THE ALL-PRO (Galactic Football League)

by Scott Sigler

  The shudder came and went. Quentin opened his eyes to see his dad offering up the bucket.

  “You okay, Son?”

  Punch-out had come and gone. For the first time that Quentin could remember, he didn’t have to throw up.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I’m okay.”

  Outside the window, the planet Fortress glowed a pale red. Surrounding the planet, a shell of widely spaced satellites, all equidistant to each other. Quentin’s eyes unconsciously drew lines between the stations — a pattern of repeating hexes that curved around the far side of the planet.

  “Wow,” Cillian said. “How many are there?”

  “Got to be thousands,” Quentin said. The Touchback flew toward the planet. The satellites grew in size. The structures were massive, each maybe four times the size of the Touchback. As they sailed past, he saw the satellites were heavily damaged — ripped and melted metal, cracked shells, broken superstructure, shattered gun emplacements with barrels bent or twisted or pointing in different directions.

  Forty years on and so many parts of the galaxy still bore the scars of the Takeover.

  “Well, Quentin, I have to get to work. I certainly don’t want to be late for my first trip down.”

  “Dad, you know you don’t have to have a job. I make enough money.”

  Cillian scowled at his son. “We’re not going to keep going over this, Quentin. As long as High One gives me the ability to earn my own keep, I will. To do less would be a sin.”

  That seemed silly, yet Quentin knew he would do the same were he in his father’s position. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you after the game?”

  Cillian smiled, reached out and ruffled Quentin’s hair. “A dozen roundbug stings couldn’t keep me away. Play your best, Son. I’ll be rooting for you.”

  Quentin watched his father leave the observation deck. He stared after him for a bit, then turned to look at Fortress. Quentin knew he was a lucky man to have his father in his life, but it was time to focus on other things.

  He had a team to lead.

  He had a game to win.

  The Krakens’ fifteen-year drought was about to end. This victory would be a landmark for the organization. More importantly, a win would feel like payback to the sentient who had given Quentin everything.

  “This one’s for you, Gredok,” Quentin said, then he turned and headed for his quarters.

  • • •

  “YOUR VISITING TEAM, the Ionath, Kraaaaaaakensssss!”

  Quentin, Ju Tweedy and their teammates ran out of the tunnel onto the cream-colored field of Wabash Stadium. Home of the Wolfpack. He sprinted toward his sideline, expecting the assault of wet trash.

  But none came.

  It took him a moment to realize it, but this crowd wasn’t booing.

  In fact, they were cheering.

  Not the full-throttle cheer they would give to their Wolfpack, but it was a cheer, a polite thing of respect, of acceptance.

  “What is this?” Ju said as they jogged along. “No rotten food today?”

  Quentin shook his head. “No. I think that’s over because of that latest article, cover-boy.”

  Ju smiled and pumped his fist. Yolanda’s story of two weeks earlier had cleared their names, cleared the reputation of the Ionath Krakens. Somehow, an entire galaxy’s worth of football fans felt bad for having doubted Quentin, Ju and the others. This cheer was a small token of apology. Quentin had not gone on the sports shows and blamed other sentients, he hadn’t whined in the press about how he’d been wronged. He’d stood by his teammate while everyone cursed his name, while people called for him to be thrown out of the league — while people threw garbage on him.

  He’d stood by his teammate, who had turned out to be innocent.

  Wabash Stadium gleamed in the afternoon sun. Not so much from the concrete and steel construction, which was utilitarian and basic, but from the 100,000 fans — probably 90,000 of which wore white. Wabash’s vaunted 100K packed the stadium’s two decks, two thick bands of white sandwiching a middle deck of luxury boxes. Gredok and Gloria Ogawa would be in one of those boxes, behind the Wolfpack sidelines, right at the 50-yard line. Quentin glanced to the left as he ran across the tan field, looking for the tiny, black-furred Quyth Leader, but he couldn’t make him out.

  Quentin reached the Ionath sideline, raised his fist and the team gathered around him. Football fans were fickle — love you one day, hate you the next. Today, they loved him. That made him feel amazing, but he knew it would not last because this was an away crowd and most of these sentients were Wolfpack fans.

  Four quarters from now, when he walked out of here with a victory over their home team? They’d be singing a different tune.

