by Scott Sigler
Quentin thought for a second. “Well, not right now, but maybe down the road, you know? I mean if the guy can play, great, but if he’s a jackass that might be an issue, right?”
Pine smiled. “You are learning fast, Q. Yeah, locker room poison is a big problem. But it’s too early to tell that right now. How about you put him through the paces, see if he’s worth the trouble. If he isn’t, no point in considering potential locker room politics. If he is, you evaluate from there. Make sense?”
Quentin nodded. “Yeah, makes perfect sense.”
Pine slapped him on the shoulder. “Do your thing, kid.”
“Coach!” Quentin called up to Hokor’s cart. “What do you want to see first?”
“Ten-yard hooks,” Hokor said. “We’re going to have to throw short against the Ice Storm, so let’s start there.”
Quentin walked to the rack of footballs. He grabbed the first one and bent at the knees, a simulation for taking a snap from center. The tight ends lined up eight yards to his left. Pietor bent into a three-point stance: one hand and both feet on the ground, head up, back flat and parallel to the ground.
Quentin took it all in, then looked forward, just as he would for a game-time snap. “Hut-hut!”
Pietor shot off the line as Quentin took three steps back and brought the ball up to his ear. Seven yards into Pietor’s route, Quentin reared back and threw a laser. Pietor stopped and turned, hands up to catch the timing pass. The ball slid through his palms and hit him in the chest. He winced, then grabbed the ball off the ground and ran back behind Jorje.
Morgaine was next. He leaned into the three-point stance, rocketed out on the “snap.” He ran the pattern well enough, but just seemed a little slow to Quentin. Maybe the guy would loosen up as they continued the drills.
Quentin bent for the next snap, but Jorje was standing there, hands on hips, just staring at Quentin.
Quentin stood. “Hey, yellow, let’s go. You want a shot at this roster slot or not?”
“The universe has decreed that you should throw harder,” Jorje said. “The cannons of fate can not change history if the artillery shells of destiny do not finish their parabola of prophecy.”
“What?”
“Starcher!” Hokor’s angry voice boomed from the floating golf cart’s speakers. “Starcher, you get in your stance and run the routes I call!”
“Destiny,” Pine said absently from behind Quentin. “Why does that ring a bell?”
Jorje was still standing tall. “Throw hard, young Quentin, lest the doom of millennial atrophy fill our heads with cotton.”
“Dude,” Quentin said, “are you high?”
“Starcher!” Hokor screamed. “Last chance!” Hokor’s fur was already fluffed up. Starcher wasn’t doing himself any favors by infuriating the galaxy’s angriest coach, that was for sure.
Quentin nodded at Starcher. “Okay. You want the heat, you got the heat. Now will you run the damn pattern?”
The big tight end turned and leaned into his three-point stance, weight forward on his toes and on his extended hand.
“Hey,” Pine said. “Wait a minute... I think know that guy.”
“Pine, shut it,” Quentin said. This yellow-faced Starcher guy wanted the cannons? Cannons were Quentin’s business, and business was good. He’d bounce one off this guy’s face and send him home on a stretcher.
“Hut-hut!”
Starcher shot off the line. As Quentin brought up the ball and dropped three steps, he instantly saw that not only was Starcher bigger than Pietor and Morgaine, he was much quicker. Quentin’s brain took it all in, cataloging the details for later review. When Starcher passed six yards, Quentin was already in his throwing motion. This guy wanted a strong pass? Quentin would deliver a heater a fraction of a second too soon and see how Starcher liked that kind of destiny.
Quentin threw as hard as he could. The ball shot out, hissing as the white strings and pebbled brown leather split the air. Starcher turned, his hands came up...
... and the ball slapped into his hands. For just a moment, Quentin heard a tiny ringing from the air inside the leather ball. The ping sound faded quickly, but punctuated the sentence that popped instantly and eagerly into Quentin’s thoughts: this guy has world-class hands.
World-class, and big. The ball practically vanished inside Starcher’s mutant-sized hands and his sausage-thick fingers.
