by Scott Sigler
The Wallcrawlers notched their second win of the year by topping the Quyth Survivors (3-4) 28-24.
The Ionath Krakens (5-2) made it four in a row, topping the Bigg Diggers (2-5) 27-19. Ionath rookie Quentin Barnes’ showed that the Krakens may be the team to beat in the future, but are they good enough to prevail in this week’s showdown against the Glory Warpigs? It’s winner-take-all at Warpigs Stadium — the ‘Pigs (6-1) are in sole possession of first place thanks to this week’s 32-10 drubbing of the Sheb Stalkers (4-3).
Orbiting Death (5-2) remain in the running for the title, but need the Warpigs to lose their last two games and the Krakens to lose as well. Death hung a 17-7 defeat on the Grontak Hydras(3-4).
DEATHS:
Percy Gaines, tight end for the Woo Wallcrawlers, died on a clean hit by Topinabee, the head-hunting defensive back for the Quyth Survivors.
WEEK #7 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:
Offense: Quentin Barnes, quarterback, Ionath Krakens. 19-of-35 for 305 yards, 2 TDs, 3 INTs. Also ran for 82 yards on 12 carries, 1 rushing TD.
Defense: Arkham, cornerback, Bigg Diggers. 8 tackles, 3 INTs.
GAME EIGHT: Ionath Krakens (5-2) at Glory Warpigs (6-1)
QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS
“BARNES, YOU’RE PLAYING much better, but you’ve got to improve your passing.”
“Come on Coach, I was the offensive player of the week! Can’t you lighten up a bit?”
“There is no lightheartedness in interceptions.”
Quentin nodded. “Yeah, that throwing for 305 yards and two TDs, that’s pathetic.”
Hokor’s fur fluffed, then settled. “Sure, those stats are great, but you threw three interceptions!”
“Come on, Coach! We won the damn game.”
Hokor’s fur ruffled again, and this time stayed ruffled. “The season hangs in the balance this week, Barnes. We win, we take over first place. The Warpigs have the best secondary in the league — they’re only allowing 150 passing yards a game!”
Quentin waved a hand dismissively. “Big deal,” he said. “They haven’t faced us yet, we’ll light ‘em up.”
“Pine’s well enough to dress this week.”
Quentin suddenly sat forward, eyes narrow. “I got us to this position, and you know it.”
Hokor’s eye turned translucent black.
“You’re not in charge here, Barnes, I am. You’re starting, you’ve earned it for this game. But I’m letting you know that if you keep throwing interceptions, I’m going to have to sit you down. I would have pulled you last week, but Yitzhak couldn’t have done any better. Pine can.”
Quentin felt his temper boiling up to the top, but he concentrated, holding it in check. “I’ve studied like mad for this game, I’ve worked the holo-sim over and over again. I know those defenders. I just won’t throw interceptions, how’s that?”
“Ball control,” Hokor said. “That’s what we need. We turn it over against them, we lose. You’re doing a great job, Quentin, but you’re still a little rough around the edges. Don’t take it personally.”
“Oh I don’t,” Quentin lied. “Not at all.”
He stood and walked out of the office.
Transcript from the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan & Akbar & Tarat the Smasher”
CALLER: I’m glad Barnes gets the start. Pine is washed up.
AKBAR: You moron! How can you say he’s washed up?
CALLER: He’s always hurt.
AKBAR: He got mugged, for crying out loud. Mugged. This wasn’t some on-field injury.
DAN: Well, there was the injury earlier this year.
AKBAR: Hey, you don’t recover from a broken femur that quick if you’re fragile, you know.
CALLER: But he can’t win the big games!
AKBAR: What, two Galaxy Bowls aren’t big enough for you?
TARAT: That was years ago, Akbar.
CALLER: Ancient history.
AKBAR: Well I can’t believe you people. Aside from Condor Adrienne, Pine is still the best quarterback in Tier Two.
DAN: But that’s Tier Two! The fans are sick of Tier Two, I’m sick of Tier Two, and so are you. Barnes is the key to Tier One, like I’ve been saying all along.
AKBAR: He’s too young.
DAN: Too young? Who cares! Look what he’s done so far. His come-from-behind win over the Orbiting Death kept the Krakens in the playoff hunt, and he dusted the Bigg Diggers.