  He would sing along with them and smile.

  • • •

  HE STOOD IN THE HOME of GFL champions.

  No denying that this place felt different from the rest. Last year, he’d experienced the same sensation in Red Storm City, when he and his teammates had taken on the Jupiter Jacks. The Krakens had upset the then-defending GFL champion.

  And now, the Krakens were on the verge of doing it again.

  Down 25-21, fourth quarter, 1:15 to play, third-and-15 on the Krakens 46-yard line. A field goal meant nothing — the Krakens needed a touchdown to win. An insane crowd of exactly 100,000 mostly white-clad fans screamed to their Wolfpack to hold them, to shut them down.

  It all came down to this last drive. A loss dropped Ionath to 5-3, nearly crippling their playoff hopes. A win and they were 6-2, a game out of first. To do that, the Krakens needed a last-minute, game-winning drive against the undefeated defending champs, against a team they hadn’t beaten in 15 years.

  Pressure? Yes. Quentin’s body felt electric — everything fell on his shoulders. Game on the line, the ball in his hands, where he wanted it, because he was the sentient that could get the job done. His team believed in him, counted on him. Yeah, he could taste the pressure.

  He found it delicious.

  Quentin stood tall behind center as his orange-jerseyed offensive line settled in. The cream-colored plants that made up Wabash Stadium’s field had to be the toughest in the league — despite three-and-a-half quarters of war, the black-lined turf showed almost no damage.

  That meant ideal footing.

  Ideal footing meant Quentin could do what he did best.

  The players, however, showed plenty of damage. Streaks of red, black and sticky-clear blood criss-crossed the gridiron — a giant, textured painting of pain and anger. The Krakens and the Wolfpack were leaving it all on the field.

  He surveyed the defense. Red helmets decorated on either side with black-and-white trimmed, red, snarling wolf-head logos. Black facemasks. Black jerseys with red-trimmed, pearlescent, white numbers and letters. A white-trimmed, red wolf-head logo on the right shoulder, open jaws snapping shut just above the numbers on the chest. Pearlescent leg armor and shoes.

  The Wolfpack used multiple defensive formations, keeping things unpredictable. This time they were in a 4-3 — four down linemen (three Ki and one HeavyG) and three linebackers (two Quyth Warriors and a Human).

  Quentin had done a good job picking apart those linebackers, hitting Kobayasho, Tara the Freak, Becca and Yassoud on short routes. George Starcher stood on the sidelines. Another dropped pass, another missed block — this one resulting in a sack by Wolfpack defensive end Stephen Wardop. The hit had broken Quentin’s right thumb, somewhere at the base. Messed up his wrist as well, but he hadn’t told Doc Patah — a broken hand meant Quentin might fumble, which meant Hokor would put in Pine. Each snap from Bud-O-Shwek felt like the blow of some invisible, hammer-wielding strongman, but Quentin would dance with the Low One before he’d give up the glory of this game.

  I-formation, double-wide, wing right, roll-out left, X-flag, Y-cross, Z-post, B-circle-in. Becca and Ju behind him — Becca to block, Ju running a short, 5-yard route. Hawick wide left, running a flag route — up and out to the sidelines. Tara the Freak at the rig
ht wing, running a crossing pattern. Halawa wide right, her post pattern would take her up and deep to the middle of the field.

  He glanced at the right outside linebacker’s feet: Ricky Craig was limping, tired, had to be tired because he’d lost focus, had his weight on his toes, a clear tell that he would blitz in at the snap of the ball. If Quentin timed it right, he could hit Tara on a cross when Tara ran into Ricky’s vacated area.

  Quentin smiled, tapped out a quick ba-da-bap on Bud-O-Shwek’s behind. Ouch — that familiar mannerism hurt when your thumb and wrist were broken. Quentin slid his hands under center. He ignored the pain as he pressed the base of his right hand against his left.

  “Red, fifteen!” He called out. “Red, fifteen.”

  “Alternate, alternate!” screamed Ricky Craig. The Wolfpack defense suddenly shifted. Craig and middle linebacker Michael Cogan moved up, filling the gaps between the defensive linemen. The cornerbacks moved up as well, moved in tight for bump-and-run coverage on Halawa and Hawick. The safety and free safety closed in to about 5 yards off the line of scrimmage.

