THE ALL-PRO

by Scott Sigler

  Last season, Quentin had dined with his Ki offensive linemen. He would have called the experience several things, including crazy, scarring and possibly mentally shattering.

  One word he would never have used, however, was civilized.

  And yet as Quentin looked at the six Ki defensive players tearing into an animal that was almost as big as they were, the offensive linemens’ feast seemed like proper etiquette by comparison.

  “High One,” Quentin said. “Don, is it always like this?”

  John Tweedy pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. “Don’t wanna get it bloody,” he said. IF YOU EAT IT, SOMEONE HAS TO KILL IT flashed across his chest in big red letters. He punched Quentin in the shoulder. “Good times down on the farm, Q! You’re gonna love it!”

  The walk here had seemed so familiar. Like the offensive linemen, the defensive players had their own forested chamber inside the Touchback. No hallways, no rooms, just an open space filled with red moss, tightly coiled, green ground cover plants, waist-high bushes with broad, yellow leaves and brown vines that reached up and spread across the ceiling. More red moss hung down from the dense vines, making the artificial surfaces of the ship all but vanish from sight.

  The main difference, however, couldn’t be missed. The offensive linemen had a stone table with a blood trough lining the edges. The defense? Their “dinner table” was a clear patch of dirt.

  A clear patch of black-stained, bloody dirt.

  The yellowish bones of strange, alien animals lined the clear patch, remnants of meals gone by. And in the center of that deathcircle? Five hundred pounds of a beast Quentin instantly wished he had never seen.

  The Ki defenders swarmed on the creature. Mum-O-Killowe and Mai-An-Inkole weighed it down with their bulk. Per-Ah-Yet pinned it with his multi-jointed arms. Chat-E-Riret and Wan-ATagol bit down with mouths full of triangular teeth. Black blood flew, as did stray bits of flesh.

  The prey creature screamed and screamed.

  John pumped his left fist. “Lookit him squirm! You got lucky, Q. The more they fight, the better they taste!” John ran forward and dove onto the creature, managing one big bite before the slick blood made him slide off the animal and onto the clearing’s dirt.

  Quentin stared at the scrambling, bloody, spindly mess fighting for its life. Stay still, he thought to his feet. Don’t you dare run. Stay still, we have to do this.

  Yes, he was talking to his feet. Every atom of his body wanted to get the hell out of this living nightmare.

  Don’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Try to relax, Quentin. Just follow John’s lead. He loves it.”

  “That’s because John is crazy.”

  “True,” Don said. “Stay calm. This will be over before you know it.”

  Blood flew. The screams slowed.

  “But I’ll remember it, won’t I?”

  Don nodded slowly. “Yes. You’ll remember every nasty, disgusting, disturbing moment of it.”

  “But I’ll get used to it, right? It won’t be so bad next year. Right?”

  Don smiled. “Do you want me to lie to you?”

  “Please.”

  “Kid, it won’t be so bad next year.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Black blood jetted out in a misty cloud, splattering smelly droplets on Quentin’s face.

  “Kid,” Don said, “do you have your happy place?”

  “My happy place isn’t happy enough for this.”

  “You’re right. But you got to do it anyway.”

  Quentin shook his head. “No. No way, I can’t.”

  Don did what Don always did — he held up his right hand, showing off the GFL Championship rings on his ring and index finger. He waggled them. Gold and jewels reflected the light.

  Quentin looked at them as he always did — with raw envy and lust. But it wasn’t enough, not this time.

  “I need more,” he said. “Let me wear one.”

  Don’s head snapped away from the grotesque scene of the Ki and John Tweedy feasting on the still-living monstrosity. At first, Don seemed angry, but that quickly faded. He understood. He pulled the ring off his index finger and handed it over.

  Quentin slid it on his ring finger, noting that it fit perfectly even though he was bigger than Don Pine. Quentin held the hand in front of his face, palm-out, ignoring the black blood-strands crisscrossing his skin.

  A GFL Championship ring.

  Red ruby, sparkling.

  Gold glowing with promise.

  On his hand.

  He wanted nothing more than this. He would give anything, do anything, to attain it.

  Quentin nodded, took a deep breath. He took off the ring and handed it back.