AKBAR: Dusted? What game were you watching?
DAN: The one where he threw two TDs and ran for another, racked up 387 all-purpose yards.
AKBAR: Oh, that game. Is that the same one where he three interceptions? Why yes, I think it is. Three interceptions against a mediocre defensive secondary that gives up an average, an average of 280 yards a game? Are you kidding me?
TARAT: Well when I played the game, all we cared about was the win. Barnes got the win.
DAN: That’s right, he wins games.
AKBAR: Well, he’s not going to win against the Warpigs, I’ll tell you that for free. They’ve got the best secondary in all of football, not just Tier Two.
TARAT: One could easily argue that the Bartell Water Bugs or the Hullwalkers have the best secondary.
AKBAR: Am I in a house of morons, here? Am I? Those are Tier One teams contending for the championship this year. The best of the best. And the Warpigs’ secondary is right up there. Look at the stats: left corner Keluang, four interceptions; safety Wellington, three interceptions and a pair of sacks; free safety Alamo, two interceptions; and let’s not forget right corner Toyonaka, all-pro two years running, eight interceptions on the season, averaging more than one a game.
DAN: Look, Quentin Barnes is the future of this team. I said it before, I’ll say it again, I’ve said it all along, Barnes needs to start.
AKBAR: You’re crazy and stupid, Pine needs to start this game.
DAN: Well, we’ll see what happens at game-time. Caller, thanks for the call. Next we’ve got Amos from Jones 2. Hello, Amos, you’re on the space ...
• • •
QUENTIN RUBBED SWEAT from his eyes. He’d never faced a secondary like this one.
Arkham had robbed him blind last week, but the rest of the secondary had been mortal. The only reason Arkham had intercepted him three times was he wanted to go after her, he wanted to complete passes to her side of the field. Hokor had told him to avoid her, but Quentin hid from no one. You just don’t give up a whole side of the field. If he’d have stayed away from Arkham, gone to the easy side of the field, he probably would have come out with no INTs at all.
But the Warpigs were different — there was no easy side of the field. The Warpigs didn’t have anyone as good as Arkham, but they had four players who were almost in her ballpark. Four. Every time Quentin dropped back, every receiver seemed covered. And if they looked open, they probably weren’t. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, throwing two interceptions in the first quarter, including one that Keluang, the Warpigs’ corner, took to the house for a 33-yard touchdown. The secondary switched from woman-to-woman to zone in the same play, zone to woman-to-woman the next, two-deep with zone under the next. The ‘Pigs linebackers were also damn good, covering passes over the middle and in the flat, trying to take away dump-passes to the tight ends and running backs.
His arm hadn’t done anything for the Krakens. What had worked, however, were two pairs of Human feet — his and Mitchell Fayed’s. Late in the second quarter, Fayed already had 80 yards on the ground and a TD. Quentin had added a rushing TD and another 40 rushing yards, mostly from scrambling because there was no one to pass to. Those two touchdowns put 14 on the board that matched the Warpigs’ two TDs.
Second-and-4 on the Krakens’ 22. Quentin looked to the sidelines as the Krakens huddled up.
“Keep it on the ground,” Hokor said into his ear-piece. “Forty-six sweep right.”
Quentin breathed a sigh of relief, then felt a wave of anger swarm across his thoughts. What kind of a pansy w
as he turning into? He’d felt happy because Hokor called a run play? Quentin called the play in the huddle, then walked to the line, marveling at how this defense had taken him right out of his game.
“Red, twenty-one ... red, twenty-one, hut-hut!”
The ball slapped into his hands. Quentin stepped to his left, planted his left foot and pivoted backwards all the way around in a smooth motion. Holding the ball in front of him with both hands, he gently flipped it to Fayed, who moved left, five yards back and parallel to the line of scrimmage. Right guard Wen-E-Daret pulled to lead the block, taking a few steps back and then scuttling right, horizontal to the line. The big Ki lineman got in front of Fayed, leading the running back to the outside as they both looked to cut upfield. The Warpigs’ outside linebacker picked up the play and drove straight at Wen-E. The two collided, and Fayed slipped past the block, trying to find open space. Keluang, the Warpigs’ left cornerback, came up fast, a streaking blur of black jersey with teal numbers and a teal helmet. Fayed tried to cut outside, but Keluang dove and tripped up the running back, taking him down for a four-yard loss.
