by Scott Sigler
Three and out.
Quentin had to pee so bad he could barely stand up straight.
“Here we go, kid,” Pine said as he pulled on his helmet. “It’s show time.”
Richfield vibrated with anticipation as the punt sailed through the air, but it had excellent hang-time and she was forced to call a fair catch at the Krakens’ 35.
Quentin and the offense ran onto the field for the first time.
“JUST WHAT IN the heck is going on here, Masara?”
“I don’t know, Chick, but it looks to me like Donald Pine is calling the play in the huddle.”
“But I thought Pine wasn’t even practicing with the team.”
“That’s what everyone was told, Chick. But Krakens Coach Hokor the Hookchest and Earthlings’ Coach Pata the Calculating are two of the trickiest strategists in the game. Word has it that Pata the Calculating has something up his many sleeves — he wouldn’t allow any media in his practices for the last two weeks. And as for Pine not practicing with the team, Maybe Hokor was just being disingenuous.”
“Hey now, easy on the big words, Masara!”
“It’s not a big word, it’s a very common -”
“Hold on there Vocabulistic Vinnie! The Krakens are lining up for the play, and — what the heck, that’s Mitchell Fayed’s number in the backfield.”
“Someone get us a close-up of that guy!”
“Well grease me up like a well-used sock monkey, Masara, that’s Quentin Barnes at tailback!”
“Is he crazy, Chick? The defense will tear him apart!”
“Well, this makes about as much sense as a Sklorno receiver walking unclothed into a bedbug convention, but it’s definitely a new wrinkle that I don’t think the Earthlings are ready for.”
“The defense looks a bit anxious, Chick.”
“That they do Masara, like the mother of three hot triplets who just realized her jailbait daughters are well into puberty and drawing the attention of the void-bike gang next door.”
“Chick, take it easy ...”
“Sorry, Masara, sorry folks at home, here go the Krakens in I-formation ...”
• • •
QUENTIN LIGHTLY RESTED his hands on his slightly bent knees. He stood directly behind Tom Pareless, who crouched in a three-point stance. Donald Pine looked down the left side of the line, then the right, barking out signals.
“Blue, sixteen! Bluueeee, sixteen!”
The play was an off-tackle left — away from Chok-Oh-Thilit, a strategy the Krakens would try to follow for most of the day. No point in wasting time, Quentin had to get it over with if he was going to be effective.
“Hut-HUT!”
Pine turned as Pareless drove to the left. Quentin followed him, his eyes fixed on the ball held in Pine’s outstretched hands.
Don’t fumble don’t fumble don’t fumble–
Quentin raised his right elbow high, the back of his hand on his chest. His left hand rested against his lower stomach, thumb forward — the way he’d been taught to take a handoff. Pine stabbed the ball towards his stomach, holding it so that the ball’s points were parallel to Quentin’s body. Quentin’s left hand cupped the bottom of the ball as his right elbow snapped down, trapping the ball between his thick forearms. Only after he felt the ball was snugly in place did he look up to run.
Pareless pushed through the hole and notched a solid fit on the linebacker. Quentin ran straight into the hole. Like some evil magical portal, the hole instantly vanished. Defenders appeared in front, on his right and left — Quentin put his head down and drove forward.
Wham WHAM!
Two hits in rapid succession, one from the left, the next from the right, as the defensive tackle and then the middle linebacker smashed into him. Quentin’s right arm went instantly numb, but he held onto the ball as the two big bodies dragged him down. He wound up on his back, looking straight up into the face of his countryman Alonzo Castro.
“What in the void could you be thinking, boy?” Alonzo asked, a look of concern on his face. “You need to get your tail back behind that big offensive line of yours, or you’re going to get hurt.”
Quentin’s right arm felt all tingly and hot — not in any shape to push Alonzo away — so he laid still and tried to play it cool.
“Good to see you again,” Quentin said. “But if anybody’s going to get hurt, it’s going to be you when I run you over.”
Alonzo laughed, not an evil laugh, but as if an old friend had told him a good joke. He stood and reached out a hand.
