by Scott Sigler
She shook her head. That brief bit of attitude seemed long gone.
“Good,” Quentin said. “This room is reserved for quarterbacks in the morning, you got that? You want to use it, come late at night, although I bet you’ll have your hands full just learning to block like you’re supposed to. Now get out of here.”
Rebecca looked to the ground, then ran out of the practice room. Quentin watched her go, making sure she didn’t stick around. The audacity of that rookie. Taking snaps? Throwing?
“Quentin Barnes,” Hawick said, her meek voice barely audible over the holographic crowd’s steady drone. “We stand miserable in our shame for disappointing one as godlike as you. Would you like us to kill ourselves to atone?”
Quentin sighed and stared at the ceiling. Hawick wasn’t kidding. It was hard being looked at as a religious figure — you had to be careful about what you said to your subjects.
“Room, off,” Quentin said. The sapphire blue field and the crowd vanished. With them went the sound. Quentin turned to face Hawick and Stockbridge, who were shaking violently in fear.
“Hawick, I’m sorry I yelled. You did nothing wrong, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Please, tell me what’s on your mind.”
The Sklornos’ shaking vanished, as instantly as if they’d never been afraid in the first place. Sklorno switched emotional gears at the drop of a hat.
“Rebecca Montagne meant no harm,” Hawick said. “She was helping us to catch glorious passes to further your glory. She was here before you, so we thought we would practice.”
Quentin gritted his teeth. “Room, on. Hawick, line up, let’s work out-routes to the sidelines. Bump-and-run coverage.”
Hawick scrambled to the line of scrimmage, while Stockbridge practically fell over herself moving into close-cover, defensive back position. Quentin couldn’t be angry with them for working with Montagne. Just as he did, the Sklorno lived for football. In their minds, any missed chance to play was a chance that would never come again, a chance that was lost forever to the sands of time.
“Hut-hut!” He dropped back five steps and planted, throwing the ball even before Hawick cut to the outside. Her big feet dragged inbounds as she extended her tentacle arms. She caught the ball firmly just before those feet scraped onto the white sideline. Perfect throw, perfect catch, but it didn’t chase away the words that rang in the back of Quentin’s head.
She was here before you.
• • •
QUENTIN THREW THE OUT PATTERN for the thirtieth time in a row, again hitting Hawick’s outstretched tentacles. If she could get off the line without being stuffed by a defensive back, and he delivered on-target, the throw could not be stopped. This season, he planned on using more short, controlled passes. Tier Two defensive backs had caused him no end of trouble — and now he was in Tier One, where they would be even better, where they would be some of the greatest to ever play the game. He couldn’t go head-hunting against talent like that, couldn’t constantly be throwing the deep ball unless he softened up the secondary by throwing multiple short passes underneath, drawing the defenders in close. When that happened, when they came up to stop the short pass, that would give him the opportunity to throw long. Hawick and Scarborough were as good as any Tier One receiver — if they could get a step on the defense, Quentin could hit them for six every time.
“Barnes!”
Quentin smiled when he heard the high-pitched, gravelly voice. He turned to face Coach Hokor. Not so long ago, hearing Hokor’s piercing shout would have made Quentin wince, made him dread the inevitable laps of punishment. But those days were gone for good.
“Hey, Coach,” Quentin said. “Ready for the position meeting?”
“Of course,” Hokor said. “I respect the fact that you are working out early — again — but we have receiver practice in fifteen minutes. Why are you running my receivers to exhaustion?”
Quentin turned and looked at Hawick. Her raspers dangled all the way to the floor, drool running off in rivulets to pool at her feet. Beneath her clear chitin skin, he saw her heart fluttering madly, her three lungs expanding and shrinking, expanding and shrinking.
He turned back to face Hokor, and shrugged. “She better get used to it, Coach. The whole team better get used to it. Some things we can’t control, but one thing we can always control is how hard we work. No one will work harder than the Krakens.”
