by Scott Sigler
QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS
THE HYDRAS WERE 0-1, but drastically better than the Woo Wallcrawlers. The Hydras wore white jerseys with bright red numbers and yellow trim. The jerseys looked normal, but their leg armor was painted a bizarre red-and-yellow checkerboard pattern. Red facemasks adorned pure red helmets free of any logo.
Quentin watched from the sidelines, his black jersey and orange leg armor pristine and unblemished with dirt or sweat or blood or the blue streaks from the plants that made up the playing field.
Pine’s uniform, on the other hand, was far from clean. A cut on his left forearm had spilled blood all over his shoes and his orange leg armor. He’d been sacked three times. Iomatt-blue stains and dirt marks spotted his uniform. His black jersey had come half-untucked and he’d never bothered to fix it.
Pine had taken a beating. In addition to the three sacks, he’d been knocked down four times and hurried ten. His classic pocket-passing style ran into problems against the Hydras’ defense. The Hydras’ secondary played a lot of woman-to-woman, bump-and-run style, taking away Pine’s accurate short-passing game. That gave the defensive line more time to get to him, which had resulted in the pounding he’d taken thus far. Hokor countered with running plays to keep the defense on its toes. The woman-to-woman coverage also meant receivers were eventually going to get free — Pine had torched the secondary with two long TD passes, putting the Krakens up 23-17. Both TDs went to the right side of the field, to Scarborough. The Hydras’ star cornerback, Wichita, had shut down Hawick on the left side all day long.
Quentin watched with mixed emotions. He knew he could have used his speed and mobility to avoid the defense. Each time Pine went down, Quentin felt a smug satisfaction that Hokor was sleeping in the bed he had made for himself. Yet at the same time, Quentin wanted to win — when Pine threw a completion, he found himself hissing “yes!” between clenched teeth. Pine kept getting knocked down, knocked down hard, and he kept getting back up. Slower each time, it seemed, but he refused to stay down.
The game was a real nail-biter, but Hokor seemed to have things under control. Up 23-17 with 1:41 to play, ball on the Krakens’ 32, Hokor relied on running plays to Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed. sFrom the sidelines, Quentin saw where he got his nickname. The punishing Hydra defense brought it all against Fayed, delivering big-time hit after big-time hit. Yet after each bone-crushing impact, some so devastating they made other players wince just from watching, Fayed simply popped up and ran back to the huddle. He smashed into the line again and again, dishing out as many hits as he took.
Paul Pierson, Fayed’s backup, had also seen several carries. Quentin hadn’t been that impressed, and wondered if Yassoud could do better.
On second-and-six, Pine dropped back and stood tall in the pocket. Wichita, the defensive back, lined up over Hawick, took two steps back as if in pass coverage, then came full speed on a blindside blitz.
As Pine checked through his receivers, Wichita closed the fifteen-yard distance in only two seconds, a white-red-yellow blur of speed. Pine saw the blitz at the last second and fired a pass to Fayed in the flat, just before Wichita dove at Pine’s legs. Even from the sidelines, despite the roar of another 185,000-plus capacity crowd, Quentin heard the snap.
Wichita hit Pine at the thigh, seemingly bending him in half and driving him to the side. His orange-colored leg armor split into two pieces and spun away like large chunks of shrapnel. The two players hit the ground, Wichita on top, Pine already howling in pain. As Wichita rolled off, Pine’s hands flew to his thigh. His leg suddenly seemed to have an extra joint — the thigh flopped sickeningly halfway between the hip and the knee, more like a Ki’s leg than a Human’s. At this new, unnatural joint, his cool-suit stuck out at a weird angle. A growing circle of bright blood stained the microtubule fabric.
Whistles blew as Harrah refs swarmed to the downed quarterback. Doc flew out onto the field, the medsled stretcher automatically following slowly behind. A hush fell over the crowd as Pine rolled to one side, then the next, clutching his leg, his face a scrunched-up vision of agony.
As Doc reached Pine, Quentin noticed the Sklorno players trembling on the field. Not the excited trembling he’d seen before, but something else, something disturbing. They huddled together, Kraken and Hydra both, raspers linked like a pile of entangled snakes. All but Wichita, who stood a few yards away from Pine. Her tentacle-arms were spread out to her sides, and her eyes looked up to the sky. Quentin didn’t know what to make of the strange behavior.