They ran drills for another twenty minutes, but all that time only confirmed what Quentin had known from the first pass — that Jorje Starcher was a potential all-star who had somehow slipped through the cracks.
On the final pass, just to be a smart-ass, Quentin threw a ten-yard pass as hard as he possibly could. Jorje — possibly to just be a smart-ass as well — caught it with one hand.
Quentin shook his head and laughed. “Nice, job, man.”
Starcher smiled, white teeth set in yellow greasepaint skin.
“No,” Pine said. “Not nice. I know why he’s familiar. Jorje Starcher? Are you George Starcher?”
“Pine!” Hokor said. “Never mind that.”
Don turned to look up at the coach’s cart. “Oh, no you don’t, Hokor. Don’t even try that with me. Are you telling me you brought in George Starcher?”
“Who is George Starcher?” Quentin asked.
“I am,” Starcher said. “Polisher of a dirty universe and keeper of the far flame.”
“Far flame?” Quentin said. “You are high.”
“I knew it!” Pine said. “Hokor, what the hell are you thinking?”
Quentin looked back and forth between Starcher, Pine, and Hokor.
“Come on,” Quentin said. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Hokor said. “Just run the drills.”
Pine’s blue face turned a little purple. “Nothing? Quentin, you’ve never heard of George Starcher?”
Quentin shook his head.
“Haven’t heard of Schizo Starcher. No? How about Crazy George?”
Actually, Quentin had heard of Crazy George. He looked at the big, yellow-faced Human. Played for the Neptune Scarlet Fliers back in ‘78, or something? Quentin had never seen him play, but... yeah... now he remembered. He’d read an illegal, pirated feature written by Yolanda Davenport. She’d covered George’s philosophy blog or something, made him the subject of one of those colorful personalities of football pieces. Quentin remembered not because of Starcher, but because the story showed a picture of the young, blue-skinned reporter. Oh, how that picture had wracked a fourteen-year-old Quentin with such guilt — she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but it was sinful to be attracted to someone with blue skin.
“Crazy George Starcher,” Pine said. “He’s been kicked off more teams than I’ve played on.”
“But he played for Neptune,” Quentin said. “That means he’s got Tier One experience.”
“That’s right,” Starcher said. “I have decorated the highest halls of legend.”
“Sure,” Pine said. “And he was kicked off the Fliers for being bug-nuts crazy. Then a season with the Titan Triangles in T2, who cut him, and another T2 season with the Lipton Engineers, who also cut him. Then, it seems, Mister Painty Face changed his name and fell all the way to the NFL.”
Quentin heard what Pine was saying. He respected Pine’s opinion above all others, but the fact remained that Starcher had Tier One experience... and those hands.
Starcher raised his right hand and looked up dramatically, maybe to the dome, maybe to some star above. Quentin looked up, but didn’t see anything.
“Donald Pine speaks the truth,” Starcher said, every word dripping with the drama of a preacher. “I changed my name because the name was offensive to the hidden Old Ones of the firmament, and one does not want to offend the hidden Old Ones of the firmament.”
“C’mon, Don,” Quentin said. “Maybe the guy straightened out his life or something.”
Don looked stunned at the question. “Look at his face, Quentin!
Does that look like the face of a man who has straightened out his life?”
“Didn’t you just tell me to see if he can catch the ball? Well, he can.”
“That’s why so many teams have given him a chance,” Pine said. “Don’t you want to find out why those same teams let him go? I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark here, Quentin — they let him go because he’s rat-shucking crazy.”
Maybe Pine was right. But Starcher had the speed, size, moves, and hands of an All-Pro. Just the one pass told Quentin that Starcher was better than Yotaro Kobayasho, the Krakens starting tight end, and way better than that racist Rick Warburg. Who knew how good Starcher would be after a few weeks of practice, after learning the Krakens offensive system.
“Pine!” Hokor shouted. “This is not your decision! It is mine.”
Pine glared at Hokor then looked at Quentin. “Q, it’s your show now. If you tell Coach no way, he won’t sign Starcher. There’s a reason this guy was in Tier Three. Don’t sign him.”