Hokor’s pedipalps twitched up and down a little. The Quentin of thirteen weeks ago might have mistaken that for laughter, but he was getting to know Quyth Leaders — his coach, in particular. That kind of twitch meant Hokor was trying to hide excitement. Trying, and failing. Gredok the Splithead could disguise emotions at will, but Hokor? Despite the little coach’s gruff exterior, Quentin was rapidly reaching the point where he could read Hokor like a message board.
“Hawick, Stockbridge,” Hokor said. “Go to the practice field and sit down until we start drills.”
Hawick shivered, the motion making little bits of spittle fly off her tongue. “Yes, Coach Hokor the Hookchest! Yesyesyes!”
She sprinted out of the virtual practice room at top speed, completely missing the fact that Hokor wanted her to rest. Stockbridge ran as well, only a step behind the faster receiver.
As they ran out of the VR practice room, Donald Pine and Yitzhak Goldman walked in. Both were dressed for the day’s practice — full football armor and red do not touch jerseys.
“Let’s begin the quarterback meeting,” Hokor said. “First of all, we have Media Day coming up next week. That will cost us a half-day of practice, so we need to make this week count.”
“A half-day?” Quentin said. “Can’t we just do some holo-phone interviews or something?”
“It is mandatory,” Hokor said. “A league requirement. And as the starting quarterback, you will do it, Barnes.”
“Why would they want to talk to me? I haven’t even won a Tier One game yet.”
Don laughed. “Win or lose, there’s still news coverage. You’re the starting quarterback, that makes you a media darling whether you like it or not. If you want, I’ll walk you through the process, tell you what to expect.”
That made Quentin instantly feel better. Don’s experience as the best player in football, his confidence, his calmness, all of these things helped Quentin get a perspective on his new duties as team leader.
“Yeah,” Quentin said. “That would be great.”
Don nodded once, then looked at Hokor, letting the coach continue.
“The Ice Storm finished with seven wins last year,” Hokor said. “Their five losses were all close games. They were just a few tipped passes away from nine wins, and a trip to the Tier One playoffs.”
Quentin nodded. Since the schedule had been released, he had studied the Ice Storm in depth. Hokor was right — Isis was a playoff-caliber team.
“Offensively, we have a primary problem,” Hokor said. “Isis puts significant pressure on the opposing quarterback. Their linebackers are among the best in the league at pass coverage and at blitzing. We will not have a strong running game this week.”
“This week?” Pine said. “How about this season.”
“Back off, Don,” Quentin said. “Murphy will come through.”
Pine shook his head. “He’s not the solution.”
“If he’s not, then who is? Campbell? Martinez?”
“Maybe,” Don said. “Maybe we land someone else. For this week, however, I’m guessing the solution is the fleet feet of our starting quarterback.”
Hokor grunted in agreement. “Today we will be working short patterns to keep the pressure off of you, Barnes, and rolling you out of the pocket to give you more time to throw. With Aka-Na-Tak out, I don’t think our replacement right guards can protect you for drop-back passing. Combine that with our weak running game, and play-action won’t buy you time, either. If we roll you out to the sides, your speed will give you time to throw and keep you from getting killed in the pocket. So let’s get out there and
practice those patterns with the receivers.”
Quentin nodded and started to run off the practice field, but Hokor stopped him.
“Barnes, this is just the first game of a long season. Our game plan revolves around you not taking big hits, so you don’t get damaged. But that also means that you have to work on sliding. No head-to-head collisions with defensive players. I don’t want you taking the kind of punishment you took against the Earthlings.”
Quentin laughed and shook his head. “Hell, Coach, you can count on that. I don’t feel like getting beat up like that again. And besides, you know you don’t have to tell me something more than once.”
Yitzhak snorted. He was trying to choke back laughter. Pine looked away, his lip quivering.
“What?” Quentin said, annoyed at once again not being part of the in-crowd. “What is so damn funny?”
“You...” Pine said, then he bent over at the waist, shaking his head and trying to hold it in. Yitzhak couldn’t stop his snorts anymore, and laughed as he ran for the practice field door.
Pine stood, pursed his lips, shook his head, blinked away tears, then walked off the field.