Doc put a small device to Pine’s neck. One second later Pine stopped moving. Thin wires snaked out from the gravsled, sliding under Pine and lifting him up off the ground. With Pine dangling motionless underneath, the medsled glided noiselessly off the field towards the end-zone tunnel, Doc flying gracefully by its side.
“Barnes,” Hokor called loudly.
Quentin blinked a few times, not sure if he’d heard right. He was benched. Yitzhak would be going in, not him.
“Barnes!”
Quentin pulled on his helmet as he ran to the coach. Without being told, he knelt on one knee so he could look Hokor in the eye. Hokor put a pedipalp on Quentin’s shoulder and drew him close.
“Barnes, we’re in a bad spot. We need to play for field position and let our defense win this thing, you understand?”
Quentin nodded vigorously.
“You run the plays that I call, and we’ll win this game.”
Quentin nodded again.
“If we have to pass, they’re going to come hard. That’s why I need you now, Yitzhak can’t scramble the way you can. R-set, dive right, tell Fayed to get that first down.”
Quentin stood and ran onto the field. The crowd roared approval, but he didn’t hear them. A glance at the scoreboard told him Fayed had picked up five yards on the last play, making it third-and-one. He felt like he was floating instead of running. He reached the huddle. It was different this time — all first-string players — dirty, bloody, intense and mean. This wasn’t garbage time. Every one of the ten sentients in the huddle wanted to win. They looked at him, some with suspicion, some with hope. Warburg smiled at him and gave him a quick thumbs-up.
“R-set,” Quentin said, surprised to hear his voice crack like a pubescent teenager. He cleared his throat. “R-set, dive right. We need a first down here! On two, on two, ready?”
“Break,” the huddle called in unison.
Quentin walked to the line, adrenaline racing through his body, making him feel like a vibrating holosign. The Human and Quyth linebackers looked at him like he was a mortal enemy, the Ki defensive linemen looked at him like he was a meal.
The Krakens lined up with two tight ends, Tom Pareless at fullback and Fayed at tailback. Hawick lined up wide left, Wichita only two yards off in bump-and-run coverage.
“Blue, fifteen!” Quentin’s eyes swept the defense. “Blue, fifteen!” The Hydras lined up in a 5-2 with the defensive backs up close — a run-stopping formation. The right cornerback played in tight, and the free safety was cheating up to the line. Like everyone in the stadium, they knew it was a run, that Fayed would get the ball. That was the safe thing to do, the smart thing to do. Quentin’s mind flashed a light-year a minute, calculating the positions and intended directions of each defensive player.
“Hut-hut!”
BLINK
The world around him slowed to half-speed. The ball slapped into his hands and the line exploded into a melee. Quentin pivoted for the handoff, and as he did he saw the free safety drive forward and the right cornerback come in for a run-blitz. The Hydras hoped to jam the off-tackle hole, and the cornerback would keep Fayed from bouncing to the outside. Fayed would have nowhere to run.
Quentin reached the ball back for Fayed — then at the last second, he pulled it just out of Fayed’s reach.
Fayed tried to turn, looking to the ground as if there was a fumble, but his forward momentum carried him into the line. The free safety slipped through the ho
le and hit Fayed at the waist. The blitzing cornerback came in fast, and saw too late that Quentin still had the ball.
Quentin tucked the ball and drove to his right. The cornerback planted her feet, but he was by her before she could change direction. As soon as he moved past her he cut up-field at an angle. The corner chased him — he’d never seen a player change direction that fast. The strong safety came at him from the defensive backfield, eliminating any cutback. The Quyth Warrior outside linebacker, number 52, Bilis the Destroyer, went into a side-roll, quickly moving back at an angle that put him in front of Quentin. Bilis popped out of his roll, suddenly on all fours, strong pedipalps sticking out and ready.
Quentin threw a head-and-shoulders juke to his left, to the inside. Bilis bought it, and Quentin instantly drove to his right, to the outside, in a cut that would leave the linebacker grasping air.
