The Starter

by Scott Sigler

  Extra point good: Ice Storm 7, Krakens 0.

  “Barnes! Get over here!” Hokor’s voice coming from the speakers in Quentin’s helmet. Quentin ran down the sidelines to the 50-yard line, where Hokor waited. The fuzzy yellow-and-black Quyth Leader wore a little orange Krakens jacket and a VR headset on top of his tiny ballcap. Quentin knelt. Hokor put a pedipalp on Quentin’s shoulder pad.

  “Barnes, don’t let that last drive worry you.”

  “Do I look worried?”

  “No. Keep running the ball and see what Yassoud’s got. This season is a marathon, not a sprint, and I need to know what my running back is capable of long-term. I also need to make sure Nossek doesn’t kill my starting quarterback, so we’re going conservative.”

  Quentin wanted to say screw that, let’s throw that sucker. But he kept quiet.

  The kickoff went out of the end zone, giving the Krakens the ball on the 20-yard line. Quentin ran onto the field as a little holographic Hokor face popped up in his helmet visor.

  “X-set, off-tackle right,” Hokor said. “And Barnes, do not audible. Just run the plays that I call.”

  “Don’t I always, Coach?”

  Hokor said something that might have been a Quyth-language curse, then the holo blinked out.

  Quentin called the play, Yassoud ran the ball and the offense went nowhere. Aside from one run that gave Yassoud a fifteen-yard gain, he couldn’t hit the holes cleanly, couldn’t break tackles, and couldn’t get more than two or three yards a play. Quentin threw only seven times, completing three, getting hit twice, and finding out that when he’d told Nossek there wouldn’t be a next time? Yeah, he’d been wrong about that. When the Krakens ran into the tunnel at the half, the Ice Storm was up 24-0. Quentin’s head hurt almost too bad to tell Messal he needed another helmet to replace the first one, which had been cracked in two.

  • • •

  THE KRAKENS GATHERED in the communal locker room, already looking beaten and bedraggled. Blood dripped. The sound of armor welders and unrolling tape provided an audio backdrop as Hokor walked up to the holo-board.

  “We have to make adjustments,” Hokor said. “We’re not giving Yassoud enough of a hole, so we will adjust to the Storm’s defensive scheme. We gave up twenty-four points, but I’m not that worried about the defense. If we can run the damn ball and pick up some first downs, well, then the defense won’t be out there every damn minute! But first, we did get some bad news. North Branch, the wall-breaker who went down on the opening kickoff, she’s dead. When you shake appendages after the game, make sure you give your condolences.”

  “Dead?” A female voice. Rebecca Montagne. “But... how?”

  John Tweedy stood up and pumped his fist. “Because you blasted her, man! How about that, Krakens? First play of her first game, and Becca the Wrecka got a kill.”

  There were murmurs of approval from the Humans, deep grunts and clacking of chest armor from the Ki linemen. The Sklorno squealed and jumped up and down, their armored eyestalks coming only inches from the fifteen-foot ceiling. The Krakens players weren’t celebrating the death of another player, necessarily, but their job was to hit as hard as they could — if another player died from one of your hits, you deserved respect. Quentin said nothing. It was sad that North Branch had died, but it was a violent game and bad things happened to good players.

  Rebecca shook her head. “But I didn’t mean to. I just... I just hit her. I’m supposed to hit her!”

  “Montagne!” Hokor said. “Sit down, we have halftime adjustments to make.”

  “But Coach, I didn’t mean to kill anyone, I—”

  “Montagne! Sit down and shut up!”

  She looked stunned, as if it was news to her that the galaxy’s most violent team sport might result in death.

  Quentin quietly walked over to her as Hokor outlined blocking schemes for the second half.

  “Becca,” Quentin said in a whisper. “You okay?”

  She looked at him with haunted eyes. Clearly, she was not okay.

  “Relax,” Quentin said. “It’s okay. This is upper tier football. These things just happen.”

  “Just happen? That sentient is dead, Quentin.”

  “Yeah, and she won’t be the last this season, not by a long shot. You need to focus on halftime adjustments. We can talk about it after the game. Right now, you put it out of your mind, understand?”