Hokor stayed silent, watching. So did Starcher, and so did Pine. They were all waiting for Quentin’s words. Maybe it actually was Quentin’s decision after all.
Starcher spoke first. “I am... I have thoughts,” he said. “Visions, if you will. But I...” his voice trailed off. It seemed very difficult for him to say what he needed to say. The dramatic tone dropped away, and Quentin heard the words of a desperate man. “I don’t always think like maybe you think, but I know that I can still play. I can. I will work hard. I just want one more chance.”
Quentin stared into the man’s eyes. There was crazy in there — and after nineteen years on a colony ruled by religious fundamentalists, Quentin Barnes knew crazy — but there was also pain. The pain of having the ability and the desire, but no outlet for it. Quentin knew that pain first-hand.
To give George Starcher that chance, all Quentin had to do was look past the odd behavior and the yellow grease paint. Quentin had learned to look past a lot of things in the months since he’d left Micovi.
“Screw it,” Quentin said. “Starcher, you’ll have to prove it in the locker room and in practice before you get a chance to prove it on the field. You have to do what Coach tells you to do, but first you have to make me happy before you ever see a down of playing time. This is my show. You want in? You do it my way. That work for you?”
Crazy George Starcher smiled and spread his arms. “Destiny delights us with opportunity only seldom. I would be a fool to turn her away, and I—”
“Starcher,” Quentin interrupted. “Put a sock in the crazy-talk. My way or the highway. I want a simple yes or a simple no.”
Starcher put his hands at his sides, clearly trying to control his emotions. “Yes,” he said.
Quentin felt Don’s hand on his shoulder.
“Quentin, don’t,” Pine said. “You’ll regret this.”
Quentin knew Pine had the experience, the wisdom, but Quentin wanted the kind of dominant tight end that Starcher could clearly be, that Quentin needed him to be. The road to a Tier One GFL championship would be a bumpy one.
“Coach,” Quentin said. “Sign this guy.”
Pine kicked over the rack of footballs, then strode toward the tunnel.
From “Species Biology & Football”
written by Cho-Ah-Huity
Sklorno Twins: A Rare Form of Double Trouble
Sklorno egg clusters produce broods of eight, ten, or twelve children. It is always an even number, because eggs sprout from both sides of the mid-line reproductive channel. That means if there are ten broodlings, there are five sets of identical twins. So why don’t we see an endless parade of Sklorno twin sisters dominating professional football?
Because as a species, the Sklorno are rather hungry.
The egg cluster develops inside the mother’s body. By the end of her four-month term, she will double or triple in weight. Her tail will grow to five or six times its original length and mass. As the egg cluster develops, the mother’s body undergoes physical changes that will allow for the depositing of the egg cluster. The mother’s body widens at the hips, greatly reducing the Sklorno’s speed. Hence, motherhood is an automatic end to any GFL career.
Each pair of eggs within the cluster can be male or female. Male eggs hatch while the cluster is still inside the mother, so males benefit from a “live” birth. What is that benefit, you ask? The benefit is that as soon as they are born, they can move away from any sisters that remaining in the cluster. If the males do not move away — far away, I might add — they are not going to live long.
Three to five days after the mother passes the egg cluster, Sklorno female infants burst free. Within hours of hatching, they have full coordination and differ from adults in little more than size. While the hatchlings already possess well-developed physical capability, mental maturity doesn’t arrive for three to four weeks. In short, the infant Sklorno females are small killing machines with no sentience whatsoever. They attack any moving thing that is their size or smaller, and, if they succeed in killing it, they eat it.
This immediate kill-or-be-killed environment has put heavy evolutionary pressure on speed. The faster the Sklorno female, the more likely that she will find slower, weaker prey, and the more likely that she will avoid larger pursuers. Only the females that avoid being eaten live to see sentience.
