

  Pine shrugged as he put on his helmet. “Beats me. Some animal with black and white stripes, I guess. From Satirli 6, I think.”

  The Krakens lined up for the kick-off. The crowd of 185,000 started beating their feet in place. Quentin looked at the stands behind him: the crowd was mostly Quyth, with Workers filling the higher rows and upper decks. Plenty of Humans, Quyth Warriors and Quyth Leaders filled the lower seats. He spotted the distinctive shape of many Sklorno females in the stands, most of whom wore replica Krakens jerseys with number “80,” Hawick’s number.

  Special sections of the stands were packed with the bouncing, one-foot diameter fuzzy balls that he now knew were Sklorno males. These sections were enclosed in clear crystametal. The males bounced up and down inside — there had to be a thousand of them in each enclosure, moving so fast he could barely make out individuals. Quentin wondered why, when looking at a stadium packed with a half-dozen races, the Sklorno males were segregated.

  Quentin nudged Yitzhak. “Why are the Sklorno males in that cage?”

  “The bedbugs? Because they get so turned on watching the females that they will rush the field and try to mate with them.”

  Quentin grimaced. “What? Really?”

  “Oh sure. They’re horny little buggers. Watch out if you’re around any of our receivers or DBs in public, the little scumbags lose it and will just start humping them. That’s why the females wear full-body clothing in public, otherwise the bedbugs might impregnate them.”

  The crowd’s foot-pounding picked up in intensity, and was joined by a low “oohhhhh” that quickly increased in pitch and volume. Quentin turned in time to see the kicker’s foot slam into the ball exactly at the moment the crowd’s “ohhh” turned into a sustained “ahhh!” of excitement. The ball sailed through the air as the Krakens kickoff team pounded down the field.

  Quentin saw Yassoud rushing downfield, that murderous look on his face. Denver and Milford were out there as well, sprinting like living missiles, pulling ahead of their teammates. A line of Human and Quyth Warrior Wallcrawlers formed a wedge and drove upfield, followed by a Sklorno carrying the brown ball. Denver and Milford launched themselves high into the air, arching over the Wallcrawler wedge. Two pink-and-white clad Sklorno players shot through the air to meet them: one picked off Denver in mid-air and they fell in a heap. Milford twisted and her defender sailed past. She landed on her feet as Yassoud and the other Krakens smashed into the Wallcrawler wedge. Milford sprang forward — the Wallcrawler ball carrier tried to dodge, but Milford brought her down at the ‘Crawlers fifteen yard line.

  The crowd roared so loudly that Quentin put his hands to his helmet’s ear-holes. He heard some kind of high-pitched screeching from the stands and looked back — the Sklorno males bounced maddeningly in their enclosures, hitting the crystametal walls so hard they had to be injuring themselves.

  John Tweedy led the defense onto the field. I AM THE BRINGER OF DEATH scrolled across his face. The ‘Crawlers offense came out and huddled up, led by quarterback Kelley Moussay-Ed. Warburg walked up and stood next to Quentin.

  “Kelley’s in for a long day,” Warburg said. “This run-and-shoot garbage doesn’t work against Michnik and Khomeni.”

  Kelley snapped the ball and handed off to running back Copu Soggang, who found nothing at the line. He cut right, but Khomeni reached out his long arms and dragged the runner to the ground for no gain.

  The ‘Crawlers next ran a short out-pass, good for three yards before Berea leveled the receiver. On third-and-seven, Kelley dropped back as four receivers snaked into the defensive backfield. Michnik drove into the ‘Crawler’s right tackle, then spun to the inside and broke free. Kelley felt the pressure and threw the ball away. The crowd roared in approval.

  The defense ran off the field to congratulations and approving slaps from the offense and the second stringers. The ‘Crawlers punted. Richfield called for a fair catch, and the Krakens’ offense took over for the first time. Pine led the offense onto the field. Warburg waited a few seconds before leisurely trotting to join the huddle.

