by Scott Sigler
The noises grew louder. So did Quentin.
“But now these bastards from Isis have come to our house. Our temple. They came here expecting an easy win, but they will leave knowing that we are the law, that we are the champions in the making.”
The teammates jostled closer, bumping him to and fro. There was no feeling like this anywhere in the galaxy, like the pre-game sensation of so many elite athletes uniting as one.
Quentin raised his left fist high. His teammates reached in and up to that fist. Their noises grew so loud Quentin had to scream his next words to have them answered by a chorus of Krakens.
“Whose house?”
“Our house!”
“Whose house?”
“Our house!”
“What law?”
“Our law!”
“Who wins?”
“Krakens!”
“Who wins?”
“Krakens!”
“Today is your day! Not theirs! Victory is yours, take it! Let’s show Isis what it means to be a Kraken!”
The team’s single, unified roar marked the end of the pregame ritual. The Krakens spread out down the sidelines just as the Harrah refs at midfield called for the team captains.
Time for the coin toss.
Quentin, the offensive captain and John Tweedy, the defensive captain, jogged to midfield. Virak the Mean, the opening game’s honorary captain, jogged with them.
The trio stopped on the Krakens’ logo at the stadium’s very center. Freshly painted as it was every home game, top facing the visitor’s sidelines, bottom point aimed at the home stands, white arms spreading from one 45-yard line to the other, the “I” shield-logo marked this field as property of the Ionath.
Our house.
Opposite Quentin, John and Virak stood the Isis Ice Storm captains: quarterback Paul Infante, linebacker Chaka the Brutal and defensive end Ryan Nossek — the man who would spend the next two hours literally trying to kill Quentin.
“Barnes,” Nossek said in his hell-deep voice. “I’m so pleased that we get to meet again.”
Quentin just smiled at the big HeavyG. Last year’s beatings would not be repeated.
The Harrah ref fluttered between the lines of players. He wore a black-and-white striped bodysuit, complete with a black-and-white striped backpack. Yellow penalty flags dangled from the backpack.
“Players,” the ref said, his voice coming from the backpack’s speakerfilm and also echoed by Ionath Stadium’s massive sound system. “The Ice Storm is the visiting team and therefore has the right to call the coin toss. Who will make the call?”
“I will,” Nossek said.
The ref slid a flat mouth-flap up into the backpack, came out with a Creterakian coin. He showed it to the players. Tails was an image of the planet Creterak, heads a close-up of the six-eyed face of some Creterakian leader.
“Call it in the air,” the ref said.
He flipped the coin high. Reflections of the afternoon sun sparkled off the spinning metal. Ryan Nossek said: “Heads.”
The coin landed on the Krakens’ “I,” bounced once, then lay flat, showing the image of Creterak.
Tails.
“Krakens win the toss,” the ref said. “Krakens, you wish to receive or defer?”
“We want the ball,” Quentin said.
Nossek smiled again. “See you soon, young-un.”
Quentin nodded. “You’ll see too much of me, big fella, ‘cause you won’t be able to get our offense off the field.”
He ran to the sidelines, Virak the Mean on his right, John Tweedy on his left.
“Q,” John said. “Can you feel it? I’ve been in the game a long time, brother, but this just feels different.”
“Get used to it,” Quentin said. “It’s only going to get better from here on out.”
He stopped at the sidelines, trying to calm himself, to wait for another few seconds before his destiny took flight. The Krakens receiving team lined up, Richfield back to take the kick.
The crowd’s low murmur of ooooooooooooohhhhhh started as the Ice Storm kickoff team got into place, a long white/blue/chrome line stretched across the 25-yard line from one sideline to the other. In the center of that line, the kicker raised his hand to the ref. The ref blew his whistle. The kicker dropped his hand, looked at the ball sitting upright at the 35-yard line, then started his slow run toward it. His teammates ran with him, the slow jog quickly building to a full-on sprint.
oooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOAAAAHHHHHHH!
The crowd screamed in time with the kicker’s foot connecting. The ball arced high into the air. A sudden burst of butterflies flapped through Quentin’s belly, a fluttery feeling he knew would go away soon.
