by Scott Sigler
Mum-O dropped into his eight-point stance, rear legs madly kicking at the nano-grass. In front of Mum-O, Zer-Eh-Detak prepared to block. The backup right tackle was twelve-feet, eight-inches long and 680 pounds, easily the biggest sentient Quentin had ever seen. Zer-Eh was almost a foot longer and a hundred pounds heavier than Vu-Ko-Will, the starting right tackle, but Zer-Eh was also only eighteen years old — could he handle Mum-O’s psychotic assault?
This had to work. It had to. An enraged Mum-O had blown past Shun-On-Won so many times that Hokor had given up, tried playing Cay-Oh-Kiware at right guard instead. Mum-O had ripped past Cay-Oh six times in ten plays, so Hokor had tried backup left tackle Shut-O-Dital. Mum-O knocked Shut-O out of commission in three plays, sending the inexperienced lineman to visit Doc Patah in the training room.
So, if Zer-Eh didn’t step up, the Krakens were out of options. They’d go back to Shun-On-Won, and Quentin would spend the coming Sunday getting the tar knocked out of him.
“Blue, sixteen!”
Come on, Zer-Eh, step up.
“Blue, sixteeeeen!”
We need you to be the man, Zer-Eh, if you can block him you win a starting spot.
“Hut-hut!”
Quentin turned to the right and handed off to Dan Campbell. The rookie running back dashed forward as Mum-O immediately drove in, pushing the bigger Zer-Eh around like a child. Mum-O separated from the block, gathered, and shot forward.
Campbell ducked the tackle so fast it was like he’d known it was coming. He ran along the line, looking for a hole, but Virak the Mean dragged him down.
“Huddle up!” Quentin called out. As his players ran back to the huddle, he glanced at the sidelines. There was Yassoud Murphy, arms crossed, just glaring. ’Soud hadn’t been running the ball hard enough for Hokor’s liking, so now the coach was giving Campbell first-string reps. Campbell was running hard. The rookie showed phenomenal reaction time and head-snapping moves. He wasn’t big or fast, but Dan reacted to holes almost instantly and drove his body into them at top speed. If Yassoud didn’t improve his game in a hurry, Campbell was going to take over as the starting running back.
“All right, all right,” Quentin said to the huddle. “Campbell, nice run.”
The baby-faced runner grinned back, his mouth an open smile as he sucked in air.
“It would have been a nice run,” Quentin said, “if we had blocked for him. Zer-Eh, this is your chance to take the starting position. You up for it?”
Zer-Eh let out a long, deep bark.
“Then let’s pass the ball,” Quentin said. “Eagle-set, forty-two red wing on two, on two, ready? Break!”
Quentin walked to the line as his blockers settled into position. He knelt behind Bud-O-Shwek, the center. To Bud-O’s left, the offensive guard Sho-Do-Thikit. To Bud-O’s right, the mountain of pebble-skinned flesh that was Zer-Eh. Quentin scanned the defense. Mum-O-Killowe again lined up right in front of Zer-Eh. Straight ahead, John Tweedy waited in his middle linebacker position. Virak the Mean stood on John’s left, Choto the Bright stood on John’s right.
Under John’s helmet, Quentin could see the man’s facial tattoo.
HERE COMES THE JUDGE, it said.
Great, they’re blitzing. Just great.
Quentin started to audible, then stopped. If Zer-Eh couldn’t pick up a blitz in practice, the Ki wasn’t going to pick one up in the game. They had to see how he fared. Groaning to himself, Quentin continued with the play.
Blue, twenty-two! Blue, twenty-two! Hut... hut!”
Quentin took the snap and backpedaled. He saw Mum-O drive to the inside, toward center. Zer-Eh should have stayed in his position, let Bud-O, the center, pick up Mum-O’s angling attack. Instead, Zer-Eh went with Mum-O, reacting instead of sticking to the blocking scheme — and that opened a hole for the blitzing John Tweedy.
Quentin realized a second too late that he was still watching Zer-Eh’s struggle against Mum-O-Killowe, and in that second John Tweedy closed. Quentin’s head rocked back. He felt himself go airborne, carried by a pair of huge arms. His back hit the ground as 310 pounds of linebacker drove into his chest.