  She looked away, the expression on her face showing she thought Quentin either a simpleton or a heartless ghoul. Well, he was neither. He was the quarterback, and his team was getting whipped.

  Quentin walked away from her and focused on the holo-board. A 24-point deficit was damn near impossible to overcome unless they could get some offense together. They had to make adjustments, then go out and kick some ass.

  • • •

  THE KRAKENS DID NOT “kick some ass.” Ice Storm did, and plenty of it. Isis added three more touchdowns and two field goals in the second half. The Krakens offense sputtered, save for one of the few plays in which Quentin had time to throw and he hit Hawick for a 78-yard touchdown pass. Most of the pass plays, however, he’d barely had time to complete his drop-back and look downfield before someone was in his face. He’d been hurried seven times, knocked down another eleven and suffered five sacks (three by Nossek, two by the Storm’s left tackle, the player Shun-On-Won was supposed to block). Basically, Quentin got the crap kicked out of him for sixty minutes.

  End result: Ice Storm 51, Krakens 7.

  In the Human locker room, Quentin slowly peeled off his armor. He tossed the plates, wraps, armor, and shoulder pads on top of the blue-stained orange jersey already sitting in a heap on the floor. Man, did his head hurt. Beat-up players surrounded him. They all felt humiliated by the lop-sided loss, yet an odd sense of optimism remained. The Ice Storm was a damn good team building on last season’s success. Isis had several years of Tier One experience, and they were fully rested from the long off-season. The Krakens, on the other hand, had finished a brutal Tier Two campaign only four weeks earlier. Nobody wanted to lose 51-7, but at the same time no one had assumed the Krakens could go undefeated. Quentin and his teammates now had their first taste of Tier One blood.

  “Nice game, kid.”

  Quentin turned to see Don Pine, already fully dressed in a flashy black suit and matching hat.

  “Sure,” Quentin said. “If you can call losing by six touchdowns nice.”

  Don shook his head and spoke in a quiet, subtle tone of voice. “Let it go. The instant a game ends, it’s gone. You need to move on and start thinking of next week. Forget it. And let the team see you’re forgetting it. They look to you now, remember that.”

  Quentin considered the words and nodded. Don was right. Everyone watched Quentin, unconsciously monitoring his moods if not outright following his lead. At times, he’d have to put on a happy face.

  Quentin turned to see Messal the Efficient standing only a foot away. Those little Workers sure moved quietly.

  “Elder Barnes, it is time for the post-game press conference.”

  “No thanks, Messal,” Quentin said. “I’ll pass.”

  Hints of green washed across Messal’s single eye. “Elder Barnes, I apologize for my lack of clarity. Clearly I am to blame for any confusion. What I meant to say was, we must go to the press conference now. You are scheduled.”

  “I heard what you said. You heard what I said. I’ll pass.”

  Now green flooded Messal’s big eye. He turned and looked up at Pine.

  “Q,” Pine said, “you’re the starting quarterback. Post-game press conference is mandatory.”

  “Whatever. We got whipped by forty four points. Nobody wants to hear the losers talk.”

  Don laughed. “Kid, are you serious?”

  Quentin stared at him, then nodded.

  “Elder Barnes,” Messal said, his words coming faster and with more urgency, “if we don’t get to the media room right now, we will be behind schedule.”

  “Sh
uck off, Messal, and I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

  “Quentin,” Don said. “Seriously, these are mandatory. Win or lose, you have to go and answer stupid questions from people who don’t know anything about football.”

  “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  Messal started hopping lightly from foot to foot. The motion made him resemble a Human child that had to pee.

  Don shrugged. “No, I guess it doesn’t make any sense, but you gotta do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. It’s mandatory.”

  Quentin waved a hand in annoyance. “Rules are for pansies. You used to be the biggest star in the GFL, what happened when you skipped a press conference?”

  “I never skipped one,” Don said. “Do you need some help with the cliché answers or something?”

  “Elder Barnes, please! We are now late!”

  Quentin reached out and grabbed Messal’s left pedipalp.

