The Rookie

by Scott Sigler

  How would he run the offense in such poor footing? How would that affect the patterns of his receivers? Shizzle’s history lesson faded away. Quentin’s mind switched into full-out strategy mode, even before the shuttle touched down.

  • • •

  QUENTIN WALKED OUT of the Holy Light bar and onto the streets of Port Whitok. The Holy Light was similar to the Blessed Lamb back on Ionath, a Purist-only place where you could get heaping helpings of good food, religion, and reasons to hate every being except those that hailed from Purist Nation space. He ate politely, made friends. At the end, he asked if they could help him track down his parents. The people in the Blessed Lamb acted exactly the way Father Harry had, offering to help him unconditionally. Quentin still had trouble believing that Nationalites liked him and wanted to help him, even though he was an orphan. Being an orphan, it seemed, had little meaning to people who had fled the home planets in fear of their lives, leaving behind family, belongings and culture.

  Warburg had taken him to the Holy Light. Quentin excused himself shortly after dinner. Warburg meant well enough, but Quentin grew tired of the man’s constant verbal attacks on anyone and anything that was not Nationalite. Quentin hated the sub-races too, sure, but he didn’t need to talk about it every second of every day.

  The street outside the Holy Light might as well have been in Ionath City’s Human District, save for the fact that Port Whitok was perpetually under the blanket of night thanks to the huge volcanoes that spilled fumes into the upper atmosphere. Earthquakes, too, were a daily occurrence. But here, he’d learned, every building — even the huge stadium — rested on a mag-grav suspension system. So did the streets and any utilities like pipes, power transmitters or atmosphere processors. Quakes hit four or five times a day: things shook, everyone waited, things stopped shaking, everyone went on about their business. Port Ionath sat in the center of a tectonic plate, so significant ground cracks seldom posed a problem.

  The fact that 8.0 quakes shuddered the ground on a regular basis and that poisonous gas filled the air outside the dome didn’t bother the Quyth, 1.2 million of whom lived outside the curved downtown dome. It seemed these beings could live just about anywhere, and therein lay their advantage. For all his countrymen’s talk about being the High One’s “chosen people,” Humans couldn’t survive for ten minutes on the surface of Whitok.

  Quentin walked alone down the street, weaving through the crowds of Quyth, Ki, Human and Sklorno. He had a lot on his mind. Practice was going well, although he still had problems adjusting to the speed of his receivers and the defensive backs. His pass release had been slow when he arrived, and he hadn’t even known it. Now he got rid of the ball twice as fast as he had when with the Raiders. That helped, but it didn’t solve the main problem, which was adjusting his eyes to take in the whole field. Back home, he could see a twenty-yard radius and know, instantly, who could move how far within that space. Thanks to the amazing speed of the Sklorno race, now he needed to see a radius of forty to fifty yards, even more if he wanted to throw downfield. He had to drop back, instantly account for every Sklorno defensive back, know how far they could go, how high they could jump and at what angle, then make the decision whether or not to throw and still deliver the ball on target.

  What was worse, the Krakens seemed to simply tolerate him as opposed to accepting him as their leader. They were Pine’s players. But why did they follow that has-been? Quentin was a better quarterback, albeit less experienced, and everyone on the team knew it. They followed Pine’s commands without question — when Quentin commanded, he often got glares or bored looks before anyone complied. The Ki didn’t block as well for him as they did for Pine. The Human players were no better. Aside from Warburg, the Humans starters showed little respect — except for Mitchell Fayed, who ran every play as if his life depended in it.

  They were obviously all jealous of his talent. They wanted to keep their little status quo with their buddy Don Pine, and they resented new blood coming in to take over. Well, that was their problem, and they’d have to learn to deal with it. It was Quentin’s team now, and they’d all learn that come game time.

  He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear the flutter of Creterakian wings right beside him. He didn’t even know the little creature was there until it spoke.

  “Quentin Barnes?” asked a small voice.

  Quentin turned to look at the bat. It had light yellow skin with mottled brown spots, and wore a plain brown outfit. It hovered near his head, reminding Quentin of a big, noisy hummingbird — a disgusting one with six eyes.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “My name is Maygon, and I’d like a word with you. Or, more precisely, my employer would like a word with you.”

