by Scott Sigler
Camp began these rules changes in 1878. Therefore, League of Planets historians have officially declared 1878 as the first year of modern Gridiron. At the time, the game was played with the Imperial Measurement System unit known as a “yard.” As Earth cultures progressed and most governments switched to the metric system, practitioners of Gridiron steadfastly refused to change from “yards” to “meters.”
The Creterakians finished their conquest of the galaxy in 2642. At that time, gridiron had been played for over 750 years with “yards” being the official unit of measurement.
When League of Planets social scientist Demarkus Johnson created his plan for the Galactic Football League in 2658, he recommended the game be used with existing rules. Hence, “yards” continues to be accepted as the primary unit of Gridiron measurement.
English-Only
Johnson also suggested creating a new language for football, with unique terms for all aspects of the game using sounds that could be pronounced by all races. Creterakian officials refused this suggestion, however. The ability to quickly master any vocal language is innate for Creterakians, and as such, they have difficulty comprehending that other species can’t do the same.
The Empire implemented the GFL to facilitate inter-species cooperation and understanding. They wanted a single language for the game, but did not want to spend time creating a new language. The Creterakians understood and spoke English, the game of American Football used English, and that was that. Because the Empire and the EBSI control the GFL, all official communication related to the game or its coverage is done in English. Language-specific coverage is allowed on a system-by-system basis, but the prevalence of English-language usage by players, coaches, owners, and GFL officials means that the vast majority of media personnel must also speak English. This emphasis, combined with the galaxy’s ravenous appetite for all things GFL, means that English is the fastest-growing language in the known universe. Sklorno Prima, of course, is the galaxy’s most common tongue, but that will soon change — it is estimated that ninety percent of Sklorno are learning English so that they can better understand the game of Gridiron.
• • •
QUENTIN REARED BACK a big foot and kicked his locker, denting the metal-grate frame. “Fined? I’ve been fined?”
Messal the Efficient trembled. His eye flooded an opaque, neon pink.
“For what? Who fined me?”
“Commissioner Froese,” Messal said. “He fined you for missing the post-game press conference after the Isis Ice Storm game.”
“He can fine me for that?”
“Yes, Elder Barnes. You were fined thirty thousand credits, Creterakian.”
Creterakian. What was the exchange rate for that in Quyth money? “Uh, is thirty thousand a lot?”
“A lot is a relative term, Elder Barnes.”
“Is it a lot for me?”
Messal trembled. He clearly didn’t want to answer the question.
“Come on,” Quentin said. “Out with it.”
“This year, you make one point two million credits, Creterakian,” Messal said. “After Creterakian income taxes, Quyth Concordia income taxes, Ionath City income taxes and GFL union dues, you make 720,000 credits.”
“But... but that’s not fair,” Quentin said. “That’s like forty percent!”
Messal nodded.
“So, I work my ass off, and the government takes forty percent of what I make?”
Messal nodded again. His cornea glowed a solid pink. Quentin knew he was terrifying the poor Quyth Worker, but he couldn’t stop. Messal, unfortunately, was the only available target for Quentin’s temper.
“So let me get this straight,” Quentin said. “If I go by the Earth calendar year, I work from January to June before I make a penny for myself? Five months of working to give the money to other people?”
“It could be worse,” Messal said. “You could own a home and pay property taxes. Mister Tweedy pays over half his income in taxes.”
“Remind me to never own a home,” Quentin said. “So... I still don’t get it. How much do I actually make per game?”
“There are twelve games in the season, Elder Barnes. You earn sixty thousand credits per game, after taxes.”
Quentin stared at the much smaller Quyth Worker, trying hard to remember that Messal hadn’t made the fine, trying to remember that ripping Messal’s pedipalp arms off of his skull would neither solve anything nor punish the guilty parties.
“And I was fined thirty thousand,” Quentin said. “So I just basically got fined for an entire half of a football game, a half where my life is at risk on every snap?”
“Yes, Elder Barnes.”
“For not going to a press conference?”
“Yes, Elder Barnes.”
“Well, you can tell them I’m not going to pay the fine.”
Messal’s trembling grew so bad the Worker dropped down to all fours, his middle arms keeping him stable. Quentin sighed. Messal was just the messenger.
“Messal, this isn’t your fault. You tried to get me to go, so just tell them I won’t pay and that’s that.”
“The money is already docked from your account,” Messal said. “Your GFL contract stipulates that the league has a direct connection to your finances in order to receive payment for fines.”
They already had his money. Quentin wondered what other things were in his contract that he didn’t know about. He made a mental note that he should actually read it sometime soon.
He’d lost his pay for half of a game. He’d never really given his salary much thought, but that was changing. At one point, just getting paid to play football seemed like the greatest blessing ever. Now? Now he realized that sentients who barely set foot on the field, sentients who were never in danger, made more than he did. At least two governments and a league that took itself way too seriously were helping themselves to his money. And if he suffered major collision? It wouldn’t be the league or the governments getting carted off the field on a medsled, it wouldn’t be the league or the governments with a prosthetic leg, and it wouldn’t be the league or the governments lying in a casket being lowered into the ground.
Quentin had chosen a career where each minute of work might be his last. When he thought of it that way, he knew he’d been wrong — money did matter.
Just one more thing to worry about. He’d deal with it later. Money mattered, but not if the Krakens kept losing.
Quentin picked up his helmet and walked out of the locker room.
• • •
QUENTIN’S CLEATS CLACKED against the concrete floor of Ionath Stadium’s tunnel. Clacked, and echoed. There would be no echo here on Sunday, not with 185,000 sentients packed into the stands. Aside from the echoing clack, all he heard was the distant sound of his team out on the field, warming up for practice.