This sounds like a brutal, primitive system. The casual observer might logically assume that the now highly advanced Sklorno separate the hatchlings. That casual observer would be wrong. As a species, the Sklorno are already dealing with enormous overpopulation pressures. Protecting each hatchling is not high on the list of priorities. Almost every Sklorno adult killed and ate three, four, or more of her brood-mates before sentience manifested. To the Sklorno, this process is considered an ancient rite of passage, a fact of life as basic and necessary as reproduction itself.
Because twins are identical, they have the same size and speed. They can’t escape each other, driving them to an almost immediate confrontation. A lethal confrontation. This is why you see very few adult twins in Sklorno culture.
The one exception to this rule is that of conjoined twins, which occur about once in every 100,000 births. Normally, these twins are conjoined in a way that slows them down and makes them easy prey for their brood-mates. Occasionally, however, the twin sisters are joined by a tentacle, an eye-stalk, or some other way that doesn’t interfere with running. When this happens, it is a powerful combination indeed. Now instead of two individuals fighting for survival, the conjoined twin sisters act as a single organism — bigger and stronger than all of their brood mates.
Once sentience occurs, the conjoined sisters always opt for separation surgery. They remain emotionally close, however, and usually stay together as they go through life.
Several sets of twin Sklorno succeeded in the GFL, including Adleburgh and Bamburgh, receivers for the Yall Criminals, and the Hall-of-Fame cornerbacks known as “Sisters of the Holy Shutdown” who anchored the secondary for the Hittoni Hullwalkers during their championship seasons of 2671 — 2673.
• • •
THE TOUCHBACK REMAINED in orbit around Ionath, isolated and safe from attack thanks to a generous no-approach cushion provided by flights of Quyth military fighter-craft. Gredok, it seemed, had called in some markers to make sure no one came after his players.
Quentin stood in the waiting area just outside the Touchback’s landing bay, marveling at how so much could change in such a short time. Through a view port, he watched the orange and black shuttle sliding out of the void and through the bay’s big airlock doors. It had returned from the former prison station now known as the Combine, rookies in tow.
Had it really only been thirteen weeks since he had arrived as a rookie? Walking out of the shuttle and into his new home, his new life? Until then, he’d never seen anything but Purist Nation space. Never seen an actual alien other than the bats, let alone played football with them.
John Tweedy walked up and stood ne
xt to Quentin. Tweedy was bouncing from foot to foot, rolling out his neck and flexing his muscles. He looked a lot like he did every time the defense took the field. I EAT ROOKIES AND CRAP CORNFLAKES scrolled across his face tattoo.
“Pretty wild, eh, Q? I mean, the rookie stink is barely off of you, and here you are, welcoming in a new crop.”
“Bite me, Tweedy. That stink is yours. Where I come from, we wash with soap and water.”
“Where you come from, Country, running water is probably called a miracle,” John said. “Just wait until your people discover that wild new invention, eee-lec-tris-it-eee. Then the real fun will begin.”
“You’re hysterical.”
“I know,” John said.
“And why do you call me Country?”
“It’s a figure of speech, Your Hickness. Hey, they done with your room upgrades yet?”
“They’re finishing now. I get to program everything tonight.”
“Did they put in one of those primitive water showers you’re always whining about?”
Quentin shook his head. Since leaving the Purist Nation, he’d had to suffer through the “civilized” version of personal hygiene in the form of nannite showers — little swarms of microscopic robots that scoured your skin free of dirt and oil.
“They wouldn’t put in a water shower,” Quentin said. “Gredok wouldn’t spring for it when the nannite showers work fine for everyone else. I got him to put a weight bench in, though.”
“You had a weight bench put in your room? Why not use the weight room in the gym?”
Quentin shrugged. “I’ll use that as well. I want the bench in my room so I can work out first thing in the morning.”
John stared at him. “I know you already work out at lunch. And after practice. You work out in the morning, too?”
Quentin nodded. “Morning lifting, then passing routes in the VR room, then running, then team and position meetings, then lunch, then practice, then I run again after practice, then holo-review in my room for two hours, then I lift again, shower, and go to bed.”
John shook his head. “Boy, you’re not well.”
“You got that right. I got a disease, and a championship is the only cure.”