“We’ll see about that,” Alonzo said as he helped Quentin off the ground.
Quentin ran back to the huddle. He could barely move his arm, but the tingling feeling was already fading away. If that was the best hit Alonzo had to offer, Quentin thought me might make it through the game after all. He ran to the back of the huddle to stand in the tailback’s spot, thinking how strange it was to watch someone else call the play.
“Quentin!” Pine barked. “Take it easy when I hand you the freakin’ ball, you almost took my hand off.”
“Oh ... sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it. You feel better now?”
The question confused Quentin for just a second, then he realized the butterflies were gone and he no longer had to pee.
“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I guess I do.”
Pine nodded, just once, then his eager eyes swept the offensive players. “Okay, they’re already confused by Quentin, and they’ll be looking for him, so we go play-action right, towards Chok-Oh-Thilit, hot-pass to Warburg.”
“At least someone will throw me the ball,” Warburg said.
“Shut up, racist” Pine said. “Keep your mouth shut in my huddle, got it?”
Warburg glared, but nodded.
“Okay, on two, on two, ready ...”
Quentin lined up in the I-formation once again. Pine barked out the signals. The linemen smashed together. Quentin drove to the right, left hand on his chest, left elbow high. Pine stabbed the ball towards his stomach again and Quentin brought his forearms together, except this time there was no ball at his stomach. He put his head down and leaned forward, charging into the line. He ran just outside Wen-Eh-Deret’s right side: the hit came from his right, enough to spin him around, then a freight train smashed into his chest. The world spun in a wild circle, and something hit him hard in the left shoulder — it took him a full second before he realized that last hit had been the ground.
Quentin gazed up into the black eyes of Chok-Oh-Thilit, who looked down at him the way a spider looks at a bug caught in its web.
Alonzo’s grinning head appeared next to Chok-Oh-Thilit’s. “Don’t he just hit like a tank?”
“My ... gramma ... hits harder,” Quentin said, although his voice cracked just a bit when he said it. Alonzo helped him up once again.
In the huddle the Krakens were excited and eager for the next play. Quentin realized he had no idea if the play had been successful — he looked at the scoreboard: first-and-10 on the Earthlings’ 44.
Warburg stood and looked back at Quentin. “So that’s what it’s like to catch a pass.”
Pine reached out and slapped Warburg hard in the head. “Dammit, Warburg, shut your pie-hole!” Warburg turned and bent, leaning over in standard huddle position so the players behind him could see Pine.
“Okay, now we go for the throat,” Pine said. “B-set, twenty-two post. Hawick, I’m putting the ball in the air whether you’re covered or not, you go get it or I’ll never throw you another pass as long as you live.”
A silence filled the huddle. Quentin just stared, amazed at Pine’s ruthlessness — it would have been like telling a Holy Man that if he didn’t catch the ball he’d been damned to hell by St. Stewart himself. Hawick started to shake.
“Shake all you want, sissy girl, every defensive back on the field is going to know it’s coming to you when I drop back, and it doesn’t matter — you don’t catch the ball, and you’re excommunicated from the Church
of Donald Pine, do you understand?”
Hawick’s raspers rolled and unrolled involuntarily, over and over again.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Hawick chirped.
Pine nodded once. “On three, on three, ready ...”
The Krakens lined up in a pro-set, Quentin five yards behind Pine and two yards to his left, Tom Pareless five yards behind Pine and two yards to his right. Warburg lined up at left tight end, and Scarborough split left. Wide right, all alone, stood Hawick, still shaking. The defensive backs keyed on Hawick’s shake — Toronto called a defensive audible. The backs shifted: Toronto moved up one yard off Hawick for woman-to-woman coverage, while Volgograd lined up ten yards behind her — Hawick was facing double coverage.
“Red, twelve!” Pine shouted. “Red, twelve.”
Alonzo jumped forward after the call, lining up over the left guard and showing blitz. If he came, he was Quentin’s responsibility. Alonzo stood quickly and pointed at Quentin.