“Coach,” Quentin said. “What are those guys laughing about?”
Hokor said nothing. Quentin looked down at his coach, whose pedipalps quivered. And this time? They quivered side to side, they quivered with laughter.
“I really don’t know what they find so funny,” Hokor said. “But, as you say,” — the pedipalps quivered faster — “you don’t have to be told twice. Now get your butt on the field. It’s time for practice.”
Quentin snarled and jogged off the field. He hated not getting the joke.
• • •
QUENTIN PULLED ON HIS HELMET as he jogged to the 50-yard line of the Touchback’s practice field. Pine and Yitzhak were already there, waiting by a rack of footballs. Beyond them, the Sklorno receivers: veterans Hawick, Scarborough, Mezquitic, and Richfield; last year’s rookies Denver and Milford; and this year’s rookie Halawa.
Damn, but Halawa was a big girl.
Hokor was once again in his little cart, floating fifteen feet above the field. Quentin looked at him, wondering how the diminutive coach had gotten to the field before him.
“Barnes!” Hokor called over the cart’s speakers. “Line them up. Out patterns, right then left.”
Quentin nodded and clapped his hands together three times, so hard it stung the skin of his palms. “You heard the coach! Ten-yard outs. Right side first. Let’s go, ladies, we have a lot of work to do to get ready for the Ice Storm. All snaps on a two-count, all on two.”
The Sklorno quivered with unbridled excitement. Hawick lined up first. Last year she had been the Krakens number-two receiver, but after her season it went without saying that she had become the Krakens main threat. In line behind her was Scarborough, who had been the Krakens top receiver for the past three seasons. At twenty-five years old, she was the most senior Sklorno on the team. She had lost a step or two, but could still fly down the field like a space fighter, still jump high, and still scrap and claw for every ball thrown her way.
Quentin bent in a mock-snap position. He looked over at Hawick and winked.
Hawick saw his wink, then shook so much he thought she might spontaneously combust. Drool flew everywhere around her.
“Hut-hut!”
Quentin pushed away from the line, looking to his left, taking three powerful steps back before planting with his back foot and turning to the right. His shoulders snapped around and the ball rocketed out of his hand in a flat parallel with the ground. The ball magically reached Hawick just as she turned, tentacles outstretched, already reaching for the ball that she knew would be there.
Feet dragging inbounds, she caught the ball cleanly before she slid out.
Yeah. Perfect. Just like this season is going to be... perfect.
Quentin grabbed the next ball from the rack and bent as Scarborough lined up. Scarborough shook even harder than Hawick. The Krakens’ oldest receiver, it seemed, was an early member of the Church of Quentin Barnes.
“Hut-hut!”
Scarborough ran the route just a hair slower than Hawick. Hawick had become the team’s leading receiver, true, but everyone knew the real reason for her breakout success was that opposing defenses had put their top cornerback on Scarborough. Now Hawick would draw the top defender, which meant Scarborough would usually play against a lower-caliber, number-two defensive back. That would create good match-ups for the Krakens, and might give Scarborough one last, great season.
After this season, however, there was little doubt that Milford would take over as the number-two receiver. She and Denver had been rookies alongside Quentin. Both of the second-year receivers could flat-out fly, but their cuts weren’t yet quite as crisp as Scarborough’s and Hawick’s, their acceleration not quite as marked. Denver was faster, had more long-term potential, but needed another season or two to become all she could be. Milford, however, was ready right now. With a few more games under her belt, she would become a major threat. When Quentin looked at the Krakens receiver slots one through four, he felt strongly that he had one of the best lineups in all of Tier One.
After Milford came Mezquitic, the former number-three receiver. She was thirteen years old, a fifth-year player, and should have been coming into her prime. She wasn’t as fast as Denver and Milford, however, and her vertical leap had gone down a half-inch over the past two seasons. Sklorno vertical leaps usually went up about a quarter inch a season for the first five or six seasons, plateaued for the next three or four, then finally started dropping off around year ten. If, that was, the receiver lived that long. Sklorno had the highest death rate of any species in the GFL. Mezquitic was slowing down, and no one knew why. She’d probably taken too many hits. The repetitive trauma had begun to take its toll.