  Quentin moved to stand next to Yassoud. “What’s it like out there?”

  “It’s unbelievable,” Yassoud said, his grin once again firmly in place. “The crowd is unreal, there’s so much energy. You’ll see soon enough.”

  Quentin shrugged. “Hopefully the old fart won’t last long.”

  “You never know,” Yassoud said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Quentin’s hopes.

  First-and-ten on the Krakens’ 45. Pine wasted no time exploiting the ‘Crawler’s slow secondary. He hit Hawick for a twelve-yard slant, then Kobayasho for a six-yard out, then a deep crossing pattern to Warburg. Warburg caught the ball in full stride and turned up-field, all 365 pounds of him moving at top speed. ‘Crawler defensive backs Seoul and Onoway closed in on him. Warburg turned to slam into Seoul head-to-head, knocking the 280-pound Sklorno defensive player backwards. Warburg stumbled from the contact, and Onoway brought him down for a 22-yard gain that gave the Krakens first-and-ten on the Wallcrawler fifteen. Warburg and Onoway got up, Seoul didn’t.

  The game paused as a Harrah doctor flew onto the field, trailed by a floating cart. The Harrah looked exactly like Doc, except this one’s backpack was pink and light-blue instead of orange-and-black. The doctor looked at Seoul for a long minute, then pushed the cart over the Sklorno’s prone form. A hundred tiny wires shot out of the cart’s underside, wrapping around Seoul in a hundred different places. The cart rose about a foot, and Seoul’s body rose with it, still in the exact same position she’d been in on the ground. The doctor flew off the field, towards the tunnel to the locker room, the cart zipping along behind.

  With the wounded player removed, the teams lined up once again.

  The ‘Crawlers blitzed on the next play. Pine calmly delivered a seven-yard slant to Scarborough. He dropped back once more, standing tall and taking his time. His offensive line gave great protection, and after five full seconds Pine fired a tight spiral to Hawick for a touchdown.

  The stadium shuddered from the crowd’s roar. Fireworks exploded overhead. The entire sky seemed to turn a deep orange. Quentin ducked involuntarily, as if from the shadow of some giant bird flying close overhead.

  “Relax, that’s just the dome,” Yassoud said. “They turn the whole thing orange when we score a touchdown.”

  The color blinked away, and the sky was once again clear and bright. Pine and the receivers ran off the field as the kicking team
came on for the extra point.

  “Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “He is an old fart. Five-for-five and a TD on the first drive. Man, we should get him a wheelchair and some oxygen before he collapses.”

  “Screw you,” Quentin said. Yassoud just laughed.

  The defense continued to pound the Wallcrawlers throughout the first half, shutting down Moussay-Ed. Michnik sacked him twice, and Tweedy got to him once with a devastating hit on a linebacker blitz.

  Pine made good on his pre-game plans, guiding the Krakens to scores on their next two drives. At the half, the Krakens were up 24-7. Pine added one more touchdown for good measure in the third quarter, a 32-yard strike to Scarborough. With each completion, Quentin grew angrier. He’d settled into his new-found role as a sideline spectator when late in the fourth quarter he heard Hokor’s distinctive bark.

  “Barnes!” the coach called. “Next series, you’re in!”

  Quentin stared at his coach, then back at the field. He was going in before Yitzhak. Was he second-string, then? Quentin’s pulse beat double-time as he watched the Krakens defense working against the ‘Crawlers. Kelley hadn’t made it past the third quarter before the ‘Crawlers coach pulled him. His replacement, second-year player Aniruddha Smith, didn’t fare much better. Smith completed a short hook for a first down at the Krakens 32.

  “Come on defense,” Quentin said through gritted teeth. He looked up at the clock — 1:12 left to play.