Richfield waited at the 1-yard line as the ball arced down. She hauled it in with her tentacles. Her lead blockers — Kopor the Climber, Shayat the Thick, Samuel Darkeye and Tara the Freak — shot forward to take on the first Ice Storm players that streaked down the field.
Black and orange collided with white and blue and chrome. Richfield cut left and found a narrow gap. A white-helmeted Sklorno reached for her, but Richfield pushed through the gap and headed for the sidelines. She picked up another thirty yards before she ran out of room and was pushed out at the Krakens’ 48-yard line.
The crowd roared in approval, an infinite, starving beast screaming rapturously at its first taste of food in six months.
Quentin ran onto the field as the kick-return team ran off. His opening drive of the season and he had fantastic field position. The offense huddled up. He fought to control the butterflies. He had to pee. His hands shook.
Light flickered in Quentin’s facemask. The heads-up display flared to life, showing Coach Hokor’s fuzzy head.
“Barnes! You know the plays. Just relax and get it done.”
“Okay, Coach,” Quentin said. He tapped twice on the left side of his helmet, making the heads-up display vanish.
Quentin reached the huddle. The starting Krakens players looked back at him: the four Ki and one HeavyG of his offensive line; shaking Sklorno receivers Hawick and Milford; Human tight end Crazy George Starcher, the face inside his helmet painted green with white diagonal stripes; Ju Tweedy, the Krakens’ fleet-footed Human tank of a running back; and Becca “The Wrecka” Montagne, last year’s HeavyG rookie fullback who had fought her way into the starting lineup.
“All right, all right,” Quentin said. “First three plays are scripted, no huddle, you all know what they are. All I-formation. No surprises for anyone that we start out with Ju going off-tackle left — the Ice Storm knows it’s coming, the fans know it’s coming and we’re going to run it anyway, right down their throats. Second play, run-fake to Ju, screen pass right to Montagne. Offensive line, sell those failed blocks and let them come to get me, I’ll get the pass off. Third play, regardless of down and distance, I-formation, we go drop-back play-action, X-in, Y-wheel, Z-post, B-block-and-circle. First two plays on three, third play on one. Ready?”
“Break!” the team screamed in unison. They ran out of the huddle and lined up. Starting the game with three no-huddle plays had become a Krakens tradition, a way to come out swinging and keep the defense from switching players that could help with specific down-and-distance situations. Last year the strategy had mostly failed, thanks to Yassoud Murphy’s lack of urgency. This year, however, Yassoud was out — the Mad Ju was in.
Quentin walked up behind Bud-O-Shwek, his center and surveyed the Ice Storm defense. Ki linemen, HeavyG defensive ends, Quyth Warrior and Human linebackers, Sklorno defensive backs. Five unique races that blended into one unified team, thanks to matching white helmets, white-to-blue jerseys and reflective chrome numbers. The Ice Storm were as much a single tribe as the Krakens.
Like Ionath, the Ice Storm ran a 4-3 defense: four defensive linemen, three linebackers, four defensive backs. To Quentin’s right, at the outside edge of his offensive line, stood the most dangerous sentient on the field — Ryan Nossek, the All-Pro defensive end that h
ad killed five players over the course of his career. Quentin also needed to keep an eye on Chaka the Brutal, the left linebacker, and Santa Cruz, the Ice Storm’s blitzing safety.
Fingers and pincers pushed into the blue Iomatt field.
Feet dug in.
Eyes narrowed.
Lips curled.
Fists clenched, unclenched.
“Bluuueee, eighteen!” Quentin shouted down the left side of the line. The crowd’s roar picked up in intensity, 185,000 fans who had waited all off-season to see the Orange and the Black do battle.
When it wasn’t game time, maybe these fans cared about Ju Tweedy’s murder rap or Quentin’s off-field transgressions, and maybe they didn’t. But for now, for this moment, they wanted a win. That was more important than anything.
“Blue, eighteeeeen,” he shouted down the right side of the line.
The phrase on three meant that Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball on Quentin’s third syllable, starting after he finished the color and number calls. Quentin would hard count the first two syllables, try to use the defense’s eagerness against them and draw them off-sides.
“Hut-HUT!” He hammered the last syllable, but the Ice Storm linemen didn’t budge.
