by Scott Sigler
Safety.
Krakens 14, Earthlings 2.
Alonzo pushed off him, looked to the sky and screamed a primitive roar of triumph. He looked down at Quentin and smiled.
“Good thing I’m a little small for a linebacker, or that hit might have actually hurt you.”
Quentin sill couldn’t breathe. He weakly lifted his right hand and flipped Alonzo the bird. Alonzo laughed just before his defensive teammates swarmed over him, shouting excitedly in at least four different languages.
• • •
DESPITE DOC’S URGING, Quentin refused to lie down. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t get up. Not ever again. He’d just sleep for a long, long time. But Doc wouldn’t put IVs in him if he stood, so he compromised and sat through Hokor’s halftime adjustments.
“This is the game we wanted to play,” Hokor said.
Quentin held out his right arm, allowing Doc to inject an IV needle. He watched the pointed needle slide into his skin, but didn’t feel a thing.
“Fluids,” Doc said quietly. “You’re dehydrated.”
“The defense has shut them down,” Hokor said. “No points, can we keep it up?”
“Yes!” shouted Tweedy. “Johanson talking garbage! I say the only way that loser gets off the field at the end of the game is on a stretcher!”
The Ki linemen let out a roar of approval, banging their forearms against their chest armor.
Another needle, this time in his right arm.
“Blood,” Doc said. “You lost a lot from those cuts on your ribs. We need to get your blood count back to normal.”
“Offensively, we’re doing okay,” Hokor said. “Aka-Na-Tak, I know you’re facing Chok-Oh-Thilit, but you’ve got to step up. You’ve got to play above your level, you can’t let him come through.”
Wen-E-Deret had been hurt on the play that gave the Earthlings a safety. After preliminary treatment on the sidelines, Doc had carted him to the locker room, and from there a grav-ambulance had rushed him off to Hudson Bay Hospital. Someone had mumbled something about a severed nervous cord, a very serious Ki injury, but the team didn’t talk about it. After the game, there would be plenty of time to either visit him in the hospital, or the funeral home.
“I know you can stop him, Aka-Na-Tak,” Pine said. The veteran quarterback looked like he’d been mugged all over again. After Wen-E-Deret’s injury, Chok-Oh-Thilit had sacked Pine three times, each one more devastating than the last. Aka-Na-Tak, a backup tackle, just couldn’t handle the all-pro’s savage defensive strength. “You’ve got to stop him. The honor of your family is riding on this.”
Aka-Na-Tak suddenly sat up straighter.
“You know what he told me after the last sack?” Pine said. “He put his face right against mine and said dijo malach we yokot.”
All the Ki in the room shuddered with instant anger. All eyes turned to Aka-Na-Tak, who stood stock-still.
“What’s that mean?” Quentin whispered to Doc.
“It means ‘your lineman is my girlfriend,’ roughly.”
Quentin nodded slowly, appreciating the severity of the comment.
“Can you believe he said that?” Pine said. “Although, if you look at the beating I took on your missed blocks, it’s hard to argue with him.”
Suddenly all eyes turned away from Aka-Na-Tak, as if everyone in the room felt embarrassed for him.
Hokor commanded everyone’s attention. “Yes, well, anyway, let’s get on with the halftime adjustments.”
Doc slid away to tend to other players, leaving the needles sticking out of Quentin’s arms. Messal the Efficient ran up, a new set of rib-armor in his hands. The Quyth Worker pulled away the blue bandages covering Quentin’s wounds. They weren’t quite healed yet, but they didn’t have time to wait.
Hokor walked through offensive adjustments. Quentin tried to pay attention, but all he could hear, really, were the words we’re going to run the ball more, repeated over and over again.
• • •
THE KRAKENS WEREN’T the only ones making halftime adjustments.
The Earthlings received the second-half kickoff and ran it back to their own 37. They lined up in something that Quentin had never seen before — two tight ends, with three running backs lined up side-by-side, about five yards behind Johanson.
“Well ain’t that something,” Yitzhak murmured. “The Wing-T.”
Krakens defenders shouted to each other, already nervous about the new formation. The Earthlings hadn’t run this formation, not once, all season long.
The ball snapped. Quentin watched Johanson hand off to the Pookie Chang. Chang’s big arms folded over the ball. He plowed into the line and disappeared into a pile of bodies.