  He should have been able to predict what happened next — Tweedy showed blitz, but slid into coverage as Smith dropped back. Mum-O-Killowe, who’d already notched one sack, furiously drove his opposing lineman back as he reached for Smith. Smith dodged to the right, feeling the pressure. He threw a quick crossing pattern to a seemingly open tight end. Tweedy was playing his lame-duck act — he broke on the ball with a speed he hadn’t shown the entire game and picked off the pass. The crowd roared in approval. As Tweedy & Co. came off the field, Quentin sprinted on, so excited he could barely think.

  He stood in front of the huddle, a mix of first-string linemen and second-string skill players. Yassoud looked back at him, grinning. Denver and Milford were there, their armored eyestalks twitching in anticipation.

  Quentin’s head-up display activated automatically. Hokor’s yellow and black, one-eyed face appeared, lifelike and right in front of Quentin’s facemask.

  “Base-block dive right, Barnes,” Hokor said. “Keep it simple and hang onto the ball.”

  Quentin relayed the play to the Krakens. He broke the huddle and walked to the line. That feeling was back in his stomach again, the queasy feeling, the one he’d never known before that first full-contact practice two days earlier. His five Ki linemen looked like a giant wall of muscle. Yet if they were a wall, a fortress, beyond them were three Ki battering rams in white jerseys, waiting to blast through the offensive line and tear into him. Outside of them, two gigantic Human defensive ends, obviously heavy-G natives, so big they dwarfed the PNFL’s biggest players. The first play, at least, he wouldn’t have to worry about the front five.

  Quentin squatted, left foot forward, right foot back, as he reached his hands under Bud-O-Shwek. He pressed his left hand up, but Bud felt wet, Quentin pulled his hands back out — black wetness smeared the back of his left hand. Bud was bleeding. Should he call a time-out? He quickly looked at his linemen — black blood smeared the orange numbers on their black jerseys, most of which were ripped in one place or another. Some of their arms were up and ready to block, while a few arms hung limp and lifeless, broken. Yet none of the Ki had come out of the game.

  “Quentin let’s go!” Yassoud shouted from behind him. Quentin flashed a glance at the play clock — seven seconds before they’d be flagged for delay of game. He quickly wiped his hands on his jersey, then squatted and thrust his hands under Bud-O-Shwek.

  “Blue, thirty-two!” Quentin called. “Blue, thirty-two, HUT-HUT!”

  Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball. Quentin felt it slap into his hands. He pulled it to his stomach and turned as he stepped back. Yassoud surged forward, back of his right hand on his chest, elbow high, his left hand across his stomach. Quentin reached the ball out and Yassoud slammed his arms together, taking the hand-off and driving forward. He found no opening at the line, so he cut right. Vu-Ko-Will, the Krakens’ right tackle, drove his defender backwards. With nowhere else to go, Yassoud put his head down and followed Vu-Ko-Will. Defenders swarmed on him for a gain of only three.

  The Krakens huddled. The clocked ticked past 1:00 and kept rolling.

  “Screen pass,” Hokor said. “X-Left.”

  Quentin looked to the sidelines and tapped the “transmit” button on his right wrist. “Come on, Coach. Their secondary is soft, let me go deep.”

  Quentin saw the little holographic Hokor’s yellow fur suddenly stand on end.

  “Barnes run the plays I call! Screen pass! X-Left.”

  Quentin nodded, turned to the huddle and called the play. He lined up again, noticing suddenly that the butterflies were worse than before. His stomach seemed to shrink, reducing itself to half-size, then quarter-size. And now he had to pee. Quite badly.

  “Red ... sixteen! Red, sixteen! Hut-hut, HUT!”

  The line clashed together once again. Quentin dropped back, holding the ball up by his ear, ready to pass. Suddenly the line parted, and the white-jersied battering rams surged forward, multi-jointed legs pumping and multi-jointed arms quivering. The monsters roared with unbridled fury as they charged towards him. He backpedaled as if he was avoiding the rush — just before the Ki defenders reached him, he turned and threw the ball to Yassoud in the flat. Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, the left tackle and left guard, respectively, had released their blocks and moved to the flat to block for Yassoud.