“Here it comes, pretty-boy! Here comes the hurt!” Alonzo squatted, fists shaking with adrenaline rage, eyes wide as a nocturnal predator.
“Hut-huuuut ... hut!”
Pine took the snap and dropped back smooth as silk. Quentin stepped forward, with one step to the left, legs bent and hands up in front of him. The left defensive tackle drove towards the center as Alonzo took a small step back and moved quickly to his right, away from center.
A linebacker stunt, Quentin thought.
The slashing defensive tackle drew blocks from both Sho-Do-Thikit, the left guard, and Bud-O-Shwek, the center. Warburg blocked the defensive end. Alonzo stepped up through the sudden opening, coming free and unobstructed like a rabid bearcat.
Block him or Pine goes down, Quentin thought quickly as he stepped up and leaned forward. Alonzo bent forward at the exact same moment, bringing his right arm forward in a vicious undercut. Quentin recognized the rip-move at the last second — Alonzo would power by his right side and have a free shot at Pine. Quentin lunged to his right, desperately trying to correct his mistake. Alonzo hit him with all of his considerable strength, driving his rip move from his feet through his thick thighs to his powerful arm, all with a strong twist of the hips to make the move as concussive as a heavyweight’s knockout uppercut. Quentin was off-balance from his desperate dive, and without his feet planted he had no strength to counter the move — Alonzo’s forearm hit him under the chin, lifting him off his feet and knocking him backwards. Quentin saw nothing but bright lights and felt a quick tug on his chin before his helmet spun through the air like a decapitated head. He landed on his butt and rolled backwards, feet-over-head. The world whirled around him, a blur of green grass and red leg armor. He felt a foot kick him in the ribs, then the weight of another player landing on top of him. Quentin rolled backwards one more time, then lay flat — there was a ringing in his ears.
But there was also a roar.
A roar of the crowd.
Suddenly a hand grabbed his, yanking him to his feet.
“Great block, kid!” Pine said, shaking Quentin’s shoulders as he screamed in his face. “We got ‘em!”
“Wha ...” Quentin stammered.
“Touchdown, kid, touchdown!”
Quentin felt something in his mouth. He spit — his front right tooth landed in a clot of blood, red-and-white on green.
That thing is never going to heal right, Quentin thought as he limped off the field.
“THAT’S GOT TO BE the greatest catch I’ve ever seen, Masara!”
“Amazing! Amazing! Let’s see the replay on this.”
“Hawick is double-covered from the get-go, Masara. Watch the move she puts on Toronto to get clear, but then she’s still got Volgograd in woman-to-woman. She’s totally covered.”
“But if she’s double-covered, why would Pine throw that ball, Chick? He just put it up for grabs!”
“He knows his players, Masara. He’s always known his players. Watch Hawick go up in the air. Check the live analysis, Masara — the computer says she jumped twenty-three feet in the air.”
“She jumped like her life depended on it.”
“Something like that, Masara. But Volgograd is known for her leaping ability, and she actually got a hand on the ball. But watch Hawick rip it away from her! She went after that ball like a hooker diving after a tight-wad trick!”
“Chick! for crying out loud—”
“Sorry, Masara, and sorry, folks at home, but watch her come down with it — she hit the ground upside down, and still held onto the ball.”
“And there you have it, the High Priestess of the Church of Donald Pine puts the Krakens up by two touchdowns, and we’re still in the first quarter.”
• • •
QUENTIN WOKE with a start, the smell of something acidic and horrible filling his nostrils. He twisted his face to avoid the stench, which seemed to follow his nose. He blinked a few times, and saw that Doc was waving something in his face.
“Knock it off!” Quentin said, pushing Doc’s tentacle away. He looked around. He was on the sidelines. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
Quentin started to shake his head, and realized too late just how much that hurt. “No, I don’t.”
“You ran a sweep right and tried to cut back — Chok-Oh-Thilit beat his block and laid you out.”
“A sweep right?”
“Yes,” Doc said.
“When?”
“First drive of the second quarter.”
“Second ... the first quarter is over?”