But there was no whistle.
Johanson still had the ball, he’d faked the handoff to Chang — he put it into the hands of tailback Peter Lowachee, who folded his arms around the ball the same way Chang had. Johanson “rode” the handoff, seemingly holding onto the ball as Lowachee cut into the off-tackle hole. Johanson then ran to the sidelines, pretending to carry the ball.
Every play is a triple-threat, Quentin thought. Fullback, tailback, or quarterback. And the way they fold over the ball, you can’t see if they have it or not.
Most of the Krakens’ defense had bought the fullback’s dive, leaving plenty of room for Lowachee, who broke through the line and cut upfield. After a half of watching running back Pookie Chang’s big body rumble along, the fleet-footed Lowachee was like poetry in motion. At only 210 pounds he was a featherweight, but man could he move.
Lowachee chewed up fifteen yards before Perth brought him down at the Krakens’ 48.
The Earthlings lined up in the Wing-T again, and this time Pookie Chang took the handoff. He popped through a tiny hole next to the center, moving forward at top speed. Tweedy had been watching Lowachee, and hadn’t come forward — Chang hit like a big-shouldered boulder, knocking Tweedy flat on his back. Chang stumbled on the fallen linebacker, giving Virak the Mean time to drag him down after an eight-yard gain.
The next play saw the same thing. The linemen and linebackers stepped up to stop Chang, but he didn’t have it. Defensive backs converged on Lowachee as Johanson rode him through the line. Lowachee went down under Perth and Berea — but he didn’t have the ball either. Suddenly Johanson was cutting up the sidelines, all alone. Stockbridge came from the far side of the field, her speed easily surpassing Johanson’s. Instead of taking the hit, Johanson casually stepped out of bounds after a 37 yard gain.
“Uh-oh,” Yitzhak said. “I bet it’s been two centuries since anyone ran this offense. This could be trouble.”
The Earthlings lined up at the Krakens’ 3-yard line, once again in the two tight-end Wing-T. The Krakens’ goal line defense packed around the line, shifting here and there, still not sure how to set up to stop the new offensive attack. The ball snapped and Johanson went through the cycle: put ball in Chang’s arms, put ball in Lowachee’s arms and ride him in, then run to the sidelines. Quentin tried to find the ball. Chang went down. Lowachee’s fake was bad — Johanson still had the ball, running for the corner of the end zone. Perth closed on him like a black-and-orange-and-white blur — but Johanson pulled up and threw a light pass to Lowachee, who had released into the flat, behind the streaking Perth.
Wide open.
Touchdown, Earthlings.
Extra point good, Krakens 14, Earthlings 9.
• • •
ON THIRD AND 11 at the Krakens’ 22, Aka-Na-Tak went down again, Chok-Oh-Thilit came through again, and Pine was sacked again. He came up bleeding from the right cheek, madder than Quentin had ever seen him. Pine reared back and threw the ball with all his strength — at Chok-Oh-Thilit, who was only five yards away. The ball smashed into Chok-Oh-Thilit’s helmet, then bounced high into the air.
Chok-Oh-Thilit turned and roared and ran at Pine, who snarled and drove forward, fists swinging. Whistles blew. The crowd raged. Quentin jumped on Chok-Oh-Thilit’s back. Zebes swarmed
in as players attacked each other. The game was suddenly a sea of legs and tentacles and raspers and red-blue-silver-orange-black-white.
Whistles shrieked, players swore in four different languages. Something hit Quentin in the back, right at the kidneys. He rolled off Chok-Oh-Thilit and lay on the ground. Pine had his helmet off and was swinging it like a war hammer, blood coursing down his face, his white eyes wide against his red-stained blue skin.
More black and white. Zebes poured out of the woodwork, at least fifteen of them, flying in with stunsticks. Quentin heard the zap of the sticks, smelled burnt ozone, and saw players dropping. Chok-Oh-Thilit fell from a dozen blasts, Pine only needed two.
When it was over, the Krakens’ punt team came onto the field. Fifteen yards back, of course, for Pine’s personal foul.
