THE ALL-PRO (Galactic Football League)

by Scott Sigler

  The three of them would work even harder next year, they would do whatever it took to become All-Pro themselves. Ma Tweedy’s three boys would represent.

  Standing there, the entire team buzzing with the moment — they had made it — it seemed like an eternity before the Wabash announcer finally called them onto the field.

  “Sentients, please welcome the visiting team, the Krakens ... of ... Ionath!”

  Quentin followed his three All-Pro teammates onto the field, so focused on the game he barely heard the boos.

  • • •

  QUENTIN TOOK THE SNAP and turned left, handing off to Ju, who drove into the line — but there was no hole. Ju slowed, looking. Seeing nothing, Ju lowered his head and plowed forward. Defensive tackle Stephen Wardop was a black-and-red blur, driving under Sho-Do-Thikit to up-end Ju with an armtackle.

  No gain.

  Third down, 8 to go.

  The Krakens offensive line couldn’t budge the Wabash D.

  “Huddle up!”

  The Krakens gathered. They looked wide-eyed, maybe a little shell shocked. He had to calm them down.

  “Boys and girls, relax. We’re just getting warmed up. Let’s play our game, okay?”

  Heads nodded, arms clacked against chests.

  “Okay, I-set, slot-right, X-post, Y-wheel, Z-in, on three, on three, ready?”

  “Break!”

  The Krakens ran to the line and settled in. Quentin panned left-to-right, looking at the defense. These were the same players he’d faced in Week Nine ... weren’t they? They looked more intense than he’d remembered. Angrier. Wardop and fellow HeavyG defensive tackle Justin Miller, linebacker Michael Cogan, cornerback Mars.

  The defense stared back at him, eyes glaring from behind black facemasks and red helmets. The Wolfpack wore the same black jerseys with red-trimmed, pearlescent numbers but now with a new patch — the 2684 Solar Division Championship shield stitched on the left shoulder. Same players, same uniforms, the Pack looked the same, but their high-level play was something new, something different.

  “Blue, fifty-five!” Quentin called out. The defenders inched closer, almost projecting themselves toward him. “Blue, fifty-five! Hut-hut ... hut!”

  Quentin took the snap and drove back, stabbing the ball toward Ju on a play-action fake. He kept going, planting at five steps and popping forward.

  He had a glimpse of Sho-Do-Thikit falling, of Michael Kimberlin’s face — a bad thing, since Kimberlin always faced forward unless he was chasing the attacker he’d just let slip through — then the pocket collapsed so fast Quentin couldn’t escape. Wardop and Miller crashed in. Quentin pulled the ball down just as 900 pounds of HeavyG linemen drove him to the ground.

  Fourth down.

  Quentin stood, brushed cream-colored plants off of his orange jersey. He headed for the sidelines. Not a good start, but the game had just begun. He’d get his teammates going. Hopefully, John’s defense could do better.

  • • •

  QUENTIN STOOD ON THE SIDELINES, Becca on his left and Ju on his right. They watched Wolfpack quarterback Rich Bennett take the snap, drop back and look downfield. Quentin saw the black-clad Wabash receivers streaking deep. He saw Bennett sliding to his left, toward defensive end Cliff Frost’s side of the field. The Wolfpack was double-teaming The Spaz — his frantic spinning wasn’t getting him anywhere.

  Quentin gritted his teeth and nodded. This was how it would be all day, he knew the moment he saw it. The Wolfpack would roll plays to their left, move away from Krakens’ defensive end Aleksandar Michnik. That would give Bennett an extra second or two to find targets before Michnik could get to him. As long as Wabash blocked Frost, or whoever was playing at left defensive end to replace the injured Ibrahim Khomeni, Bennett would have time to throw if the Krakens didn’t blitz. Were Khomeni in the lineup, the Pack couldn’t have pulled it off, but Khomeni was out.

  Bennett slid left, planted, then threw downfield. It wasn’t a great pass, but wide receiver Naksup was a step ahead of Krakens free safety Perth. The wounded-duck pass wobbled high. Naksup went up for it and brought it down.

  The crowd seemed to explode when Naksup landed in the end zone.