Third and 8.
Quentin’s stomach churned with butterflies. He had to pee. Tie game, passing down.
“Spread right, twenty-two post,” Hokor said. “Look for Kobayasho’s out-cut. Don’t go deep, Quentin, we need to hold onto the ball and play for field position.”
Quentin watched his team gather in the huddle. He looked back at the Warpigs, who were gathering in their own huddle.
Was Keluang limping? Was she hurt?
Quentin’s mind raced. If she was hurt, he had to go after her. He called the play and the Krakens lined up for the snap. Twenty-two post held a couple of options — Hawick on a deep post down the left side, Kobayasho on an out-cut, and Scarborough on a flag right, which would put her head-to-head against Keluang, deep down the field.
“Bluuuueeee, sixteen, hut-hut!”
Quentin dropped back, ball held high, eyes watching the entire field at once.
BLINK
The receivers sprinted downfield in that weird real-time slowmotion dance. He saw Kobayasho cut out to the right, where he already had a step on the linebackers. Hawick was covered like stink on a skunk. Quentin planted and stepped up — at fifteen yards, Scarborough broke right on her flag cut, a half-step ahead of Keluang.
Quentin fired the ball on a rope. The brown missile streaked through the air at eighty miles an hour, so fast that Keluang never had a chance at it. Scarborough turned back, the ball hit her in the chest so hard it knocked her over. She slid out of bounds twenty yards downfield.
First-and-10 on the Krakens’ 42. Three minutes to play in the half.
Keluang turned and ran back to her huddle. She was limping, just a bit. Her stats flashed through his head: four-year veteran, played two seasons of Tier Three ball with the New Orleans Saints of the Earth League. She’d clocked a 3.1 forty in full pads, while Scarborough’s best was 3.2. She could also jump twenty-two feet into the air. And, she’d missed two games last season with a fissured left lower leg.
The same leg she seemed to be favoring now.
“Nice pass,” Hokor said in his earpiece. “Now back to the ground-attack. Basic package, sweep left.”
Quentin looked to the sidelines. Hokor stood there, clipboard in hand. Pine stood next to him, helmet under his arm like a picture off of a Wheaties box. “But Coach, Keluang looks hurt, let’s go after her.”
“Keluang looks hurt?” Hokor said. He turned to Pine, who viciously shook his head no.
“Stick to the ground,” Hokor said, turning back to look onto the field. “Pine says Keluang is faking it.”
“Faking it?”
“Just run the plays that I call, Barnes!”
Quentin jogged back to the huddle, his eye on the play clock. He had to get this play off in fifteen seconds or suffer a delay-of-game penalty.
Faking? What defensive back would fake an injury and allow a twenty-yard pass? She wasn’t faking, she was hurt.
“Okay, kiddies,” Quentin said to his huddle. “Let’s get this play off quick. Y-set, roll out left, double post. Scarborough, does Keluang seem slow to you?”
“Yes,” Scarborough said. “Not as fast as before.”
“Then you bust your little rear end downfield, got it? We’re going to take the wind out of their sails right now.”
Quentin broke the huddle and sauntered up behind center. A quick ba-da-bap on the center’s carapace.
“Red, twelve, red, twelve, hut-hut!”
The trenches clashed as Quentin, a lefty, dropped back and rolled out to his left, eyes constantly scanning downfield. Hawick looked open for a second, but the free safety came over to help out the right cornerback, taking away that option. Fayed ran a five-yard out pattern, staying in front of Quentin, while Tom Pareless shuffled to his left, looking to block the first defender that broke through the offensive line. The right defensive end slipped past Kill-O-Yowet’s block, then Pareless undercut the multi-legged Ki with a nasty head-first dive. The Ki crumbled clumsily to the ground, leaving Quentin completely free of pressure.
Scarborough was already forty yards downfield.
And Keluang was a full-step behind.
Quentin launched the ball, a deep, arcing, perfect spiral.
“Come on, baby,” he whispered as the ball started its descent.