  Don took it. “That what you needed?”

  “Yep,” Quentin said. “Let’s eat.”

  The two quarterbacks stepped forward.

  • • •

  QUENTIN TORE OFF his helmet, whipped it in a long arc and smashed it into the blue turf.

  “Dammit, Pareless, that’s the hardest you can run? Ma Tweedy can sprint faster than you!”

  The fullback had his hands on his knees, head down, shoulder pads lurching rhythmically as his chest drew in sucking breaths. The rest of the team stretched across the black end zone’s goal line, all in various stages of exhaustion. Some of them weren’t even standing — they’d fallen to the ground or were off to the side, vomiting.

  Quentin was damn tired as well — fifty 50-yard sprints after a full practice will do that to you — but he wouldn’t show it to his team. Hokor floated in his cart, saying nothing. He seemed quite content to let someone else do the yelling for a change.

  Only the Sklorno looked ready for more. But even they showed signs of fatigue, their abdomens swelling and shrinking as they drew in air to fuel their exhausted muscles.

  Pareless didn’t say anything, didn’t even pick up his head. Quentin walked up to him, leaned down to scream at the older man.

  “Hey, grampa! I’m talking to you! Imagine it’s the fourth quarter, we’re down by six, Becca is hurt, you have to block for me so we can win the shucking game. Dig deep, man. Stand up.”

  Tom straightened, hands on hips, eyes scrunched. “My ankle ... killing me. I’m ... trying ... Q.”

  “There is no try!” Quentin screamed at the entire team. “We’re too soft! We have to toughen up if we’re going to make the playoffs.”

  Tom bent forward again, then threw up. Vomit dripped from his facemask in long strings.

  Quentin threw his hands in the air. “I don’t care if you all puke. Get back on the line! Five more sprints!”

  “We’ve never run this hard,” said a deep voice. Quentin turned to see defensive end Ibrahim Khomeni — all six-foot-ten, 525 pounds of him — step out of the line. “You’re pushing too hard, Barnes.”

  “Too hard? Too hard? Do you think the Wabash Wolfpack is sitting on their asses right now?”

  Khomeni gestured to the other players. “We’re working our tails off.”

  “It’s not enough,” Quentin screamed. “And maybe you should worry about practicing harder, Khomeni. You took off, what, ten plays in practice because your knee hurts?”

  The big HeavyG’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you question my intensity, little man.”

  Quentin closed the distance, stared down at the slightly shorter, much denser sentient. “You will practice hard. You will run. And you will do it now! I don’t ask anyone here to do anything more than what I’m willing to do. Now get back on the shucking line.”

  Khomeni glared, then walked back to the goal line.

  This was what Quentin wanted, to drive his teammates to the point of failure, then make them push through that, make them dig deeper than they knew they could. You practice like you play. This would all pay off come the regular season.

  “All of you, up! If you’re puking, you can run and puke at the same time. This is for the playoffs, dammit!”

  Ju Tweedy stepped off the line, looked back at his team
mates. “Come on, you losers! If Quentin can do it, we can do it! I want a ring!”

  John Tweedy joined in. “I want two rings! Right here, Krakens, it starts right here. Five more sprints! Five more!”

  Heads nodded. Players got up, stood straight, pulled helmets back on their heads.

  Quentin jogged to the line, as did the Tweedys.

  Quentin shouted to his teammates. “You can do this. On three, on three. Ready?”

  Feet dug in, hands dropped to the blue turf. Eyes narrowed as sentients fought their own bodies and minds to just do one more.

  “Hut-hut ... hut!”

  The team sprinted off the line. Quentin’s legs burned, his arms felt like noodles. His stomach roiled — he would be the next one to puke.

  And when he did? He’d get back on the line and run again.

  After all, he didn’t ask anyone to do anything more than he was willing to do himself.

  JANUARY 9, 2684

  FREE AGENT DAY HAD COME. Quentin stood in the Touchback’s orange end zone, waiting until Coach Hokor needed him. Last season’s free agent day had brought in only a few players, just running backs and tight ends. Those positions were no longer a need. At running back, the Krakens had Ju Tweedy backed up by Yassoud Murphy and Jay Martinez. At tight end, Crazy George Starcher backed up by Yotaro Kobayasho and the newly bad-ass Rick Warburg. So those problems had been solved.

