by Scott Sigler
Nossek stopped walking and looked across the empty playing field. He seemed to be searching for something, seemed to find it when he locked eyes with Quentin. The gigantic HeavyG slowly raised one massive hand and pointed at Quentin.
Mind games? This joker wanted to play mind games?
Quentin extended both hands at shoulder height, palms up, then flipped his fingers repeatedly, making them touch the heels of his hands. The gesture said come get some.
Nossek smiled and nodded.
The crowd roared so loudly neither team could hear the whistles of the flying Harrah refs waiting at the center of the field. Quentin saw the refs beckoning captains from both teams to come out for the coin toss.
He felt a rush in his chest as he jogged out, John Tweedy on his left, Hawick on his right. Quentin was the offensive captain, John the defensive captain. Hawick was this week’s honorary captain, a reward for her fantastic Tier Two season. Such prestige made her shake uncontrollably, of course, but she’d earned the right.
The three Krakens reached the 50-yard line and stood at the edge of an Ice Storm logo painted onto the field. A Harrah ref floated seven feet above the logo. The ref, or “zebe,” as Don Pine called them, wore a black-and-white stripped jersey with a matching black-and-white striped speaker backpack. Two yellow penalty flags dangled, just waiting to be tossed. Just a few feet on the other side of the ref, the Ice Storm captains: Nossek, linebacker Chaka the Brutal, and quarterback Paul Infante.
The players nodded at each other. Quentin waited for one of the Ice Storm captains to say something, to talk trash, but they did not.
“Players,” the zebe said, his mechanized voice echoing across the packed stadium’s sound system, fighting for dominance over the still-shouting crowd. “Because this game is played in Creterakian-controlled space, we will use a Creterakian coin for the toss.”
The Harrah held out a tentacle, which was thick and flat like a squashed snake. The tip of the tentacle showed a round coin with the image of a planet — Creterak. “This is tails,” it said, then flipped the coin once. The other side showed the six-eyed head of a bat. “This is heads. Krakens, you are the visiting team, who will call it?”
“I will,” Quentin said. He’d share the wealth later in the season; use the coin toss as a bonus, a reward for people playing particularly well. For this game, however, his first game in Tier One, the honor was his.
“Call it in the air,” the zebe said, then tossed the coin high in a rapidly-spinning arc.
“Heads,” Quentin said.
The coin spun as it fell, hitting the white and chrome Ice Storm logo, bouncing once, then falling flat. Seven sets of eyes leaned in to see.
“Heads,” the zebe said. “Krakens, do you wish to kick off, receive, or defer?”
“We want the ball,” Quentin said.
“You sure?” Nossek said. The big HeavyG smiled, his demon-deep voice dripping with amusement. Seven-foot-three, easily five hundred pounds, long arms leading to massive fists that hung just an inch from the ground. “Sure you want the ball, Young’un? You might want to enjoy the day a little first.”
Tweedy took a step forward. “You want some?” THE BIGGER THEY ARE THE MORE I GET TO EAT flashed across his face.
Nossek sneered. Quentin realized that Nossek was just trying to affect someone’s game by getting into their head. Apparently that worked on the high-strung John Tweedy, who started to take another step forward but stopped when Quentin’s hand snapped up, palm on John’s chest.
“Easy,” Quentin said. “Let’s play smart.”
Nossek smiled and nodded at Quentin. The giant seemed as polite and professional as could be. He was going to try and kill you, but if he didn’t kill you, he’d happily help you up and pat you on the back.
“Ice Storm,” the Harrah referee said. “Which end zone do you wish to defend?”
Paul Infante, the quarterback, answered. “That one,” he said, pointing to a south end zone painted in blazing white with metallic letters that spelled out ice storm. Past the end zone, a waving sea of blue-, white-, and chrome-clad Isis fans ready to blast Quentin and his teammates with deafening noise.
The Harrah ref spun in the air, long tail pointing toward that end zone. “The Ice Storm will defend the south end zone. Sentients, prepare to play ball.”
The crowd’s roar hammered at Quentin. He turned and ran off the field, Tweedy and Hawick only a step behind him. His orange-clad teammates waited for him on the sideline. Krakens players packed in around him. So much mass, so much strength, so much energy and anger, pressing in on him from all sides.