  “And who is your employer?”

  Maygon handed him a business disc. Quentin thumbed the button at the center, and a small hologram appeared above it: Maygon, talent scout, To Pirates.

  Quentin felt his heart beat faster. “You’re really from the Pirates?”

  “Yes, but it’s better if we don’t talk here. Your teammates might see. Follow me.” Maygon flew down a side street. Quentin followed him into the street, then into a small door. He had to duck to get through. Once inside he was able to stand, but just barely, his hair touching the ceiling. The place was full of Quyth workers in various states of intoxication. Some danced to strange music, some leaned against numerous three-foot-high poles that filled the room, and some laid on the floor. The smell of juniper filled the air.

  “What is this place?”

  “A gin joint,” Maygon said as he fluttered down atop one of the poles. He was the only Creterakian in the room. For that matter, Quentin was the only Human.

  “I forgot that you don’t know much about the galaxy. Gin, the same thing you Humans distill and consume, has a powerful narcotic effect on the Quyth. Most alcohol doesn’t affect them, but there’s something in gin that really knocks them out.”

  Quentin thought back to the time he’d seen an opium den back on Micovi. Human or Quyth Worker, stoners all looked the same.

  “It’s pathetic,” Quentin said.

  “If you think these Workers are bad now, you should see the ones that are hooked on raw juniper berries. At least the gin is distilled to take out some of the poisons.”

  Quentin took another quick look around, then turned to Maygon. “Okay, so what’s this about? What do the Pirates want?”

  “They want you.”

  The words hit like an injection of pure excitement. His body coursed with eagerness and hope.

  “What, they want me now?”

  “Not now, idiot,” Maygon said. “At the end of the season. Kirani-Ah-Kollok will give you a three-year contract.”

  A three-year contract, with the To Pirates, the greatest franchise in GFL history — his childhood dream come true!

  “That sounds great,” Quentin said. “Tell Mr. Kollok I’m very interested.”

  “Of course you’re interested, backwater. It’s the To Pirates. Everybody is interested. But there’s one catch.”

  “Which is?”

  “You have to make sure the Krakens don’t make the playoffs.”

  Quentin’s face furrowed. “But why not? What difference does that make?”

  Maygon fluttered his wings, a clear sign of irritation. “Because, backwater, if the Krakens make the playoffs and make it into Tier One, all players are protected for two years. That means that the Pirates, or any other team for that matter, can’t touch you unless the Krakens cut or trade you.”

  “Oh yeah,” Quentin said, some of his excitement fading away. “Yeah, I forgot about that.”

  “But it doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem,” Maygon said. “You guys are already one and one, and there’s no way you’re going to beat the Pioneers, so you’ll be two games out of first place. Just make sure the Krakens lose any games you start, and you’ll be wearing the blood red before you know it. Mr. Kollok thinks there’s big things in
your future. If I need to talk to you again, I’ll contact you, but we can’t be seen together. If the league finds out we’re talking, the Pirates will be fined and you’ll be suspended.”

  “Suspended?” Quentin quickly looked around the bar, but still saw only drunken Quyth Workers. “Why didn’t you say that before we started talking?”

  “Not my fault if you don’t know GFL regulations. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to go. I can’t stand the stink of Humans.”

  With that, Maygon fluttered up and flew out the door. Quentin stared after him. The To Pirates. The To Pirates! Winners of five GFL championships, more than any other team. The Pirates, with their legendary blood-red jerseys, they wanted him.

  Just make sure you lose the games you start.

  Those words pushed to the forefront of his brain, dissipating his excitement. Tank a game or two? Sure, they had one loss, but with a win against the Pioneers the Krakens were right back in the race.

  Quentin shook his head and walked out of the gin joint. He’d never thrown a game in his life, but odds were he wouldn’t have to. The Pioneers were the best team in the Quyth Irradiated Conference. They’d probably walk all over the Krakens’ defense. It wouldn’t come down to Quentin tanking the game.