  “What the hell was that?” Ju said. “Perth is faster than Naksup. How could Perth let her by?”

  Quentin shook his head. He didn’t know the answer. He pulled on his helmet and waited for his chance to get back on the field.

  • • •

  QUENTIN AGAIN PUSHED himself up off the cream-colored turf. He pulled some plant material out of his facemask. He’d been hit so hard he’d skidded, for crying out loud. Skidded on his face. He walked back to the huddle, forcing himself not to limp.

  “Guys, what is going on?” he asked his huddle.

  Midway through the second quarter. His teammates were breathing hard. No one seemed to want to look him in the eye.

  “We’re down fourteen-zip,” he said. “Come on, isn’t this the same team you beat in this same stadium just four weeks ago?”

  “They hit harder!” Halawa said.

  “They run faster!” Hawick said.

  Quentin leaned in until he was face to face with his All-Pro left tackle. “Kill-O, isn’t this the same team we played?”

  Quentin was asking a rhetorical question. Of course it was the same team, but even Kill-O looked away. That was quite a feat, considering Kill-O’s 360-degree vision.

  “Grippah, jolonay,” he said.

  Quentin leaned back. Had he just understood those words? Maybe not, but he definitely understood the tone, the context. Doesn’t seem like the same team, Kill-O had said.

  The words rang true. The Wolfpack showed far more intensity, far more anger. They played faster. They played harder. They beat blocks. They played smarter.

  Coach Hokor’s face appeared in Quentin’s heads-up display.

  “Barnes! Will you get those worthless maggots to block?”

  “I will, Coach,” he said. “What’s the play?”

  “We have to establish the run. Let’s go pro-set, counter-right. If we’re running, our linemen are attacking, tell them that.”

  Quentin nodded and tapped his helmet, blinking out the heads-up holo. He called the play, looking at Ju as he did.

  Ju’s nose dripped a steady stream of blood. Doc Patah could fix that when they got off the field, but for now, the wound was a bit disturbing — the Krakens bad-ass running back was supposed to make others bleed.

  “Ju, let’s take it to them. Smash-mouth.”

  Ju met Quentin’s eyes, nodded. In that moment, Quentin saw the doubt. The Wolfpack were teeing off on Ju. The running back could take the hits, he could break tackles, fall forward on every play, that was fact, but Quentin could see that Ju no longer believed it.

  Quentin walked up behind Bud-O-Shwek, surveying the defenders once again. They looked hungry. In that moment, Quentin understood what it was all about. The Krakens had been quite impressed with themselves for just making the playoffs.

  But Wabash? For them, this was just one more step to the ultimate goal — they played with the intensity of champions.

  The Krakens had to learn how to play like that, how to take their game up yet another level and they had to do it fast.

  • • •

  MIDWAY THROUGH THE SECOND quarter, down 21-0, Quentin Barnes settled in under center. He had to make something happen, something spectacular to get his team back in the game. If he could get the Krakens motivated, give them something to rally around, then there was still a chance.

  Third down, 7 to go on the Wabash 24-yard line.

  “Greeeen, twenty-two,” he called down the left side of the line. He would audible out of Hokor’s play, take the ball and change the course of the game right now. “Greeeeen, twenty-two!”

  His teammates didn’t need to look at him, they knew the calls — Quentin would roll left and look to run or throw. All receivers would run patterns to the left: Milford on a hook, Warburg on an out and Halawa on a far-side
flag, coming from the right side of the field all the way over to the left corner of the end zone. Halawa’s route took a long time to run, but Quentin suspected she would be open. He had one interception so far — he had to put this on the money.

  “Hut-hut!”

  The orange and black roared into the black and red. Quentin reverse-pivoted, opening up to the right, then coming around to sprint left. Rebecca ran a few yards in front of him, looking for someone to block. Milford ran up the left sideline and hooked in at 10 yards. The cornerback covering her, Mars, came up in defense. Warburg ran straight out 15 yards, then cut left. As Quentin suspected, the safety cheated up, drawn in by Warburg.

  If Halawa got behind the safety, she would be open. Woman-on-woman coverage. Halawa was faster than the right side corner covering her. With a route that far across the field, she would pull a step or two ahead of her defender.