• • •
THE DAMN WING-T was like watching a living puzzle box. It was a magician’s offense, sleight-of-hand and loathsome chicanery. Who had the ball? Pookie Chang? Peter Lowachee? Case Johanson? Was it a run? Was it a pass?
The Earthlings marched downfield again, chewing up five and six yards a pop. The Krakens started to adjust, but the vanishing-ball-trick had them tackling the wrong player more often than not. Chang for six. Lowachee for ten. Pass for fifteen. Chang for another four.
Twelve plays and seven minutes after the Krakens’ post-fight punt, Pookie Chang carried it in from four yards out to give the Earthlings the lead. Without missing a beat, they again lined up in the Wing-T for the two-point conversion. The Krakens’ defense still didn’t know how to stop that offense — Pookie Chang slipped through a trap-block and walked into the end zone standing up.
Earthlings 17, Krakens 14.
• • •
QUENTIN FOLLOWED Tom Pareless into the hole. Pareless nailed a stumbling Alonzo, putting the linebacker into the ground. Quentin hurdled them both and tried to cut outside. Kipir the Assassin, the outside linebacker, dove for him and grabbed his jersey, standing Quentin almost straight up as he tried to move forward. Jurong, the free safety, came in untouched like an armor-piercing bullet. She smashed into Quentin’s ribs. He heard a crack from his pads and another snap from inside his body.
He’d never been stabbed in the ribs, but he knew it had to feel just like this.
Quentin lay on the ground, big hands clutched tightly around the football. They could kill him, but they couldn’t make him fumble. His eyes scrunched tight with the agony in his side, and he waited for the medsled to cart him off the field.
Someone kicked his leg.
Quentin opened his eyes, squinting through the pain, to look up at Donald Pine.
“Get up, loser.”
Pine still had a blue bandage on his cheek. The cut had been deep, and despite constant application of nanocytes it had opened up two more times. The front of his orange jersey was a sheet of red.
“I said get up, you pansy.”
Quentin tried to blink away the pain. He had broken ribs. Broken ribs.
“I’ve got broken ribs,” Quentin said.
“And I care,” Pine said. “Now get up, rookie, and back in the huddle or I will kick you in those same ribs until you do.”
Quentin stared at Pine. He hated Pine. He had thought Pine was his friend, but he’d been crazy to think that. He’d always hated Don Pine. Don Pine was a loser.
Quentin slowly hauled himself back to a standing position, and followed Pine to the Krakens huddle.
• • •
THE FOURTH QUARTER started just as the Earthlings took over. They kept moving the ball, seemingly at will. Chang for five. Lowachee for seven. Chang for another four.
Then it happened.
Johanson put the ball in Chang’s belly as the thick running back slammed into the line. He then put it Lowachee’s arms, and rode the fleet-footed running back through the hole. Quentin had adjusted to the offense, and now saw the pulling guard running past the off-tackle hole, towards the outside — that mean Johanson had the ball.
And Quentin wasn’t the only one to see it.
Virak the Mean saw it, too.
The Earthlings’ pulling guard moved forward to block Virak, but the Quyth Warrior dropped to all-fours and stutter-stepped left, then right, then left again, using his low center of gravity to create the impossible lateral motion of a truly talented Quyth Warrior. The guard matched the first two moves, but stumbled off-balance and Virak shot past. He came free with a good five yards to pick up speed. Johanson tried to cut inside to avoid the reaching arms of Mum-O-Killowe — he didn’t see Virak until it was too late.
Virak threw himself forward like a flying switchblade, his helmet smashing into Johanson’s stomach. The quarterback went down hard. The ball popped free, but Pookie Chang hopped on it.
Whistles blew. Johanson got up ... slowly. He limped back to the huddle, barely able to walk on his right leg.
• • •
THE EARTHLINGS TRIED running the Wing-T a few more times, but everyone knew the limping Johanson wasn’t going to carry the ball. With him removed as a threat, the Krakens defense concentrated on Chang and Lowachee. As the clock ticked past 8:00, the Earthlings punted the ball away. They wouldn’t run the Wing-T again for the rest of the game.
• • •
PINE GOT UP slowly after his fifth sack. He was bleeding again, this time from a cut on his arm. At least he got up — Aka-Na-Tak still lay on the ground, a limp tubular body with limp multi-jointed arms. A thin, recurring squirt of black blood jetted up from his back, like a little on-off geyser of oil. Chok-Oh-Thilit had destroyed his second right tackle of the game.