When Quentin spoke, his words came out as a scream: guttural, short, and clipped, his head bouncing forward with each syllable.
“Let’s set this season off right. We get the ball, we show them the Krakens are for real. Destroy on three. One... two... three!”
“DESTROY! DESTROY! DESTROY!”
The kickoff return team ran onto the field, just as the Ice Storm’s kickoff unit did the same. Richfield waited to receive the ball. The kickoff and kickoff return teams were mostly comprised of backup players, second stringers who contributed by playing on various special teams. Second-stringers were a bit more expendable — because both teams accelerated to reach top speed before smashing into each other, more players died on kickoffs than on any other play.
Suddenly, the arena air filled with spinning images of Ice Storm sword-flakes, holograms sparkling in chrome and white and deep blue. The sound system played a roaring wind that screamed in time with the spinning images. Quentin had never seen anything like it. This was the first Tier One game he’d ever seen in person. It was more than just a game; it was a show — a pageant. Even in his season of Tier Two he’d seen nothing like this. He could only guess at the expense of such a stadium-wide holographic system. The Ice Storm had been in Tier One for twenty-four seasons, and as a result apparently had money to burn.
The crowd ate up the light show, screaming in time with the ebb and flow of the projected wind. Over 150,000 sentients playing along and enjoying every moment. Maybe the Leekee watching from up above were screaming as well, or making whatever noise aquatic creatures made.
The sound and swirling sword-storm vanished, allowing full vision of the white-lined, sapphire-blue field and the two teams preparing for action. Quentin focused on the ball sitting on a tee at the 35-yard line.
That same ball would be in his hands in only minutes.
The Ice Storm kicker raised his hand. The zebe blew his whistle, signifying the game was officially underway. The Human kicker ducked his head for a moment, then ran at the ball. His teammates ran with him, a wall of white and chrome and blue. The kicker nailed the ball, which sailed deep into air thick with the screams of Ice Storm fans.
Richfield waited as the ball descended. Perth, Kobayasho, Kopor the Climber, and Rebecca Montagne formed up in front of her. When the ball landed in Richfield’s tentacles, her four blockers were already going full speed forward, trying to punch a seam in the onrushing tide of blue and white. The Ice Storm’s “wall breakers” shot in, a pair of Sklorno speedsters that crashed into the wave of orange and black. Quentin caught a brief image of Rebecca launching herself, smashing into one of the white- and blue-clad wall breakers, a combined impact that had to be around forty miles an hour. Both players dropped to the ground, the irresistible force hitting the irresistible force.
Richfield shot into the coalescing pile of bodies. Quentin hoped to see her pop out the other side en route to a long return, but the pile collapsed and the zebes blew their whistles.
Quentin felt the butterflies roiling in his chest and stomach. The kick return team ran off as the offense ran on. Rebecca was slow to get up. The Sklorno she’d hit didn’t move at all. Whistles kept blowing long after the play was dead. White-backpacked Ice Storm docs flew from the Isis sideline rushing to the fallen player.
Quentin heard the hum of a medsled flying onto the field, then the echoing voice of the fie
ld announcer.
“Player down on the field, number twenty three, North Branch.”
Starting off a game with an injury was bad luck. Quentin didn’t want his team to dwell on it, so he gathered his huddle.
“All right, all right,” he said. “Focus on me, on me. Here we go, Krakens. First and ten, Richfield got us to the thirty-three, so we have good field position.”
He knew what was happening somewhere behind him — the medsled was hovering over the fallen player, lowering thousands of nano-fiber wires that would engulf her, allow her to be lifted without changing her position or moving her in a way that could further aggravate her injuries. Quentin saw some of his teammates’ eyes straying over his shoulder.
“Hey!” Quentin said. “Focus on me, got it?” The eyes snapped back to him. “This is a simple game. We run the ball, we catch the ball, and I throw the ball. We block, we execute, just like in practice.”
The medsled hummed again. Quentin didn’t turn to look — the Sklorno player was being taken to the tunnel, to the stadium’s emergency hospital somewhere underneath the stands. All stadiums had hospitals. Rarely did a game go by where at least one player didn’t need immediate, life-saving surgery.