“Hut!”
The ball slapped into his hands. Quentin pushed hard off his right foot, stepping back with his left. Rebecca Montagne shot by, running left to block for Ju, her face the snarling mask she wore only between the whistles. Quentin extended the ball toward Ju.
Ju’s right elbow pointed up, the back of his hand on his sternum, his left pinkie flat against his stomach just above his belt buckle. When Quentin put the ball in his belly, Ju’s arms slammed together like a supercharged Venus Flytrap. The brown leather vanished behind Ju’s thick forearms.
The Mad Ju followed Becca the Wrecka into the line.
Left guard Sho-Do-Thikit and left tackle Kill-O-Yowet were the Krakens’ best offensive linemen. They took no prisoners in their four-armed, six-legged ground assault. The two raged against their blue/white/chrome opponents, driving them back. Linebacker Chaka the Brutal closed in, tried to fill the hole, but found himself bumped off-path by Becca’s surgical blocking. She shifted Chaka’s momentum just enough for Ju to shoot by untouched.
Five yards downfield, two Sklorno defensive backs hit him at the same time, diving beneath his lowered shoulders and wrapping up his thick legs. The D-backs were well-coached — a head-to-head hit with Ju could get a Sklorno killed. They brought him down after an 8-yard gain.
Quentin ran forward as the zebes spotted the ball.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” He had to scream to be heard over the crowd. “Move-move-move!”
His urgency might have been needed last year, but not now. The Krakens players scrambled to the line, almost racing each other to get into place. The Ice Storm players rushed to their positions. Second down, two yards to go — Isis had no time to switch out players.
“Red, eighty-eight!” Quentin surveyed the defense; same formation, a 4-3. He saw Chaka the Brutal lean forward, just a bit, weight on his toes. He was coming on a blitz.
Stats flashed through Quentin’s head, a lightspeed data dump recalling everything he knew on Chaka ...
... 10-year veteran, 6-foot-2 375 pounds, best 40-yard-dash time 3.8 seconds, reconstructive right-knee surgery in the off-season, one confirmed kill, four career-ending injuries —
“Reddddd, eighty-eight!”
Quentin’s eyes flicked across the defenders, his brain processed a thousand physical cues in a fraction of a second. He saw such detail, as if his eyes were simultaneously microscopes and telescopes. To Quentin’s right, the Ki left defensive tackle’s inside legs tensed, as if he planned to push away from Quentin on the snap.
“Hut!”
That tackle would push outside, trying to draw Krakens right offensive guard Michael Kimberlin with him. Behind that tackle, Chaka would run forward and to the inside, trying to blitz through the newly opened area vacated by the offensive guard. Drawn on the holoboard, the crossing paths of the two defensive players would look like an “X,” a coordinated move known as a “stunt.”
“Hut!”
The Isis players stayed disciplined, did not jump.
Just before the last syllable, Quentin’s eyes again flicked right, to the deadly Ryan Nossek. Nossek’s feet were flat — he wasn’t coming as hard as he could. Instead, he would hit the offensive tackle, then fight to hold his position and see where the play would go. The play was a screen pass right, to Montagne. If Nossek stayed home, he’d be in position to disrupt the screen pass, maybe even put a wicked hit on Becca.
This deluge of information and computation took place in less than two seconds. As Quentin called off the snap count, the mind of an elite professional quarterback instinctively analyzed more data than any supercomputer or AI could ever do.
“Hut!”
The ball slapped into his hands. Just like the last play, he drove back and to the left. In his mind’s eye, he saw Chaka the Brutal behind him, running forward and in, coming through the line, just three steps away.
Becca shot by again, but this time she would block down and then cut hard-right to get open for the short pass.
Chaka would be two steps behind him now.
Quentin reached the ball out to Ju, who slammed his arms down on empty air for the run-fake.
That motion would make the blitzing linebacker pause just a bit, just long enough for Quentin to make a move. Quentin pushed hard off his right foot, away from Ju. His mind had things timed so well that he sensed Chaka’s middle arms reach out just an instant before they actually grabbed the back of his black jersey.
Almost, but not quite.