  At least he hoped it wouldn’t.

  • • •

  HE STOOD AT THE FRONT of the pack. The Krakens players crammed into the tunnel. It seemed wider than the one at Ionath Stadium. Wider and newer. In fact, everything about the stadium reeked of newness, from the full wall of multi-race vending machines in the team lobby, to the smart-paint lockers that changed color to suit each player’s preference. The communications equipment was state-of-the-art, but what else would you expect from a stadium sponsored by a telecom company like Earth Ansible & Messenger?

  The stadium’s quality, however, faded to insignificance as the game-fever started to overtake Quentin. The Krakens players grunted, and clacked, and chirped, and bounced, and twitched with the anticipation of battle. Pheromones filled the air: the thick scent of Ki aggression combining with the tang of Human sweat. An electrical charge ripped through the unified mass of players, cycling from one end to the other and back again.

  “Time to draw the battle line,” Yassoud said from somewhere in the back, his voice muffled by the tight press of bodies packed into the tunnel. Human grunts acknowledged his words.

  “We will accept Condor’s gifts,” a Sklorno called out, referring to Condor Adrienne, the Pioneer’s star quarterback. The other Sklornos chirped excitedly, all of them bouncing up and down, unable to contain the energy that filled their bodies.

  The sensation built up quickly, thickly, so intense that Quentin couldn’t even think, he could only feel, like an animal waiting to pounce. It was like the last two games, but it was different — this time they were his to command, his to lead. This was the moment he’d waited for all of his life.

  The announcer introduced the Ionath Krakens.

  “Kree-goll-ramoud!” Mum-O-Killowe roared in his deep, warlike voice, and the team surged out of the tunnel to the deafening sound of boos. Small, hard items plinked off their armor. Bits of wet matter, both cold and hot, spilled down on them as they ran onto the field. Quentin covered his head as he looked up into the stands and saw an endless sea of midnight-blue and neon-green, the colors of the Whitok Pioneers.

  He reached the sidelines. The Krakens surged around him like a python, everywhere at once, pressing in, their eyes on him, their breath in his face and on his neck. They bounced and surged and punched and clawed like a tiger in a cage.

  Quentin started to speak, but John Tweedy beat him to it.

  “This is it,” Tweedy shouted. “This is it! We need this win, we want it more than they do! We must destroy this house!”

  The Krakens roared and clicked and jumped and pushed. Quentin felt a rush of anger — he was the quarterback, the team should be looking to him, not Tweedy.

  “Pine is out, so we’ve got to pull together,” Tweedy shouted. “This is war. We take the battle to them. Now let’s go kick their asses!”

  The team surged even tighter one last time, bouncing Quentin about like a cork in a typhoon. Then the huddle broke and the players wandered away, preparing for the game.

  Quentin fumed on the sidelines. They still didn’t give him enough respect. Well, they would all be jealous when he suited up in the blood red for Tier One season, and they were all at home, watching the holos.

  The Pioneers won the toss, received the kick, and started with the ball on their own 28. Condor Adrienne wasted no time, dropping back on the first play. His offensive line, a huge wall of Ki averaging 630 pounds, gave him all the time in the world. Adrienne launched a deep pass to a streaking receiver, who sprang high in the air. Davenport, the Krakens’ right cornerback, went up high as well, but she was just a step behind. The ball floated down just an inch away from her outstretched tentacles to drop perfectly into the hands of Bangor, the Pioneer’s receiver. The two players came down as one, but Davenport stumbled on impact. Bangor sprinted the remaining fifteen yards into the end zone.

  “Ain’t that a pain,” Yassoud said. The crowd roared like a thousand-pound bomb. Giant pompons and flags, all midnight blue lined with neon green, waved in the air, making the 181,500-plus crowd seem a single, massive anemone.

  The kick was good. The first play of the game found the Whitok Pioneers up 7-0.

  “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, men,” Mitchell Fayed shouted as the offense gathered to take the field. “Let’s get that one back.”

  Richfield returned the kick to the Krakens’ 30. The offense ran onto the field to the sound of concentrated boos. The pompons and banners vanished, like that same anemone pulling in its flowery tentacles at the first hint of danger.