Bilis the Destroyer instantly matched the move.
No way, Quentin had time to think before Bilis leveled him, catching him under the chin and knocking his head back. Quentin’s feet flew out from under him as his body spun backwards until the back of his head smashed into the ground. He bounced once and rolled to an ungraceful stop.
BLINK
The world rushed back to normal, some unseen force seeming to tap off the “mute” button in his brain — the sound of 185,000-plus hit him like a hammer.
He stood up, energy pumping through every molecule in his body while pain radiated through his brain. He’d thrown that same move at least a thousand times in his PNFL career. It always left the defenders in the dust. But the Quyth Warrior linebacker ... he’d never seen such amazing lateral movement. Bilis the Destroyer had matched his in-cut and his out-cut as if he were Quentin’s mirror-image. On all-fours, their low center of gravity let them move side-to-side far faster than any Human.
The Hydras called a timeout, stopping the clock at 1:36. The ref signaled first down and the chains moved forward. Quentin jogged back to the huddle. He’d picked up eleven yards on the play.
Hokor’s faced popped to life in the holographic heads-up display.
“Barnes, what the hell was that?”
“A first down, Coach.”
“I called a dive-right.”
“That’s what I ran, Coach,” Quentin said as he reached the huddle. “Only I missed the handoff, so I improvised.”
“Well stop improvising!” Hokor screamed so loud Quentin wondered if Quyth Leaders had vocal cords that could rupture.
“Okay, Coach, no problem.”
“Good. Same play. And this time, hand it off.”
First-and-10 on the Krakens’ 43. Quentin turned to the huddle. The Humans were smiling at him, the Sklorno stared at him with newfound reverence, and the Ki just looked at him in their unemotional way.
“Okay, let’s do it again, X-set, dive right, on one.”
“You gonna hand it off this time?” Fayed asked without a hint of irritation.
“Yeah. Get me some yards.”
Fayed nodded once.
The Krakens lined up. He handed off to Fayed: this time the free safety stayed off the line, and the right corner waited, making sure Quentin didn’t have the ball. Bilis the Destroyer came free and swung his arm in a vicious hook that caught Fayed in the throat, lifting the Human off the ground and snapping him back after a three-yard gain. Quentin watched in horror, fully expecting Fayed to lay on the ground with a broken neck. But the whistles blew, Fayed popped up good as new and ran back to the huddle, smiling all the way.
Hydras used their second time out: 1:29 to go.
Hokor’s voice came over the transmitter. “Off-tackle left, tell Fayed to keep that ball covered up.”
Quentin nodded and called the play in the huddle. The crowd roared like a hundred take-off rockets, so loud their combined voices shook the very ground. The ball snapped into his hands. As he turned he watched the defenders — once again they were selling out, coming to stop the run and only the run. Quentin handed off to Fayed, who avoided a would-be tackler that broke through the line. Fayed spun to his left, back inside, but there was nowhere to run. He plowed into the line for no gain.
The Hydras used their last timeout.
Third down and seven on the 46, 1:22 to play.
Quentin reached to his belt and tapped the transmit button. “Coach, they’re bringing everyone to stop the run. I can do a quick slant for the first down.”
Hokor’s face appeared in the heads-up display. “Dive left,” he said.
“Coach, we won’t get a first down! They’ll get the ball back.”
“We chew up another thirty seconds, punt, and make them work the length of the field.”
“But Coach -”
“Hand off the damn ball!” Hokor’s voice was loud enough to make Quentin flinch. The Coach’s fur puffed out and his eye flooded a deep black.
Quentin walked to the huddle. “Okay, okay, we’ve got this in the bag. X-set dive left, on two, on two. Break!”
The Krakens jogged to the line. The Hydras players looked like characters from some war movie, dug-in deep and ready for a heroic last stand against the enemy. The ballgame hinged on this one play. If the Hydras stopped the Krakens here, they’d get the ball back with just under a minute to play. No timeouts, but they’d have a chance to win. If the Krakens got the first down, Quentin would just take a knee on the next two plays and the game was over. If they got the first down, they controlled the win instead of giving the Hydras a chance to snatch the victory.
Quentin stood behind the center and surveyed the defense.