After starting on their own 15 the Krakens had put together a 30-yard drive, but on third-and-long Chok-Oh-Thilit smashed through Aka-Na-Tak and dragged Pine down. The Krakens offense ran off the field to be replaced by the punt team as Doc’s medsled floated Aka-Na-Tak off the field. There was only five minutes left to play. The defense had to come up with one more stop.
• • •
THE DEFENSE HELD. The Krakens got the ball back with 2:12 to play in the game, ball on their own 35.
Quentin sat at the bottom of the pile, face-down, the football pressing into his diaphragm, so much weight on top of him that he couldn’t draw in a full breath. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing — when he took a full breath, his ribs screamed and his chest ached with the effort. Another assassination attempt by Chok-Oh-Thilit had torn away Quentin’s second set of rib armor, along with more of his skin, and blood — Doc said not to worry, though ... he’d be fine after an hour in the rejuv tank. The injury wouldn’t stop Quentin from finishing the game. Gosh. Thanks, Doc.
Cay-Oh-Kiware was the third Krakens guard to face Chok-Oh-Thilit, and he wasn’t doing much better than had Wen-E-Deret or Aka-Na-Tak.
The weight lifted from Quentin’s back one chunk at a time, until the last player rolled off. Quentin pushed his way up. He didn’t want to get up, he wanted to lay there, maybe take a nice nap. But he’d be damned before he’d show those Earthlings one more ounce of weakness or pain.
“How you holding up, champ?” Alonzo asked. “It’s not going to stop, you know. Maybe you should just stay down.”
“Then you better quit fooling around and dig out your A-game,” Quentin said as he stood tall and walked back to the huddle, ignoring the invisible knife buried deep in his ribs. “‘Cause what you got ain’t bothering me all that much.”
He was the last one back to the huddle. Pine stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at him as he walked around to the back of the huddle and took his place.
“Finished catching up on old times?” Pine asked him.
“Hey, he started talking crap, I just — ”
“Just nothing,” Pine snapped. “Shut your mouth and get back to the huddle, got it?”
“Hey! I’m not going to take this, he — ”
“Quentin! Shut up! Jesus, you Purist Nation guys don’t ever stop running at the mouth. Next play you get your butt back to the huddle and don’t say
a word, you got it?”
Quentin started to protest one more time, then closed his mouth. He was furious that Pine was talking to him this way, but it was Pine’s huddle. Pine looked at the sidelines, then shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Let’s keep it on the ground.”
An unheard voice said something to Pine. He nodded towards the sidelines and turned back to the huddle.
“Okay, we’ve pounded it up the middle enough for now, let’s mix it up. Y-set, screen pass right. Quentin, maybe this time you could actually run with the ball instead of pussyfooting it to the line so they can smack you around like a little girl?”
Quentin’s eyes widened with rage. “What are you talking about?”
“We’d have this game wrapped up if we had Fayed, or even Yassoud, but all we’ve got is you, you lazy backwater rookie.”
Without thinking, he pushed his way forward to slide between Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, who were in front of him, bent down so the players behind them could see Pine. Quentin raised his right fist to swing at Pine, but two sets of hands and one set of tentacles grabbed him from all sides and held him back.
“Hey,” Pine said, holding his hands out, palms up, that arrogant grin on his bloody face. “You want a piece of me you little spoiled racist brat?”
The word seemed to slip into Quentin’s brain like a branding iron. He jerked against the hands holding him back as the huddle shifted and broke apart.
“You wanna mess with me, Pine?” Quentin screamed. He tried to break loose. From behind, a strong arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed, lightly, just enough for Quentin to feel pressure on his windpipe — just enough to know he’d pass out if the arm tightened further.
“Stop this right now,” Tom Pareless said quietly. “I let you go, you run the play, deal?”
Quentin nodded, or at least moved his head — he couldn’t nod with Pareless’ thick arm wedged around his neck and under his chin.
“WHAT’S GOING ON there, Chick? The Krakens are fighting in the huddle.”
“Well, Masara, it looks like tempers might be flaring. Can we get a close-up of Barnes’ face? Now run it in slow-mo.”