Quentin ran right, pulling away from Chaka’s grip. The quarterback’s chess-master mind tracked everyone on the field. He knew he had one second before Chaka caught up and brought him down from behind.
Quentin’s eyes confirmed what his brain knew was coming — the entire Isis defensive line bearing down on him. In a screen pass, the offensive line gave a hit, then pretended to miss their blocks. This let the defensive line come free while the offensive linemen scrambled to the right to block for Becca. When the pass left Quentin’s hand, the defensive linemen would be too far away to help and Becca would have two or three blockers in front of her, ready to rush downfield like a wall of muscle.
A half-second until Chaka caught up.
Quentin looked right — Becca was in her assigned spot, Kimberlin and Vu-Ko-Will were there to block ... but Nossek was there as well. Like the All-Pro he was, he had sniffed out the screen pass.
Quentin raised the ball and faked a throw to Becca.
Three-tenths of a second.
The oncoming, white-jerseyed Ki lineman reached up to block the pass, long multi-jointed arms raised vertical like living prison bars.
One-tenth of a second.
Quentin sprang forward, shooting past the reaching Ki linemen, feeling Chaka’s pincers again brush against his back.
Too little, too late.
In a half-second, he was five yards past the line of scrimmage. High One had blessed him with speed and Quentin was thankful for such gifts. The run-fake had drawn in the other linebackers — Quentin shot past and found himself in the open field.
He let his feet do the talking.
The defensive backs closed in on him, or tried to, but the downfield blocking of George Starcher, Hawick and Milford kept them from making a straight-on attack.
Quentin ran toward Starcher’s back. Starcher fought with the Sklorno free safety. Quentin faked to the left. The free safety tried to match, then Quentin cut right, toward the sidelines. The free safety again tried to match but couldn’t react with Starcher’s hands on her chest. She fell to her back, out of the play.
Quentin hit the sidelines and cut upfield.
At the 25 ...
Somewhere in his brain, he realized the home crowd screamed so loud that paint flaked off the stadium walls, that the tu
rf vibrated beneath his feet, that the Low One himself flinched and looked away in fear.
At the 20 ...
The Ice Storm cornerback angled toward him. She would get to him at the five, knock him out of bounds.
At the 15 ...
Yes, he was supposed to slide, but the end zone loomed ahead in all its blackness ...
At the 10 ...
Quentin reared his head back, then brought it forward and to the left with all his weight. The blue/white/chrome missile launched at him, a collision sure to kill brain cells and break bones. He would teach her a lesson, he would show her who ruled this field, he would make an example to all the Ice Storm players and to the entire league and
BLINK
Sanity grabbed hold of him like a mousetrap snapping down on a tiny neck. Head-to-head hits weren’t good for the team. He was an asset and he would act like it.
At the 6-yard line, Quentin suddenly leaned back and stutterstepped, breaking his forward momentum just enough for the over-committed Sklorno to shoot past and crash into the sidelines.
BLINK
The world came rushing back. On the second play of the season, Quentin Barnes casually jogged into the end zone. A 46-yard touchdown run. The stands shook, vibrating with thousands of jumping, insane, screaming fans.
Fireworks exploded overhead as the sky turned a deep orange — the entire city dome changing color to signify the first Krakens touchdown of the year.
Quentin tossed the ball to a flying zebe, then knelt and plucked a few black-painted, circular blades of Iomatt.
He sniffed deep, inhaling the slight scent of cinnamon.
He started to stand but was knocked flat as Hawick and Milford hit him harder than most linebackers. The squealing, chittering Sklorno weren’t even speaking English, just babbling in their native tongue while they hugged him and shook him. Seconds later, Starcher and Ju Tweedy jumped on the pile. Quentin hoped this would become a trend, that the worst beating he would take during a game would be during a touchdown celebration.
• • •
THE ICE STORM WASTED NO TIME striking back. Paul Infante hit receiver Füssen on a simple out pattern. Berea, the right cornerback, slipped on the tackle and fell, leaving Füssen gobs of open space. She sprinted to the 5-yard line before Davenport brought her down. On the next play, Infante hit running back Scott Wilson on a hook. Wilson caught the ball just as John Tweedy landed a big hit, but they fell in the end zone.