  This year, the Krakens faced a new problem — defensive secondary. The first string could still do a good job against most passing attacks, but if any of the four starters suffered injuries, the Krakens were in trouble. Standish’s pregnancy had thinned the defensive backfield. Saugatuck and Rehoboth, the backup safety and free safety, respectively, were nowhere near first-string caliber if any starters got hurt. Stockbridge, the third cornerback on the depth chart, was a solid player, but Tiburon, another backup safety, looked terrible. She had slowed considerably in the off-season. Quentin wondered if she would even make the team at all.

  The Krakens had been counting on a pair of rookies to flesh out the defensive backfield, but Gladwin and Cooperstown had been signed by the Wabash Wolfpack. So it was either free agency or pray that the starters stayed healthy for the regular season and for the playoffs.

  Seven Sklorno defensive backs milled about at midfield. They wore practice whites. Quentin didn’t recognize any of them. Two years ago he couldn’t tell one Sklorno from the next. Now, he knew the species well enough to know he’d never seen these players before. No star defensive backs in the bunch, to say the least. The fact that they were here at all meant they were either Tier Three players not good enough to be taken as rookies, Tier Two players looking for experience, or they were Tier One veterans who had been cut from other teams.

  A hundred yards away in the black end zone, Quentin saw offensive linemen as well as Alexsandar Michnik and Ibrahim Khomeni, the starting defensive ends. They were working with the only other free agent candidate, a defensive end named Cliff Frost who had played two seasons for the T3 Idaho Titans, then a year with the T2 D’Wy Piranah before D’Wy cut him due to a punctured lung that didn’t heal fast enough. Then, just last year in the 2683 T2 season, Frost signed on with the Madhava Pi. A foot injury, apparently, had sidelined Frost, then the Pi cut him loose. His career riddled with injuries, no one knew Frost’s real potential.

  Last year, the Krakens had two backup defensive ends — Ban-A-Tarew and Wan-A-Tagol. The Orbiting Death snagged Ban-A in free agency, so he was gone. Unexpected, but not a crisis as long as the Krakens found a quality player to fill that backup role. Gredok had already signed rookie defensive end Rich Palmer. If Frost also made the team, then Wan-A’s days might be numbered.

  Quentin had nothing to do with the defensive roster. His job was to try and make these defensive back prospects look like idiots. Those who didn’t look like idiots might land a contract for the season.

  Hokor’s floating golf cart flew overhead. “Barnes! Huddle up, let’s get started.”

  Quentin held up his hands and waved his fingers inward, calling to his receivers. Milford, Hawick and Halawa ran to him. They wore their orange practice jerseys.

  “Okay, ladies, we need to see what these defensive backs can do. I want hard cuts, so we can see their reaction time. If you can put a shoulder pad into them, do it, but don’t take any big hits this close to the regular season. If I throw too high, just let it go.”

  The three receivers shuddered.

  “But Quentin Barnes,” Milford said. “To not catch your pass is to sin. We are all worthy to catch your glorious passes!”

  He sighed. Even in a stupid drill, the Sklorno didn’t know how to go easy.

  “As your ... deity, or whatever, I am ordering you all to only catch the good passes, understand? Bad passes are, uh, they are a test. Get it?”

  Milford stared, her four armored eyestalks twitching atop her glossy black helmet. “Yes! Yes oh Quentin Barnes, you are testing our ability to follow your holy will!”

  “Whatever,” Quentin said. “Just don’t get hurt. Now line up.”

  Quentin stood and walked to the 50-yard line. Hawick lined up wide left, Milford near-right and the much larger Halawa to the far right.

  Hokor’s amplified voice rang through the stadium. “Vacaville, Breedsville, take the corners, woman-to-woman coverage. Fairgrove, safety. Rosebush, free safety. Basic two-deep defense. Give it your all, women, you won’t get any chances to make a mistake.”

  No surprise that Hokor immediately poured on the pressure.