  Yassoud caught the pass, but Quentin didn’t see the results of the play — three huge bodies bore down on him, driving him to the ground. Almost a ton of defensive lineman smashed into him as he hit the turf. His armor resisted most of the impact, but not all. His lungs felt compressed, like he couldn’t draw a full breath, and he couldn’t move a muscle.

  Quentin heard a whistle, but the weight remained. He felt the Ki’s hot breath on his face, and looked up into the hexagonal mouth and sharp teeth. The mouth flexed as the Ki spoke in its guttural tongue.

  “Grissach hadillit eo.”

  “Heard it all before, loser,” Quentin grunted out.

  The huge creature shifted its weight, and suddenly Quentin felt the tip of a chitinous arm reaching into his helmet. The arm moved quickly and he felt a searing pain across his cheek. More whistles sounded, and the lineman pushed off him.

  Quentin stood as he felt a hot wetness spread across his cheek. He touched it, and his fingers came away streaked in his own blood.

  The butterflies in his stomach dried up and crumbled to dust.

  Blossoming rage took their place.

  The Krakens started to huddle up, but Quentin walked past them, shouldering roughly past his own Ki linemen.

  “You want to play with me?” Quentin shouted, pointed his finger at the back of the Ki lineman who’d cut him. The name on the back of the jersey read “Yag-Ah-Latis.” The unblinking black eyespots on the back of its head saw Quentin, of course. Yag-Ah-Latis turned to face him.

  “You want to play with me, you salamander?”

  Yag-Ah-Latis simply put his bloody hand to his hexagonal mouth. A blackish tongue slithered out and licked the red blood clean.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw yellow flags fly. Harrah officials in their black-and-white striped jerseys flew between Quentin and the Ki lineman. Quentin was about shove them away and go after Yag-Ah-Latis when strong arms wrapped around his chest.

  “Easy, kid,” Yassoud said as he tried to hold Quentin back. “Come on now.”

  Quentin kept pointing and kept shouting. “You want to do that bush-league garbage with me?”

  Another flag flew. Three black-and-white jerseys fluttered in front of him, helping to holdi
ng him back. A distant part of Quentin’s rage-stoked brain found it interesting a flying creature could display such considerable strength. A ref pushed him and he almost fell backwards. Quentin shoulder-tossed Yassoud, sending the rookie running-back sprawling on the ground, then reared back to hit the ref that pushed him. Hokor’s voice in his ear screamed loud enough to make him wince.

  “Barnes, no! You hit a ref you’re suspended for the season!”

  The coach’s words snapped Quentin out of his one-track intentions. A season-long suspension? Hell, nothing was worth that. He helped Yassoud up and walked back to the huddle, casting glances over his shoulder at Yag-Ah-Latis as he did.

  “Barnes, that little act cost us fifteen yards,” Hokor growled in his earpiece. “Now take a knee and run out the clock.”

  Without looking at the sideline, Quentin reached down to his belt and calmly turned off his receiver. He looked up at the scoreboard and assessed the situation: 32 seconds to play, first-and-25 on the Krakens’ 45.

  As Quentin reached the huddle, he glared at his Ki linemen. Their eyespots stared back at him seemingly impassive. They didn’t seem bothered in the least that their quarterback had just been cut by an opposing lineman.

  “Hey,” Yassoud said. “Call a timeout, chief, you’re bleeding pretty bad.”

  “Shut up,” Quentin growled. “No talking in my huddle. X-flash left, double deep. Denver and Milford, get deep fast and get open.”

  The two Sklorno started to quiver with excitement.

  “Knock it off!” Quentin barked. “You want the whole stadium to know what we’re doing?” The two receivers instantly fell stock-still.

  “Shouldn’t we just take a knee?” Yassoud asked.

  Quentin reached out and grabbed Yassoud’s facemask, twisting it and pulling his head forward. “My huddle. You talk one more time and you’re out, got it?”

  Yassoud, surprised and wide-eyed, nodded once.

  Quentin let him go.