From somewhere, Quentin heard a sympathetic ohhhh — one of his teammates reacting to John’s hit.
Quentin opened his eyes to see John’s crazy face far too close, separated only by the space of two facemasks.
“Uncle Johnny, I have a red jersey on, remember?”
“What, you let Mum-O tee off on you, but I can’t have any fun?”
“Truth be told? I’m really not having any fun at all.”
DIDDUMS HURT HIS WIDDLE CHESTERS-WESTERS? scrolled across John’s face.
“Hey Q? I suspect Zer-Eh isn’t going to work out as our right guard.”
“Wow, you think? Now get off me, John, before people start to talk.”
John got to his feet, then reached out a hand and helped Quentin to his. Quentin limped back to the huddle, his head hurting, his chest throbbing. Zer-Eh was only two plays into his trial, but Quentin’s instincts said he just wasn’t ready. The Krakens starting offensive line averaged 46 years of age — Zer-Eh was only 18. He was a project, drafted for his massive size, but it would probably be another three or even four seasons before he had the coordination necessary to react to attacking defensive tackles and linebackers.
Quentin had to face a harsh fact: backup players were backup players for a reason. There was only so much money to go around, only so much room on the roster to pay for expensive second-stringers. Ki were usually resilient, and teams could often count on a consistent offensive line for five seasons or more before any change was required. Bud-O-Shwek, the center, was sixty-three years old and had twenty-three professional football seasons under his belt, all without missing a single snap. Ki didn’t injure easily, but the problem was that when they did get hurt, it was usually quite severe.
Quentin looked up to Hokor’s floating golf cart, then shook his head.
“Zer-Eh-Daret!” Hokor screamed through the speakers. “Get out of there. Shun-On-Won, back in at right guard. Run the same play, and can somebody please block?”
Quentin watched the huge Zer-Eh scuttle off the field and Shun-On scuttle back on. Hokor had tried everything possible, every option at their disposal. Unless Gredok landed a free agent right guard, Quentin would have to go to war with the army he had.
A free agent... or... a trade.
Quentin reached the huddle and looked over his teammates, eyes lingering on Scarborough, on Denver, on their bodies quivering with excitement, eyes shining with deep reverence.
No. No trade. Shun-On would get better, had to get better, and that’s all there was to it.
Time was up. The Touchback was already en-route to Tower, three punches into an eight-punch, six-day flight.
Just four days away from their first game against the Isis Ice Storm, and the start of the regular season.
• • •
CAPTAIN KATE CHEEVERS LIKED SUNLIGHT. No matter where the Touchback went, she always angled the ship so that the clear dome faced the closest star. The practice field had a full complement of lights, but only lit them up when the ship was on a planet’s dark side, or during punch-space flights when there were no stars to see.
The Touchback had reached Grasslop, the sixth stop of the trip to Tower. The distance from the fifth punch — the planet To in the Ki Empire — to Grasslop was the longest of the eight-punch trip, requiring a full day for the engines to recharge.
A long trip was no excuse not to practice. That’s what the Touchback’s built-in field was for. Captain Cheevers had put the Touchback’s belly toward the planet, dome facing out, so the strange yellow-green light of Grasslop’s star illuminated the field.
That was how everyone knew something major was about to happen, when something blocked out the light of the sun.
Everyone looked up at the source of this strange eclipse. Through the practice field’s dome, they could only see a portion of a ship, clearly larger than the Touchba
ck by a factor of five or more. Gun turrets bristled from a clean, white hull. Quentin could see the corner of a red, white, and blue image — the GFL logo.
John Tweedy walked up to stand next to Quentin.
“John, what the shuck is that?”
“GFL war cruiser,” John said.
“The GFL has a war cruiser?”
“Yep,” John said.
“How about that?” Quentin said.
“Yep,” John said.
“And why does the GFL need a war cruiser?”
“Because when Commissioner Froese makes a visit, he doesn’t mess around. And because it’s got a punch drive. Which means he got the Touchback’s travel itinerary so he could catch up to us here.”