  The third linebacker, Rand Owen, lined up a yard off of Tara the Freak. Owen would hit Tara right away, try to jam the receiver at the line.

  An all-out blitz. If Quentin threw short, the cornerbacks and safeties were ready to jump the route. If Quentin waited for his receivers to outrun the close coverage, he’d be sacked for sure.

  Tara looked back at Quentin. Quentin felt a flutter in his chest — he and his receiver both knew exactly what had to be done.

  Time to audible.

  Quentin stood. “Green, green!” Black-helmeted heads turned to look at him, to get instructions. The Wolfpack wanted to come and get him? Wanted to force him into a rookie mistake? Well, fine. If it was going to take a blood bath, best to get it over with.

  “Forty-two blast!” he called first down the left side of the line, then again down the right. Linemen and receivers faced forward, waited for the snap.

  Quentin turned to shout at Ju and Becca. “Forty-two blast!” He pointed at each of them, then at a linebacker. A fake gesture — the linebackers would be on Quentin so fast, there was nothing those teammates could do.

  He again bent behind center, embracing the pain in his thumb, pain that would seem like nothing compared to the moment when Bud-O-Shwek slammed the ball into his hands.

  Pressure. Glory.

  Feet don’t fail me now.

  “Hut-hut!”

  A shotgun-blast of agony ripped through his right hand and up his forearm, but his grip never faltered.

  BLINK

  Silence.

  Quentin took one step back. The blitzing linebackers found seams in the line, came at him in that dreamy, not-real motion he saw in these moments. He had less than a second, had to throw before Tara was open, trust the Quyth Warrior receiver could do his job.

  Tara came straight off the line, smashing into Rand Owen. Owen tried to bench-press Tara, hit the receiver in the chest and stop all forward momentum, but Tara’s pedipalp arms were longer — he slapped the side of Owen’s helmet, making the linebacker stumble to the left. Just a half-step, but that was all it took.

  Bloody hands reached for Quentin, torn fingers locked on his ripped, black jersey. He threw off his back foot, a high, arcing pass to the open area 10 yards downfield from Tara.

  Tara tucked and rolled, a blur of spinning motion that moved straight downfield under the arcing pass. Owen tried to turn and chase, but he was too slow. Tara popped out at the last second. His big pedipalp hands hauled in the throw.

  BLINK

  The raucous stadium slammed back into reality. Quentin backpedaled, those bloody linebacker hands slipping off his jersey — if they hit him now, it would be a roughing-the-passer penalty.

  He stopped, stood, watched.

  Tara crossed the Wolfpack 40-yard line, heading straight downfield.

  Sklorno defensive backs closed in.

  Mississauga, the safety, shot straight in at Tara. Tara just tucked the ball deep in his arms and lowered his helmet. The hit — a devastating thing that sounded like a high-speed hovercab accident, a hit that would have leveled even Ju Tweedy — rocked both players.

  Mississauga fell.

  Tara spun off the hit and kept going.

  Mars, the cornerback, closed in as Tara crossed the Wabash 30. Mars hit Tara from behind, a helmet-to-helmet shot. Tara’s head bounced forward. He stumbled, but his powerful legs kept churning. Mars’ tentacle-arms wrapped around Tara’s shoulders. Still Tara kept running.

  The 20.

  Mars couldn’t stop the powerful Warrior. Her raspers shot out, flicked, tightened, shredded fabric, cut chitin, drew blood.

  Still Tara kept running.

  The 10.

  Mars lowered her tentacles, reaching for Tara’s feet, his legs, but Tara high-stepped into the end zone.

  Touchdown.

  Ionath 27, Wabash 25.

  Quentin ran off the field as the extra-point team ran on. The Krakens on the sidelines jumped and hopped — they were almost there, they had almost done it. Tara ran off the field and was mobbed by Human, HeavyG, Ki and Sklorno teammates.

  The other Warriors stood together, watching, not joining in.

  Same as always, unaccepting, hateful. Only ... this time, there was something different.

  Virak the Mean, Choto the Bright, Killik the Unworthy, their eyes all swirled with hints of light red.

  The color of appreciation, possibly even respect.

  Arioch Morningstar kicked in the extra point. 28-25 Ionath, 1:07 to play. If the defense could stop the Wolfpack, it was over.