  “Messal, I like you, but if you don’t get out of my face right now, I will start getting angry. Human eyes don’t turn black when we get angry, but I assure you, you will have no question about my state of mind. You get me?”

  Messal blinked twice, pranced side-to-side once more, then nodded. Quentin let go of the pedipalp. Messal scurried away.

  Quentin looked at Pine again, who had a smirk on his face.

  “What?” Quentin said. “Is it time for someone to correct Quentin’s behavior again?”

  Pine chuckled soundlessly, his shoulders bouncing a little as he looked to the ceiling. “Quentin,” he said, “you are endlessly entertaining, you know that?”

  Quentin hated to be laughed at, but sometimes he just had to roll with it. Don didn’t mean any harm. Quentin had learned that the hard way last season. Time to change the subject.

  “You got dressed fast,” Quentin said. “John and I are grabbing some dinner later, seeing downtown Isis. He’s got a submarine lined up or something. You want to join us?”

  “No thanks. I’m heading out with Ryan Nossek and some of the Ice Storm guys.”

  “Nossek? The guy who knocked the living crap out of me out there?”

  Don nodded.

  “But... he’s from the other team.”

  “Sentients are sentients, kid. Just because they play for another team doesn’t make them poison. And I’m dressed fast because that’s what happens when you don’t play. While I’d rather be playing, I have to say leaving the locker room with no bruises, breaks, or concussions is kind of a welcome experience.”

  Quentin didn’t know if Don was being serious or facetious. Just because Quentin would do anything, to anyone, to take every snap of every game, he still felt odd doing it while a legend like Pine rode the bench.

  Don’s eyes narrowed. “Kid, you’re not feeling sorry for me, are you?”

  Quentin looked away, his face turning red.

  “Well, knock that crap off. You earned your starting job. You want to feel sorry for me? Do it when you’ve got three Galaxy Bowl rings, and you can make fun of me for only having two.”

  Quentin’s eyes shot to Don’s right hand, where the sparkling rubies set in a pair of big, gold rings sparkled in the locker room lights. Don smiled a friendly smile, but the message was clear — Quentin had a long way to go before he was on Don’s level. All careers end. Not all end with as much glory as that of Donald Pine.

  “Besides,” Don said, “there was no reason to take you out. You were throwing well.”

  “I only had one touchdown.”

  “You were fifteen of twenty-eight for a hundred eighty-two yards. Not All-Star numbers, but considering your offensive line let you get roughed up all day I’d call it a solid job. Most importantly, know what you didn’t have?”

  Quentin smiled. “No interceptions.”

  “Bingo. Know how many picks I gave up in my first Tier One game?”

  “Four,” Quentin said quickly.

  Don smiled. “You been studying up on the old man?”

  Quentin shrugged, trying to play it off. The truth was he had been studying Don Pine’s career: every game, every snap, every off-field transgression.

  Quentin wrapped a towel around his waist and stood, trying to roll his back out to loosen the knots and shake off the deep pain radiating from the spot where Nossek’s helmet had hit him in the kidney. “I gotta hit the showers.”

  “You mean with water? Swimming with the salamanders again?”

  Salamanders was a racist term for the Ki, and the way Don said it meant he was mocking Quentin for his racist beliefs. Former racist beliefs, that was, but like any other sensitive subject under the sun it was open for locker-room ridicule and mockery.

  “Up yours, blue-boy.”

  Don laughed. “Seriously, though, you’re going to bathe? In water? You’re civilized now, Q, use the nannite shower.”

  “Bathing is civilized.”

  “Dude, you know the dirt and sweat that comes off your body? Where do you think it goes? It goes into the water. The water you’re bathing in. Taking a water-bath is like soaking in your own filth. It’s disgusting.”

  Quentin shrugged. “Than I guess I’m disgusting.”

  “You can take the boy out of the mines... but listen, Q, mind if I give you some pointers about talking to the Ki?”

  Quentin fought down a burst of annoyance. People just loved to give him advice. But Don was far more experienced in football and in life — and the old guy was usually right.

  “Sure,” Quentin said.