  As the players huddled up, Quentin took one quick look around the stadium. “Boy, they love us here, don’t they?”

  “We won here two seasons ago,” said Yotaro Kobayasho, the tight end. “The crowd rioted. Twenty-seven beings died before they got it under control.”

  “They take this stuff seriously,” said Tom Pareless, the fullback. “You’ve got to love it.”

  “Okay boys, let’s take care of business,” Quentin said. He tapped his right ear-hole to activate the heads-up display inside his visor. Hokor had already specified the first twenty offensive plays. Quentin knew them by heart, having re-read the list at least a hundred times to make sure he knew every step of every player for each and every play (fifteen running plays and five short passing plays — not a bomb in the bunch). But he checked again, just to be sure. The first play: Y-set, belly right. He tapped the button and the list of plays disappeared from the visor.

  “Y-set, belly right. On one, on one, ready ...”

  “Break!”

  The Krakens moved to the line. The booing intensified. Pure hate distilled from 181, 500-plus.

  He surveyed the defense. The Pioneers ‘D’ had given up 21 points a game — they won games with Adrienne’s arm. The middle linebacker, Kagan the Crazy, was a thickly built Quyth Warrior and the most dangerous player on the team. He loved to blitz, especially delayed blitzes, and already had three sacks in the first two games. The defensive line was nothing special, allowing an average of 168 yards on the ground — hence Hokor’s emphasis on running. Hokor wanted to control the ball and keep Adrienne off the field as much as possible. Quentin scanned the defensive backfield and recognized his opponents for the afternoon: Palatine, the right corner, Tumwater, the safety, Westland, the free safety and Belgrade, the left corner.

  The stats and tendencies of all four defensive backs suddenly popped into his thoughts. Information seemed to flood into his brain as if from an outside pipeline. Belgrade had poor speed, she often gave up long passes over the top. Tumwater was playing with a hurt right tentacle, and in the last game she had avoided big hits. Palatine was a good right corner, but lacked the height and jumping ability to match premier receivers. Westland, a five-year
vet, built much thicker than most Sklorno, was known for her devastating hits.

  “Greeeeen, nineteen!” Quentin shouted, barely able to hear himself over the crowd. “Green, nineteen!”

  Quentin turned to the right and handed off to Fayed. The Pioneers’ linebackers came quickly on a run-blitz, knocking Fayed backwards, stuffing the play at the line.

  Quentin looked to the sidelines, but Hokor said nothing over the ear-speaker. Quentin tapped his heads-up display to double-check the next play: another run. He sighed and formed up the huddle.

  • • •

  AS THE FIRST QUARTER wore on, it became obvious that the Pioneers weren’t going to let Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed run wild. They run-blitzed, they stacked linebackers in the gaps. They didn’t use pass-coverage formations like the nickel package, even on third downs. The Krakens’ first two possessions were three-and-out. Quentin didn’t even throw his first pass until the end of the first quarter, a completion to Kobayasho for seven yards. The Pioneers clearly didn’t fear this rookie quarterback in his first start — they practically dared Hokor to beat them with the pass.

  Adrienne struck again in the second quarter, hitting Westchester for a 52-yard strike. Quentin burned with jealousy at the Pioneer quarterback’s long TD passes. He knew he could match the performance, especially against the run-oriented Pioneers defense, but he wasn’t going to question Hokor anymore. He’d run the plays that were called.

  He felt his pulse quicken when he took the field late in the second quarter and Hokor finally outlined a passing attack.

  “Y-set, double-post,” Hokor said. “Test them downfield. If it’s not open, don’t throw, you got it?”

  Quentin nodded as he moved to the huddle and called the play. The team seemed a bit listless in the huddle, as if they had already conceded defeat. The only way to get them going, Quentin knew, was with a sustained drive or a big play. He broke the huddle and lined up. The Pioneers still showed a run defense, leaving Hawick and Scarborough covered with only woman-to-woman. Quentin calmed himself, knowing he had to be cool to take advantage of this opportunity.