  Virak and the other Warriors knew Ionath had won the game on an amazing effort by the player that they called mutie. Tara the Freak’s touchdown had given Ionath a win over Wabash for the first time in fifteen years.

  Quentin looked up to the stands, eyes taking in the sea of white-clad sentients. His gaze fell upon a luxury box between the first and second decks. He saw Gredok the Splithead, small but recognizable, standing next to Gloria Ogawa. Was Gredok ... clapping? He was clapping, he was jumping up and down.

  Quentin laughed. So this is all it took to make Gredok show emotion? Why, it was almost nothing.

  Quentin raised his broken right hand, managed to extend his index finger — he pointed at his team owner. The gesture said this one is for you. Maybe he and Gredok would never be friends, but now they understood each other. Together, they fought for the same goal.

  The pain finally took over. Quentin bent at the waist, his right arm shrinking protectively to his chest. The Krakens’ sidelines bounced with insanity. His team had gone mad. He couldn’t blame them. Quentin could do no more. Strong hands guided him to a sideline medbay. He felt the bay’s metal grate deck beneath his feet before he turned, sat, then laid back.

  Quentin closed his eyes as Doc Patah went to work, knowing the sound of the crowd would tell him if the defense held, or if the Wolfpack found a way to win.

  • • •

  QUENTIN HAD NEVER SEEN a locker room so electric. He remembered the happy insanity after they’d defeated the Texas Earthlings two seasons ago to earn promotion to Tier One. And he could never forget the celebration last year, when they’d topped the Mars Planets to avoid relegation.

  But nothing compared to this.

  Jersey, helmet and shoulder pads off, right arm in a sling, Quentin stood against the wall at the room’s edge. He wore only his cleats, leg armor and a sweaty, bloody PROPERTY OF KRAKENS T-shirt. He still held the game ball from Tara’s winning touchdown catch. Coach gave it to Tara, but Tara had insisted Quentin take it.

  Quentin soaked it all in, watched his teammates celebrate. His father stood next to him, watching as well. Cillian wore a black, button-down shirt decorated with the Krakens logo on the left breast. He’d combed his hair, even shaved. Quentin had to admit, the man looked good.

  An all-access lanyard hung around Cillian’s neck. He was staff now, would help Messal gather e
quipment and transport it to the Touchback. Cillian couldn’t do a thing, however, until after the celebration stopped.

  The central visitors locker room was packed with football players of all species in various stages of undress. Helmets, shoulder armor, dirty jerseys, bloody bandages, assorted tape and braces littered the floor. Sklorno jumped in place and screeched gibberish. The Quyth Warriors clacked out a rhythm by banging their middle arms against their chest plates. John and Ju stood on a bench, doing some kind of improvised choreographed dance to celebrate the win. Their exaggerated actions had the Humans and HeavyG players laughing hysterically, clutching stomachs, wiping eyes. Even the grim-faced Ibrahim Khomeni played along, his HeavyG face wrinkled in a rare smile. That could have been because of the Tweedys’ performance, or because he’d notched three sacks on Wolfpack quarterback Rich Bennett.

  The Tweedy brothers took turns singing a line, then letting the team respond. Even the Ki were there, barking and shouting in their native language, trying and failing to sing in time.

  Cillian nodded in John’s direction. “I know he’s your best friend, but is he retarded?”

  John wore only his waist armor and his left sock. His entire body flashed the words OH-VER, RAY-TED! OH-VER, RAY-TED!

  “Wabash-trash, suck-o-tash!” Ju called.

  “Wabash-trash, suck-o-tash!” the team responded.

  “Over-rated, like a baked potated,” John called.

  “Over-rated, like a baked potated,” the team responded.

  Quentin laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, probably. I love him anyway.”

  Cillian looked around the room, smiling, showing clear pride that he was somehow connected to all of this through his son. “This is really something, Quentin. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s not always like this, Dad. Sometimes we lose.”

  Cillian shrugged. “I don’t know sports, but it seems to me a hundred losses would be a small price to pay to be a part of this feeling, with these guys.”

  Quentin nodded politely. Nothing was worth a hundred losses. Nothing was worth one loss, for that matter, but he understood what his father was trying to say.