Doc floated up to look Quentin in the eye. “You don’t remember the first quarter?”
Quentin shrugged. “Some of it.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Hawick’s touchdown.”
“Quentin, you carried the ball five times for sixteen yards after that. You don’t remember?”
Quentin thought for a second, then shrugged. “Nope, not a thing.” His head throbbed as if a miniature Ki were in his brain, whipping jointed limbs to and fro in a dance of destructed grey matter. If felt like someone was jabbing a screwdriver into the right side of his jaw. He gingerly touched there — no screwdriver, at least, but he couldn’t be certain about the miniature Ki. The tip of his tongue played with the space where his missing right front tooth should have been.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“How many tentacle tips am I holding up?”
Quentin squinted. At first he saw four tentacle tips, then his vision cleared and the tentacle tips blended together into a solid shape.
“Two.”
“Good,” Doc said, patting Quentin on the shoulder pad. “You’re ready to go back in.” Doc floated away.
“That’s what you think,” Quentin muttered, looking at the ground. He definitely did not feel ready to go back in. He noticed the right side of his orange jersey was stained with blood. Only then did he notice a tingling along his ribs. Left hand told the story: right-side rib armor ripped half away, temporarily patched with bulkhead tape. He slid his fingers under the shoddy repair job and felt the familiar texture of a nanocyte bandage.
He saw a tiny pair of yellow-furred feet, and looked up into the eye of Hokor the Hookchest.
“Great job out there, Barnes,” Hokor said. “You ready for more?”
Quentin nodded. Just once, because nodding yes hurt as much as shaking no. “Just give me the ball Coach.”
“Good, good! Well, you’re going to get the ball now. We’re up 14-0 so we want to keep the ball on the ground as much as possible and chew up clock. You ready to take some hits?”
Quentin raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t taken some already?”
“Whatever you do, hold onto the ball.” Hokor walked back to the edge of the field. The Krakens defense was on the field, but Quentin didn’t have the energy to get up and watch. Quentin took a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh — he had at least one more half of this to go.
/> • • •
KRAKENS FANS were scattered around the stadium, with most sitting in the North end zone. The South end zone, however, was the sole domain of die-hard Texas Earthlings fans, dressed in a sea of red, blue and white. As the Krakens lined up at their own 3-yard-line, the fans roared as if a thousand mouths were pressed right up against Quentin’s ear.
Pine’s shoulders shook as he called out the signals, but Quentin couldn’t hear him. The Earthlings fans wanted a break, something good to happen for their team, which was down 14-0.
Quentin watched carefully — Pine’s head bobbed down when he said “Hut!” and the snap was on three. He had to time it right, there was no room for mistakes this close to your own goal line.
One bob.
Alonzo cheated up the line, his eyes locked on Quentin.
Bob-bob.
Even as Quentin ran right to take the handoff, he saw Chok-Oh-Thilit driving inwards, a Ki tank chewing up flesh. Wen-E-Deret tried to stop him, but suddenly bent backwards at a funny angle, multi-jointed limbs spamming in a symphony of pain. Chok-Oh-Thilit roared through the line, already a yard past the goal line. Quentin concentrated on taking the handoff. Once he felt the ball firmly in his arms, he put his head down and drove forward. It was like running into a swinging 600-pound wrecking ball. Every atom in his body jarred backwards. He couldn’t see. He felt arms wrapping around him. Quentin spun to the right, his free hand viciously punching away — it hit some armor and glanced off. Arms tried to drag him down, but he kept pumping his legs, running with a pure animal fury — like hell he’d be tackled for a safety. He felt the Ki arms slip away and he cut upfield — only to feel a shoulder pad drive deep into his stomach and short-but-powerful Human arms wrapping around his waist. Air shot out of his lungs. His body jarred backwards, every atom shaking from the impact. His feet came off the ground and he landed on his back, head snapping into the turf. Whistles blew. The crowd roared.
He gasped for air, but nothing came in or out. He opened his eyes and looked at the ground. It was painted in Earthlings’ red.