Surgery that didn’t always work.
But such was the GFL, the life-and-death game that he and the rest of these sentients had chosen. Death was always just one snap away. If you thought about that too much, you would play with hesitation and be ineffective. To succeed in the game of football, one needed to play with reckless abandon.
“Here we go,” Quentin said. “Just like we practiced, three plays in a row, no huddle. I-set dive left, then I-set counter left, followed by quarterback boot right. That’s two runs right behind Kill-O-Yowet, then a boot where Shun-On-Won and I make Nossek look silly. Ain’t that right, Shun-On?”
The rookie Ki lineman barked out a string of unintelligible vowels. Quentin didn’t have to understand the words to feel the hate they contained — Shun-On-Won couldn’t wait to take on the Ice Storm’s All-Pro defensive end. This was the rookie’s chance to prove himself as a player, as a warrior.
“First play on three,” Quentin said. “Second two plays, we go on first sound. Ready? Break!”
The Krakens sprinted to the line. Quentin walked up slowly, taking it all in. The Ice Storm ran a 4-3 defense: four defensive linemen up front, three linebackers playing three or four yards behind them. That left four defensive backs — two cornerbacks near the sidelines, safety and strong safety four or five yards behind the linebackers. HeavyG defensive ends, Ki defensive tackles. The Ice Storm linebackers were all Quyth Warriors, and they were all excellent. The Storm’s only weak spot? The cornerbacks. If Quentin could stay in the pocket long enough to let Hawick, Scarborough, and Denver get deep, he knew he could notch some big plays. The key word being if. So much now depended on Shun-On-Won’s ability — could the rookie handle the pressure?
Quentin took his spot behind Bud-O-Shwek. He knelt and slipped his hands under the Ki’s posterior. Bud-O’s pebbly skin felt cold and hard, a familiar, welcome feeling that foreshadowed the snap.
“Blue, forty-seven!” Quentin shouted. “Blue, forty seveennnn.”
The defense shifted, flexed. Hands and tentacles clutched at nothing, mouths twitched, eyes widened. This was it... game time.
“Hut-hut!” Quentin screamed, pausing only a second to see if his hard count drew the defense off-sides. It did not.
“Hut!”
The roar of the crowd was nothing compared to the clash of bodies at the line of scrimmage. The Krakens offensive line shot forward, met instantly and forcefully by the Ice Storm defenders. Quentin turned to his left, pushing away from the line. Tom Pareless, the fullback, ran by, driving toward the line. Once he passed, Quentin extended the ball. Yassoud lifted his right elbow high, right hand against his chest, left hand palm up, left pinkie against his belly. Quentin placed the ball on Yassoud’s stomach. Yassoud’s arms clamped down, both hands wrapping over the football’s pointy ends.
The hole seemed to open up as Kill-O-Yowet’s huge bulk drove forward, pushing back the opposing defensive tackle. Pareless slammed into the tiny hole, blocking the Quyth Warrior linebacker who tried to fill the gap. Yassoud ran in, helmet and shoulder pads leaning far forward. The hole was there, then gone — a multi-jointed Ki arm reached out and hooked around Yassoud’s waist, slowing him just enough for the middle linebacker to close and land a solid hit. Armor clacked and rattled, Yassoud hit the ground after a three-yard gain.
Whistles blew. Quentin stepped forward. The Krakens jumped up, rushing back to the line as the zebe placed the ball.
“No huddle!” several defensive players called out. “No huddle!”
Going without a huddle kept the defenders from swapping out players, in hopes of catching them in a formation that didn’t properly match up with the offensive set.
Quentin waited only long enough for his line to settle into their stances.
“Hut!”
Bud-O-Shwek snapped on first sound, slapping the ball hard into Quentin’s hands. Quentin turned to the right this time, seemingly showing a mirror image of the last play. This play, however was a counter — start out right to hopefully draw the defense in that direction, then after the handoff, the running back cut left. Pareless again ran past, again Quentin reached out with the ball, and again Yassoud took it. The second-year runner immediately cut to the left, following Pareless through the hole to the left of the center. The Ice Storm linebackers weren’t fooled by the misdirection; they came up and filled the gap almost instantly, stopping Yassoud for just a two-yard gain. Armor cracked, players grunted, and bodies crashed to the ground.