  Right outside linebacker Ricky Craig barreled in. Rebecca took him head on, a devastating hit that left both players flat on the ground.

  Middle linebacker Michael Cogan sprinted in on a delayed blitz. Quentin kept running, started to throw the ball to Milford for a short pass, what he was supposed to do when under blitz pressure.

  But his team needed more than four yards.

  Quentin kept moving left, went a little deeper, waiting to see if Halawa got behind the safety. Two seconds before Cogan closed in. Halawa sprinted, Quentin waited — he wouldn’t have time.

  One second.

  Then Mississauga, the safety, made a mistake, took another step toward Warburg.

  A half-second.

  Quentin was almost to the sidelines — he would have to plant and step up to throw.

  Three-tenths of a second.

  Halawa shot behind the Mississauga, headed for the corner of the end zone.

  One-tenth of a second.

  Quentin stepped forward and threw on the run, releasing the ball as fast as he could. No sooner had the leather left his hand than he felt a helmet drive into his right foot.

  And something in there snapped.

  Quentin fell, slid out of bounds and into the Wolfpack sidelines. He started to grab at the knife-pain in his right foot, but stopped himself. He couldn’t let the Wolfpack know he’d been hurt, or they’d pour on the pressure.

  The roar of the crowd told him his pass had hit home. Touchdown Ionath.

  Wabash players helped him up. Quentin jogged toward his own sidelines, using all of his concentration to hide his limp. He wasn’t going to let Don Pine in this game, no way. Pain or no pain, two feet or one, Quentin Barnes would finish this thing.

  He ran off the field. His teammates seemed excited ... but not excited enough. The extra point was good. Wabash now led 21-7.

  They had a game.

  • • •

  QUENTIN TOOK THE SNAP and dropped back. His foot hurt bad, but he could handle it. Third-and-long on the Ionath 45. Just 32 seconds left in the half and the Krakens were desperately trying to get into field goal range. He planted his left foot, stepped up into the pocket. Pressure from the left — Col-Que-Hon bull-rushing Kill-O-Yowet. Kill-O sure as hell wasn’t playing like an All-Pro. Col-Que knocked Kill-O over, then gathered, compacted for a hit. Warburg was open across the middle. Quentin stepped forward too fast — he planted his right foot and the stab of pain threw off his aim. The ball sailed wide left. Just before Col-Que smashed him senseless, Quentin saw linebacker Michael Cogan pick off the pass.

  Quentin blinked his eyes against the blackness swirling in his vision. Alien hands picked him up off the tan turf — Kill-O, clearly ashamed of his poor blocking. Quentin forced a smile, slapped his teammate on the helmet.

  At the half, the Krakens went into the locker room down 21-7.

  • • •

  WABASH SCORED ANOTHER touchdown in the third quarter and one more to start the fourth. Ju broke a long run after that, but it was too little, too late.

  Quentin didn’t bother hiding his limp anymore. If felt like someone had driven a rusty nail into his foot and he helped by driving that nail deeper with each step.

  Out on the field, the Wolfpack lined up in the victory formation. Fourth quarter, twenty-two seconds and ticking, Wabash up 35-14, Ionath with no timeouts left.

  Quentin felt an arm around his shoulder pads. He looked —Michael Kimberlin, tears welling in the big man’s eyes. Quentin looked away fast, lest he do the same.

  The season was over.

  The Krakens had lost.

  Rich Bennett took the snap, backed up one step, then knelt. Whistles blew. Both sidelines walked out onto the field. The Krakens walked slowly, like the beaten team they were. The Wolfpack moved with more purpose, more intensity. The black, red and the white weren’t celebrating. This was just one step closer to their goal, to defending their title.

  Media swarmed onto the field. Quentin saw Coach Hokor, guarded by three Ki police who escorted him to the 50-yard line to congratulate Wabash coach Alan Roark, who was also guarded by police. Reporters pushed and shoved, lights glared. Lev-cameras and Harrah swirled, angling for the best positions.

  Quentin sought out his counterpart.