“Red, nineteeeeen! Red, nineteen!”
All the defenders moved up to the line. The free safety and the safety stood only a few yards back from the linebackers, who had lined up just two yards off the line of scrimmage. With the defense packed in like that, there was nowhere for Fayed to run.
As Quentin bent to take the snap, he stole a glance at Wichita, the Hydras’ cornerback: she was only one yard off the blindingly fast Hawick. Too close. Hawick could run a seven-yard slant in less than a second. All Quentin had to do was take the snap, stand and throw as fast as he could, and Hawick would be seven yards downfield.
“Flash! Flash!” Quentin called. Krakens’ heads turned to look at him in amazement. “Blue thirty-two, blue-thirty two!” With the audible, the Krakens players had their new instructions. Heads turned back to face front. He’d win this game and win it right now.
“Hut, hut!”
The ball snapped into his hands. Quentin stood, turned and fired. Hawick was a blur, Wichita a half-step behind. The ball ripped through the air like a laser — but a misguided laser, just a bit behind the target. Wichita closed so fast Quentin’s mind couldn’t even process the movement. Hawick reached back, but Wichita cut in front of her, snatched the ball out of the air, and in the same motion cut to the outside and angled for the Krakens’ end zone.
Quentin turned reactively to pursue, but it was already too late — in the time it took him to change direction and head downfield, Wichita already had a ten-yard lead. Hawick, the only player with a hope of catching her, gave chase, but didn’t have enough time to catch up. Wichita ran the fifty yards to the end zone in less than four seconds.
Hydras 23, Krakens 23.
The Hydras’ kicker, Kash Wallace, and the kicking team ran onto the field. The sandpapery sound filled the stadium, along with other derisive noises from the smattering of other species present. It was the loudest “boo” Quentin had ever heard. He stood there, dumbfounded.
Hokor’s face appeared once again in the heads-up display. His fur was puffed out all the way, but there was nothing cute about it this time. His eye was blacker than even a Ki’s unblinking spot. “Barnes! Get your stupid, inbred face off my field.”
Quentin turned and ran to the sidelines, feeling like a condemned man walking his last mile. Teammates stood on the sidelines, glaring at him, some shaking their heads in disbelief, some pounding the ground in rage.
He sai
d a quick prayer to the High One, but the High One wasn’t listening — Wallace’s extra point sailed through the uprights.
Hydras 24, Krakens 23, 1:13 to play.
Special teams ran onto the field for the kickoff.
Quentin ran to Hokor and kneeled down. Hokor’s eye swirled with colors: blacks and reds, the colors of anger and hate. “What did I tell you to call?”
“Dive left.”
“And what did you run?”
“Slant pass left.”
Hokor nodded and glared. Something about the look said I told you so. Quentin felt his face turn red, and he dropped his head in shame. He’d just cost his team the game.
“You want to prove yourself? ” Hokor said. “Well here’s your chance. We’ve got a minute left to win this game. We’ve only got one timeout left. Your arm is going to do it for us.”
Quentin looked up. Hokor was putting him back in, back in to win the game. Quentin felt a new rush of adrenaline. This is what he was born to do.
“I won’t screw up again, Coach.”
Hokor nodded. “If you do, Gredok will probably have you killed.”
The crowd roared as the kickoff sailed through the air. Richfield caught the ball at the five. She ran up-field, then cut right. The Hydras closed in, weaving through blockers or just running them over. Quentin recognized the Hydra with the number 23 — Wichita — dodge around blockers as if they weren’t even there.
Richfield cut back inside and jumped high to avoid the tackle, but Wichita read the cut and launched herself through the air. She hit Richfield dead-center and at top speed — Richfield’s torso snapped backwards, her legs still moving forward.
First-and-ten on the Kraken’s fifteen.
Quentin led the offense onto the field. Arioch Morningstar, the Kraken’s kicker, could hit from 45-yards out, sometimes from 50. That meant the Krakens had to get at least to the Hydra’s 35-yard line to get into Morningstar’s range, and they had 1:08 in which to do it.
“X-set,” said Hokor’s voice in Quentin’s ear. “Pulse-34, work the sidelines.”