Third down and five.
The Krakens hopped up, again scrambling back to the line of scrimmage, all except for Yassoud who got up slowly.
“Come on, Murphy!” Quentin shouted. “Move, move!”
Yassoud stood and jogged to his tailback position. His slow pace gave the Ice Storm time to swap out players. A defensive lineman ran off and a defensive back ran on, giving Isis five defensive backs for the third-down passing situation.
Quentin bent behind Bud-O-Shwek, surveying the defense. The defenders weren’t set, maybe he could still catch them on their heels.
“Hut!”
The ball smacked into his hands on first sound and the line erupted. Quentin pushed back to his left, watching Pareless rush by, then extended the ball with his right hand, offering it to the oncoming Yassoud for what looked like the third running play in a row. At the last second, Quentin pulled the ball back, planted his right foot and pushed off, turning his body all the way around until he was running right, parallel to the line of scrimmage.
In front of him, the entire offensive line had driven to the left upon the snap of the ball, taking the defense with them either by force or because the defenders wanted to follow the play. Quentin sprinted to his right when most of the defenders were still moving in the other direction, now fighting not only blockers but their own momentum to chase after the quarterback.
Shun-On-Won had pushed to the left like his line mates. After a one-second delay, however, he had planted his six feet and stopped, suddenly driving to his right. Shun-On scuttled parallel to the line of scrimmage as a lead blocker for Quentin. A boot play like this could catch undisciplined defenses sleeping, let an athletic quarterback roll out toward the sidelines, give him time to throw or room to run.
Ryan Nossek was not undisciplined.
The HeavyG defensive end had “stayed home,” meaning he hadn’t over-pursued down the line. His job was to make sure plays didn’t go outside of him, where running backs and quarterbacks could turn up the sidelines and rack up big gains. When Nossek saw the boot play, he came in on all fours. He ran upfield but also to his left, staying outside of Quentin. This angle would stop Quentin from getting to the right sidelines, force him to either stand and throw or tuck the ball and run back inside where Nossek’s pursuing teammates could h
elp.
Quentin should have done just that, cut back inside, but he kept running to the sidelines, trying to look downfield to see if Starcher was open. Shun-On scuttled toward the oncoming Nossek, then gathered his tubular body, compressing it like an accordion. Shun-On expanded, blasting forward like a long-tailed orange and black comet. Nossek bent and dipped his right shoulder, then ripped his thick right forearm up just as Shun-On reached him. The forearm hit just under Shun-On’s chest, lifting the Ki lineman enough so that he sailed over Nossek’s ducked head.
Quentin had only a split second to think wow, that was really shucking amazing, and then Nossek stepped forward and reached. Quentin tried to plant and turn away, but the defensive end had speed that belied his 550 pounds. Arms as big as Quentin’s waist reached out, hands the size of autocannon rounds grabbed, lifted, and slammed the quarterback into the sapphire-blue turf.
Quentin blanked out, but only for a fraction of a second. The crowd’s concussive roar brought him out of it. He opened his eyes to see a smiling Ryan Nossek staring down at him.
“Come on now, Young’un. It doesn’t hurt that bad. First one is just a love tap. Here on out, I’m bringing everything I got. You should think about heading to the sidelines so I can say hello to my old friend Don Pine.”
The giant stood and reached down, grabbing Quentin’s hand and pulling him to his feet.
Quentin slapped the bigger man on the side of his helmet, a friendly-yet-patronizing gesture that said nice hit. “Next time? Big man, there won’t be a next time.”
Nossek smiled, turned, and ran to his sideline, leaving Quentin to do the same. Quentin jogged to the bench. His first drive in Tier One? Three and out, a sack, a ringing in his head, and possibly the lamest comeback of all time.
Not a strong start.
• • •
THE ICE STORM RETURNED Arioch Morningstar’s punt to their 42-yard line, giving them prime field position. They took only four plays to advance forty yards before Paul Infante hit wide receiver Angoon in the end zone on a high cross. Quentin had to admire Infante’s accuracy, nailing Angoon at the apex of a 20-foot leap, slicing the ball between Perth and Berea, the Krakens free safety and cornerback, respectively.