  Rich Bennett saw Quentin, jogged over, auburn hair wet with sweat but still flopping as he ran, looking every bit the hero he’d been in the game.

  “Quentin,” Rich said, extending his hand. “Good game.”

  “Not as good as yours. You haven’t played like that all year, man. Four touchdowns?”

  Rich smiled the smile of the victor. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in awhile.”

  “Did you guys eat some super-food or something? Learn some mystical ritual? I’ve never seen anything like it. You kicked our ass from beginning to end.”

  “It’s the playoffs,” Rich said. “It’s a whole different feeling, a whole different level of intensity. Now you know. Same thing happened to us in ‘82. We played the To Pirates in the first round and they kicked the crap out of us. We thought we were ready — we weren’t. You can’t know how to do that until you’ve been here. Well, now you’ve been here.”

  Quentin stared, then nodded with understanding. Rich reached out and ruffled Quentin’s sweaty, bloody hair. It was a friendly gesture, part we are equals, part you’ll get yours someday, kiddo.

  Rich moved on, talking to other players. He stopped to share a smile with Don Pine — the two Galaxy Bowl champion quarterbacks, members of a club so exclusive it had only seventeen members.

  In all the universe, only seventeen of them.

  Quentin watched, letting the jealous rage roil in his chest. Maybe it was a sin to be envious of Becca, but not of Pine and Bennett. No, not at all, because that kind of envy would fuel him, drive him to work harder, to prepare more, to play even better.

  He looked around the stadium. Wolfpack fans in white and red and black, still celebrating in the stands. Mixed in among them, clusters of orange and black. The Krakens fans hadn’t left early to beat traffic; they had stayed. Stayed and watched their team get soundly whipped.

  For those fans, he would win a title.

  He looked at his teammates. They were shell-shocked but still showed class, congratulating their counterparts from Wabash. All the hatred and animosity between the clubs was fine during the game, but Wabash had moved on and Ionath had not. Now was the time to acknowledge that, to tip one’s hat to the victors. He looked at Kill-O, who’d played his worst game of the season. He would be embarrassed that his line had given up four sacks just a few days after he was named one of the best in the game.

  Next year, Kill-O would be ready.

  Quentin looked at Becca, who was sharing a moment with Wabash fullback Ralph Schmeer — the All-Pros, the two best fullbacks in the game. She had played well, but like her teammates, she’d been outclassed from the start.

  Next year, Becca would be ready.

  He looked at Ju, blue cotton sticking out of both nostrils. Ju was talking to Wabash coach Alan Roark. Roark had a hand on Ju’s shoulder pad, was leani
ng in, giving advice or encouragement. Ju listened. Ju nodded.

  Next year, Ju would be ready.

  Quentin scanned all of his teammates and in all of them, he saw the same understanding that now coursed through his veins.

  Next year, they would all be ready.

  Quentin would win a title for his teammates.

  Finally, his gaze drifted toward a cluster of huge sentients in the center of the field. Big sentients, dangerous sentients — crowd and reporters both gave this group a wide berth. In the middle, down low among the legs of the bodyguards, Quentin saw Gredok the Splithead talking to Hokor the Hookchest. Gredok had actually come down to the field to speak with his coach. Quentin could see it wasn’t a lecture, wasn’t a dressing-down. Gredok seemed to offer words of encouragement, words that soothed Hokor. Demands for victory would come later, perhaps, but for now even Gredok could give credit where credit was due.

  Hokor had been out-coached, his team had been out-prepared and out-played.

  Next year, Hokor would be ready.

  Quentin would win a title for Hokor.

  As for Gredok? Gredok would get something else altogether. Quentin would see to that.

  He turned to walk off and almost ran over the blue-skinned beauty of Yolanda Davenport.

  “Quentin! Can I ask you a question?”

  She held a recorder. She was here in official capacity. He wanted to scream at her, maybe even push her out of the way, but this was part of the game like everything else. This was part of his job.

  “Sure,” he said, leaning down so he could hear her. “Go for it.”

  “You led Ionath to the playoffs, but your season ended today. Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”

  “Both teams played hard,” he said. “Wabash was more prepared than we were. They deserved the win.”