“Is that bad?”
HE DIDN’T COME HERE FOR SCOTCH AND COOKIES scrolled across John’s head.
“Yeah,” John said. “I’m guessing it’s bad.”
[ALL PLAYERS REPORT TO THE LANDING BAY] the computer called out. [ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY, REPORT IMMEDIATELY]
“Huh,” John said.
Quentin sighed. “Well, I guess practice is over.”
“Yep,” John said.
Quentin and John started walking to the end-zone tunnel. His Human, HeavyG, Sklorno, Quyth Warrior, and Ki teammates did the same.
“Uncle Johnny, what do you think this is all about?”
“Mods,” John said. “Someone is about to get busted.”
• • •
AN ENTIRE PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL TEAM — in white and black practice jerseys and full armor — packed into the Touchback’s landing bay. The ship’s orange-and-black shuttle sat unused, overshadowed by the larger, white-painted visiting craft. White, with a big GFL logo on the side, the small words “official diplomatic vehicle” painted underneath.
In truth, Quentin thought of it as a shuttle only because he didn’t know the proper word for something that looked like a flying tank, complete with front-mounted guns, a cannon-turret up top and a smaller turret-gun underneath.
He nudged John, then nodded toward the craft. “What is that thing?”
M-58T combat tank,” John said. “Combo gunship and troop transport. The Commissioner never leaves home without it.”
“A tank? That big warship outside? What’s he need all this for?”
John’s face wrinkled. He sighed. BMUD SPELLED BACKWARD IS QUENTIN scrolled across his face. “Well, hayseed, the Commissioner’s job is to tell owners what to do, and punish them if they are caught breaking GFL regulations. Maybe you didn’t notice, but owners don’t like being told what to do.”
“So they... they would try to kill the Commissioner?”
“Maybe. Gangsters like Gredok want their own people in control. The Commissioner has the backing of the Creterakian Empire, so owners can’t control him. Commissioner Froese calls the shots. Whatever he says goes.”
The tank’s side door lowered. Quentin took a step back when he saw what came out — two Sklorno dressed in white combat armor, each carrying a large energy rifle in her tentacles. Small GFL logos decorated their armored midriffs, just below their tentacle arms. Big, armored feet made metallic clacks as they stepped out onto the landing bay’s deck.
“Just be cool, Q,” John said. “Be cool, don’t panic.”
“Why would I panic?” Quentin hissed. “I’m not a little kid, John, I—”
Quentin froze, motionless, as perhaps a dozen Creterakians swarmed out of the tank. They flew as a flock, spreading out, then snapping back together as they circled the landing bay. Each wore a white bodysuit with a little GFL logo across the small chest, and each carried an entropic rifle.
Terror stabbed through Quentin, rooting him to the spot. “That is why I told you not to panic,” John said. “I know you aren’t that fond of our tiny flying overlords.”
Most of the Krakens groaned in annoyance, or made their species-equivalent sound. No one like being rousted by the bats. Quentin’s teammates seemed to be treating this like some minor traffic stop. He, however, had seen too many people die from those entropic rifles. The sight of a bat wasn’t like life and death, it was life and death.
“Here comes the man,” John said, his voice full of excitement, maybe even reverence.
“The Commissioner?”
“No, he comes after,” John said. “This here would be the greatest linebacker to ever not play the game. Leiba the Gorgeous.”
Out of the tank walked something Quentin had seen only in history holos — a Quyth Warrior in power armor. The white armor covered polished metal coils and joints beneath. When Leiba moved, the armor buzzed, like a stop-start version of an insect swarm. The heavy, white helmet provided only a black, horizontal slit to see through. Holstered sidearms hung in armored cases from each hip. Leiba held a long shock-prod in both of his armor-covered middle arms.
Quyth Warriors were impressive creatures to start with, GFL-sized ones even more so, but with the power armor, Leiba was pushing eight feet in height. He looked like a walking wrecking machine. Leiba turned his head slowly from side to side, taking in everything, taking his time.
Quentin whispered to John. “You said he was the greatest to ever not play the game? What’s that mean?”