Suddenly, Keluang’s small limp vanished. Her legs moved perfectly as she strode downfield, her eyes turned back to the ball.
“No,” Quentin whispered as the ball continued downward.
Keluang and Scarborough simultaneously leapt upwards, but Keluang leapt higher.
She picked the ball out of the air. The two Sklorno fell to the ground, just as Quentin dropped to his knees.
“Crap-crap-crap-crap!” He screamed, leaning forward until his helmet touched the ground. “Crap-crap-crapcrap!”
“Barnes!” Hokor screamed in his earpiece. “Get your worthless face off my field now!”
Quentin stood, ignoring the crowd’s boos as he ran off the field. He didn’t bother stopping to talk to Hokor, he just ran to the bench and sat.
He wasn’t going anywhere else for the rest of the game, and he knew it.
Pine jogged over and sat next to him. “Q, you’ve got to stop going for the home-run on every play!”
“Go somewhere else and die,” Quentin hissed as he pulled off his helmet. He wanted to blame Pine, blame anyone, for that matter. Wounded duck ploy, and he’d fell for it hook, line and sinker.
“I warned you,” Pine said. “But as usual, you don’t listen.”
“Scarborough couldn’t catch a ball if I shoved it right down her throat.”
“No you don’t,” Pine said. “Don’t go blaming her. You threw to a covered receiver, against a defender that has four interceptions this season.”
“Six,” Quentin said morosely. “That was her second of the day.”
“Right, six. I told you all week you can’t play home-run ball against the Warpigs, so don’t you dare blame your teammate for your mistake.”
“Didn’t I tell you to go somewhere else?” Quentin said, turning and snarling at his friend.
“No,” Pine said with a smile. “You told me to go somewhere else and die. Big difference.”
Quentin wanted to knock those smiling teeth into a little pile on the ground. Pine started laughing, and Quentin wanted to tear his head right from his shoulders.
“Take it easy, Q,” Pine said. “You’ve bailed me out enough this season, let me bail you out this time.”
“Oh sure,” Quentin said. “Like you can just go in there and tear up their secondary!”
Pine nodded. “Just watch me. You’re playing their game. Now I’m going to make them play mine.”
• • •
THE WARPIGS MANAGED to add insult to injury by marching downfield for a touchdown before the half, making the score 2114. That made Quentin’s stats perfect — three interceptions, all thre
e resulting in touchdowns. Crap-crap-crap.
His mind hunted for someone to blame, but this time the blame fell on only one being.
Himself.
It was his second start in a row, his fourth start of the season. He’d had starter’s reps in practice for two full weeks. He couldn’t blame lack of practice time. He couldn’t blame poor coaching — for crying out loud, he’d been warned right before the play that took him out of the game.
No one to blame but himself. It was a new feeling, and one he didn’t like at all. Not one bit. It occurred to him, suddenly and savagely, that for most of his problems he’d really had no one to blame but himself all along.
• • •
IN THE SECOND HALF, Pine wasted no time. He opened up with an entire series of X-set, which put four wide receivers on the field. The Warpigs started out in woman-to-woman, which left the slower free safety covering either Mezquitic or the blindingly fast rookie Denver. Pine showed his repaired legs were as good as new, rolling out to escape inside blitzes and giving Denver more time to make long crossing routes where her superior speed gained her a couple of steps.
His first three plays were three completions, for seven, sixteen, and nine yards. He scrambled on the fourth play, a very un-Pine thing to do, picking up a first down before sliding to the ground to avoid a hit. The home crowd ate it up. After a half of interceptions and incompletions, they screamed their heads off for anything positive.
Quentin watched as Hawick drove deep downfield against Toyonaka, the two speedsters a combined flash of orange and black, white and black and teal. The ball was in the air before Hawick even stopped, and when she turned it hit her dead in the chest. Toyonaka was faster, but at such speeds her reaction time wasn’t enough to match deadly pin-point passing on a timed route.
Fifteen yards.
Pine ran the same play again for twelve yards.
He was merciless — he ran the same play a third time, but pump-faked when Toyonaka anticipated the throw. Hawick shot downfield as Pine launched a soft fade pass. Toyonaka tried to catch up, but Hawick brought the ball in as delicately as a mother holding her new baby.