After Mezquitic came Richfield, the final receiver. Her primary role on the team was as a kick returner, bringing back punts and kickoffs. She was slimmer than her Sklorno teammates, standing at 8-foot-5 but weighing only 273 pounds. Richfield simply didn’t have what it took to be an every-play receiver, but she did have a crazy knack for finding holes on those kick returns. That ability let her pick up five to ten extra yards on every return, yards that were critical for field position. Every now and then she would hit a hole clean and take it to the house.
Richfield ran her out-route slower than the others had, but still disciplined and efficient. She returned the ball to the rack, then got back in line. Quentin’s eyes drifted to the front of the line, to the last receiver on the roster.
Halawa.
He still couldn’t get used to her size. Scarborough was 8-foot-6, 295 pounds. Halawa was a full twelve inches taller, and weighed a solid 320 pounds. Her body wasn’t as thick as Scarborough’s. In fact, Halawa was a touch skinny for that height, but the rookie receiver was only eight years old. She would grow, probably adding ten to fifteen pounds in the next two seasons alone.
“Barnes!”
Hokor’s speaker-powered scream brought him back. He’d drifted away, hadn’t realized he’d been just staring at Halawa.
“Barnes, do you mind?”
Quentin gave Hokor a quick wave. “Sorry, Coach. Halawa, on two, on two. Huuuut... hut!”
Quentin dropped back as Halawa shot off the line. He looked left at first, as he’d done on all the passes, then at three steps stopped, turned right, and threw.
High One, she was fast.
Way faster than Scarborough, than Hawick, than even Denver. Her speed caught him off guard and he hurried his throw. The split-second the ball left his hand, he was mentally kicking himself — he’d thrown it too far out of bounds.
And then Halawa stretched. Her big feet scraped against the nano-turf field, kicking up small sprays of green dust as her elegant body extended horizontally and her long, muscular tentacles reached out. Her body was parallel to the ground, just a few inches above it, and her toes only a half-inch inbounds when her tentacle
tips snagged the ball out of the air.
Had it been a game, that would have been a complete pass. A complete pass that would have been impossible to defend. Big. Fast. Athletic. A natural receiver.
Quentin felt his pulse racing, combining the visuals of Halawa with the size and hands of Crazy George Starcher. He’d had a good receiver corps even before they had arrived. Now? It had the potential to be the best in the league.
“Baaaarnes!”
Quentin shook his head clear. Wow, he had to stop drifting away like that.
“Sorry, Coach! Okay, ladies, five more each on this pattern, then switch to the left. On two, on two... ready... hut-hut!”
PRE-SEASON: WEEK THREE
From “Species Biology & Football”
written by Cho-Ah-Huity
Quyth Warriors & Football: A Star-Studded Caste
The Quyth have one of the galaxy’s most unusual lifecycles. Along with the Leekee, the Quyth are the only known sequential hermaphrodites to achieve sentience (although the Leekee reproductive cycle involves multiple species and is far more complex). All Quyth are born male. At a certain age and under the right conditions, Quyth Leaders change their sex and become female, capable of producing egg sacs.
It is those egg sacs that give the Quyth their unique caste system. The egg sac is a soft, spherical membrane usually about 23 to 25 centimeters in diameter. That is about the same size as a regulation basketball or soccer ball. A sac usually contains anywhere from four to eight small eggs. Every egg contains a Quyth Leader larvae — it is only after hatching that the caste system manifests.
Larvae hatch from eggs, then remain in the sac for about four weeks. In an interesting bout of parallel evolution with Humans, Quyth have a pair of testes. The first larva to eat its way out of its egg is blind, yet is capable of swimming within the sac fluid and navigating via a sense of smell. As his brothers come out of their eggs, this first-born instinctively establishes his dominance. He does this in two ways, first with a physical attack, and then with chemical warfare.