“Oh, he played,” John said. “Two seasons with the Vik Vanguard. Led the league in tackles both years. No one could stop him.”
“He get hurt?”
John shook his head. “He quit. Wanted to get into league administration, of all things. Became the Commissioner’s body guard so he could learn the ropes. If Leiba had kept playing, he would have probably been the best linebacker of all time. Oh, shush it, here comes the Commish.”
After the parade of white-clad lethality, what walked out next made Quentin squint to make sure he was seeing it right.
It’s... John, what is that? A robot toy or something?”
John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Backwater,” he said, “remember when the rookies arrived, and Yassoud and I told you about midgets?”
Quentin nodded.
“Well that is a midget. Only don’t call the Commish that, or he’ll string you up.”
“So what do I call him?”
“You call him sir.”
Coach Hokor walked across the landing bay to face Commissioner Froese. They were the same height, exactly, and could look each other eye-to-eyes.
“Commissioner,” Hokor said, loud enough for the team to hear. “To what do we owe this honor?”
“We need to speak to one of your players,” Froese said. Quentin would have expected a tiny voice, but the Commissioner’s words boomed through the landing bay.
Froese turned to face the gathered team. “Dan Campbell, please step forward.”
There was a pause, a murmur. Krakens players looked around. Then, a scuffling sound. Quentin saw a smaller body at the back of the pack, pushing through the team.
“There he is!” Froese screamed. “Seize him!”
It was Campbell, running for the landing bay door. The Creterakian flock swarmed down, flying in front of him and flapping their leathery wings as they leveled their entropic rifles. Dan paused, then took a step forward and stopped, as if he was thinking of taking his chances. Another pause, then he lowered his head and rushed them.
Quentin winced as he waited for a dozen entropic rifles to turn Dan Campbell into a puddle of rancid goo and a cloud of stinky smoke, but the shots never rang out. The two armored Sklorno hit Campbell from behind. Dan’s forehead bounced off the deck, instantly split and bleeding.
Quentin heard the stop-start buzzing of an insect swarm.
John grabbed his arm and yanked him to the side just before Leiba the Gorgeous stomped past.
Campbell pushed away the Sklorno tentacles, came to his knees and threw an elbow at a midriff. The sound of bony elbow hitting armor echoed through the landing bay, followed by Dan’s sound of surprised pain.
Leiba closed the distance and shoved his shock-stick into Dan’s stomach.
The rookie running back twitched, his face screwed into a tight-eyed mask of pain, then he fell into a fetal position.
Leiba reached down and grabbed Dan’s ankle. The power-armored Quyth Warrior dragged Dan across the deck to the white-painted tank.
“Commissioner!” Hokor said. “Tell your goon to unhand my running back!”
“Your running back has mods,” Froese said. “We have a statement from the doctor that installed them. Synthetic nerve augmentation, new technology that slipped past our detectors at the Combine.”
Hokor’s one big eye tracked a twitching, prone Dan Campbell’s slide across the floor, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Leiba effortlessly tossed Dan into the tank’s dark interior. The Quyth Warrior turned to face the landing bay, his head once again scanning from side to side.
Hokor turned back to Commissioner Froese. “If it’s new tech, how did you find out?”
“We have other means of collecting information,” Froese said. “Campbell’s doctor... talked. That’s all you need to know, Hokor.”
“If you’re wrong, we want Campbell back.”
“We’re not wrong. We have every reason to believe the Krakens franchise did not know about this violation. There will be no fine.”
The Sklorno guards walked past Leiba and into the tank, followed by the flying, white-suited Creterakians. Froese walked up the ramp, his little feet padding on the metal surface.
“Hey,” Quentin said. “Wait a minute.”
Froese stopped and turned. Quentin felt a hand grab his elbow.
“Q,” John hissed. “What are you doing?”
Quentin shook his arm free. “Where are you taking Dan?”
Froese paused a moment, staring until the wait felt uncomfortable.
“Barnes,” Froese said. “That is none of your business.”
Quentin instinctively looked into the tank, fighting back his fear at the Creterakians inside. Someone had to speak for Dan. “That’s my teammate and I want to know where you’re taking him.”