  “Your offensive line did a crap job for you today. If you go hang out with them, talk to them, it’s like you’re saying hey, it’s no big deal.”

  “So what then? The silent treatment?”

  Don nodded. “For some of them. Kill-O-Yowet played his salamander ass off for you. He’s also the Ki alpha male on the team, so you have to give him the respect he deserves. And by talking to him, you’re showing the Ki race respect, even if you don’t respect the other individuals.”

  “That sounds complicated.”

  “Every race has its own set of ingrained politics. Learn what those politics are, or get used to losing. The Ki culture has all kinds of warrior code crap — hierarchies, unwritten rules, unspoken traditions.”

  Quentin rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t everyone just play football? “Unwritten? Unspoken? How in the void am I supposed to learn all of that?”

  “By watching and learning. And by listening to me. Do you want to win a championship?”

  Quentin felt the rush in his chest. Any thought, any mention of a title, galvanized him. He nodded.

  Don spread his blue hands, palms up, as if to say well there you go.

  “Okay,” Quentin said. “I can talk to Kill-O. Anyone else?”

  “Sho-Do and Bud-O did okay, but they have to do better. You can look at them, just don’t talk to them. Vu-Ko-Will had a bad game, but that’s to be expected when you’re up against Nossek. Vu-Ko is also the oldest player on the team and number two in the alpha hierarchy, so you have to acknowledge his presence. Once you’ve done that, just pretend he’s not there. Trust me, he’ll be so ashamed of his performance he won’t want to engage you anyway.”

  “Got it,” Quentin said. “And Shun-On-Won? The rookie?”

  Don shook his head. “You don’t even look at him. Act like he doesn’t even exist. He’s responsible for three of the sacks. That’s not going to change unless he ups his game. It’s a warrior culture, Q — where they come from isn’t as nicey-nicey as the GFL.”

  “A Sklorno died today,” Quentin said. “The GFL doesn’t sound nicey-nicey to me.”

  “Compared to where the Ki come from? One death is like a day in the park with the wife and kids. For them, this game is combat. In combat, failure usually means corpses. Shun-On failed, so you act like he’s dead to you.”

  “Sounds harsh,” Quentin said. “I mean, he’s a rookie. This was his first game.”

  Don spread his hands again. “All I can t
ell you is what I know. But it’s your team, Q, you do things your way.”

  Quentin thought for a second, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll find Shizzle and go in.”

  “Shizzle? What do you need that little Creterakian for?”

  “To translate,” Quentin said. “I don’t speak Ki.”

  “Yes, but they understand you just fine. Besides, you can tell what they mean by the tone of their grunts. You’re the one who needs to do the talking. You don’t need a translator.”

  “Well... Shizzle will also, you know, tell me who’s who.”

  Don’s eyes narrowed. “Quentin, you’ve come so far. Are you going to tell me you think all Ki look alike?”

  “It’s not racist! They do all look alike. If they don’t have jerseys on you can’t tell them apart.”

  “I can,” Don said, then turned and walked off. Quentin stared after him for a second, feeling both angry and embarrassed. He wasn’t responsible for evolutionary shucking biology. They did all look alike.

  Quentin left the Human locker room and went looking for Shizzle.

  • • •

  STILL DRESSED IN ONLY A TOWEL, but now with Shizzle perched on his shoulder, Quentin entered the Ki locker room. It was empty filled only with discarded jerseys, armor and dirty joint braces streaked with black blood. Quentin and Shizzle walked through the littered floor, heading for the Ki baths.

  Shizzle was known for his garish outfits, but this one really took the cake. The material was pink, maybe, but it was hard to tell when tiny lights made waves of green, blue and yellow cascade over his football-shaped body. The material ran down his flat, two-foot-long tail, and even covered his membranous wings. He had a rig on his head that seemed to be the Creterakian version of sunglasses: pink frames holding black lenses over all three pairs of eyes. Two eyes looked straight forward, two looked straight down, and one sat on either side of the head, looking left and right.

  “I do wish you’d find another interpreter for this,” Shizzle said.

  “We don’t have another interpreter.”