  Quentin bent, then slapped the ball in his hands for the fake snap. He dropped back five steps as his receivers shot off the line. He waited only a second and a half before seeing that Halawa had Breedsville beat and that Rosebush would be slow to pick up the open receiver. Quentin fired the ball downfield. It hit Halawa in stride at the 15. She cruised into the end zone untouched.

  Quentin should have been happy about that, but this wasn’t about succeeding at offense. He wanted to see these defensive backs make stops.

  “Again!” Hokor screamed. “You worthless defensive backs are embarrassing my beautiful field! Run it again!”

  • • •

  TOO BAD IT WASN’T A REAL GAME. Quentin and his receivers shredded the seven defensive back candidates. There was a reason these players hadn’t been signed or drafted.

  Quentin, Halawa, Milford and Hawick were at the 50, standing at the side of Hokor’s cart, which had dropped down to the blue field. Hokor was paying them the ultimate honor — asking their opinion about the abilities of the free agent defensive backs.

  “Rosebush?” Hokor said.

  “Unworthy,” the three Sklorno said in unison.

  “Vacaville?”

  The three receivers looked at each other, something they could do simultaneously courtesy of their free-moving eyestalks.

  “Possible,” Hawick said. “She isn’t worthy of looking directly at the holy visage of Quentin Barnes, but possibly she could stand in shame on the sidelines and pray for more talent.”

  Quentin laughed and shook his head. The Sklorno had such an interesting way of saying things.

  “I agree,” Hokor said. “Vacaville isn’t a starter by any stretch, but we have roster room. What about Fairgrove?”

  “Unworthy,” Hawick said.

  “She should be killed,” Milford said.

  “And eaten,” Halawa said.

  Hokor entered some data into his messageboard. “Fairgrove, no.”

  “Oh Holy Great Hokor,” Hawick said. “May I be so insolent as to offer an opinion without one being asked of me by one as great as you, by one so elevated above the cosmos that stars shrink away in fear, so amazing that—”

  “Just say it,” Hokor said. “Yes, you may speak.”

  “Breedsville is slightly more worthy than Vacaville. She should still be banned from looking directly at the Quentin Barnes, but she is suitable for a backup.”

  Hokor typed. “Fine. And the rest?”

&n
bsp; “Unworthy,” Hawick said.

  “They should be killed,” Milford said.

  “And eaten,” Halawa said.

  Hokor gave the Quyth Leader equivalent of a heavy sigh. He slid his messageboard into a slot inside the cart. “Your input is appreciated, players. That is all.”

  Hokor’s cart lifted without a sound, then floated to the black end zone where Cliff Frost was still fighting his way through drills.

  Quentin walked off the field, unable to shake the pessimistic feeling that the Krakens were in trouble. If the starting defensive backs didn’t get hurt, they would be okay, but no way could all four Sklorno defensive backs go a full season without suffering at least some kind of injury. Gloria Ogawa’s tactic to sign the rookie backs that Hokor wanted had been a devious-yet-brilliant maneuver.

  Quentin wondered if that move would pay off for the Wolfpack in Week Nine, when the Krakens traveled to Wabash. If Ionath lost to its archrival for the second year in a row, Quentin knew that Gredok would have a Sklorno-like opinion — that the Krakens were unworthy, they should be killed, they should be eaten.

  Excerpt from Earth: Birthplace of Sentients written by Zippy the Voracious From Chapter Seven: Rise of the Machines

  Sentients often tell me that Sklorno are the most alien intelligent life form they know. When I hear that, my answer is always the same — then I guess you’ve never met a Prawatt.

  Not that many civilized sentients have. Encounters with that species are rare and usually result in — at best — exploding ships and thousands of deaths. At worst? Encounters with the Prawatt can lead to entire planets being rendered devoid of life and even the total extinction of sentient races.

  STARTING SMALL

  Members of the Prawatt species are created, initially, in a small, fist-sized structure known as a root factory. Because root factories begin their existence pre-packed with as many as a million tiny, life-emulating machines know as larvids, some exobiologists compare these structures to an egg sac. I say some exobiologists because others compare factories not to egg sacs, but to insect queens. After disgorging the initial compliment of larvids, root factories are capable of fabricating ten million to a hundred million more, depending on available resources.