He walked out of the tunnel, blinking against the blazing sunlight that poured through the city dome. That sunlight lit up thousands of empty seats, seats that reached up on all sides, surrounding the field. Usually the stadium was completely empty for practice, but now he saw a few sentients moving in the stands. Maybe twenty, spaced throughout the massive temple dedicated to the glory of football. He held a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes against the sun. Squinting, he could just make out a Ki halfway up the first deck. A cop. A cop with a gun.
The Touchback had come back to Ionath City at night. Atmospheric fighters had escorted the shuttle down to the roof of the Krakens building. Kotop the Observer had inspected the shuttle, as usual, but this time accompanying him had been a squad of Quyth Warriors dressed in full military armor. The city, the national government, Gredok the Splithead — perhaps all three — weren’t taking any chances that terrorists would take another shot at the newly promoted Tier One franchise.
The team was already gathered at the 50-yard line, right on top of the six-armed Krakens logo painted into the field. Quentin slowed, then stopped at the twenty-five. He did another slow 360, drinking in the
view. If you didn’t stop and look with your eyes once in a while — not with a brain that already stored hundreds of memories of this place — you could lose sight of the fact that Ionath City Stadium was simply amazing. Stands reached up and out, stretching toward the horizon hidden somewhere beyond. Seats made for all the races, all seats blazing orange except for those in black that spelled out a hundred-yard-long IONATH on the home side, and a hundred-yard-long KRAKENS on the visitors side.
Two decks sandwiched an oblong ring of clear crysteel, windows that led into hundreds of luxury boxes. Twenty-two giant pillars rose up from the top decks, done in a style that Quentin had been told was called “Roman.” The pillars were made from some kind of marble, apparently imported all the way from Earth. Each pillar rose up forty feet high, and each supported a colorful, vertical banner hanging down it’s length. Last season, those pillars had held the banners of other teams in the Quyth Irradiated Conference. There were only ten teams in the Irradiated. The other twelve columns had stood blank. Quentin had never given the blank columns a second thought. Now, however, each gleaming pillar held a colorful banner — one for each of the twenty-two Tier One teams. This stadium had been built with the expectation that the Krakens would be a permanent part of the galactic football elite.
Quentin was here, here at this moment, because he was leading this franchise in its first Tier One appearance in six years. He knelt and rubbed his hands over the field’s blue surface, let his fingertips drag through the soft coolness of the Iomatt plants. He plucked a few of the circular leaves. Each circle was smaller than his pinkie nail, a slightly translucent blue. He held one up to the sky, used it to block out the sun. Light streamed through the thin plant, silhouetting its tiny veins like dark blue tentacles. Quentin held the plant to his nose, breathed deep — it smelled like cinnamon.
It also smelled like home.
He brushed his fingertips together, letting the leaves fall back to the surface. He stood, put on his helmet, and jogged to the center of the field to join his teammates for their final practice before their first home game of the season.
• • •
THE GRAV-CAB STOPPED in front of an apartment building at Sixth Ring and Second Radius. Choto the Bright got out first, looked up and down the street, then waved Quentin out.
“It looks safe,” Choto said. He dressed as he normally did, bulky grey pants, no shirt, always preferring to show off his scars, chitin welds, enamels and engravings. “You should be fine here. John is smart enough to live in a place with security.”
A Ki guard stood on either side of the big double doors that led inside. The Ki wore neat blue uniforms with matching blue helmets that hid their eyes and protected their heads. They both stood stone-still, a clear deterrent to anyone who might plan bad things. Things like attacking the members of the Ionath Krakens who lived inside the building.
“Thanks, Choto,” Quentin said.
“I’ll just stay in the lobby and read.” Choto reached into a side pocket of his pants and pulled out a small rectangular object. Quentin leaned down a bit to see the gold lettering embossed into the green leather cover. The title said HOT MIDNIGHT.
“What is that? Is that an actual book? Like made with dead plants?”
“Yes, it is,” Choto said. “I have been trying to learn more about Human culture, so I am reading the texts of the ancients. The only way to properly read them is as the ancients did, on dead plants. Have you ever heard of this author, Gunther Jones?”
Quentin shook his head.
“Very influential,” Choto said. “Extremely misunderstood for his time. Kind of like William Shakespeare.”
“Who?”
“Nevermind,” Choto said. “You go on inside, I’ll be in the lobby. And Quentin, please don’t think of leaving without me. I lose you, Gredok will have my shell.”
“I won’t,” Quentin said, marveling at how Gredok had controlled the situation. Quentin might risk Gredok’s anger, but if his teammate Choto would suffer the consequences? Then no matter how much it bothered Quentin to have a keeper, he wasn’t going to slip away. Gredok knew that.
Quentin walked to the doors, then hesitated. Did he need to show his identification or something? As if answering his thoughts, the double doors opened and a Quyth Worker scurried out.
“Elder Barnes?”
Why did every damn Worker insist on calling him Elder? “Call me Quentin, please.”
“Of course, Elder Quentin,” the Worker said. “Please, come inside. I am Pizat the Servitous.”
“Servitous? Really? Is that even a word?”
“If you say it is, it is,” Pizat said. “If you say it is not, it is not. Please, come inside.”
Quentin did. As he passed through the doors, he saw they were made of two-inch thick crysteel. That kind of armor might be found on a space fighter.
The lobby’s opulence stopped Quentin in his tracks. Everything looked like it belonged on a movie set, or in some documentary about how the rich and famous lived. Tall plants arced gracefully, statues exuded class, and diamond trim lined the wooden wall panels. A step up from his small apartment in the Krakens building, that was for sure.
“This is some place,” Quentin said. “How long has John lived here?”
“Mister Tweedy has lived here for five years,” Pizat said. “We had the privilege of selling him his suite shortly after he signed with the Krakens. Obviously, our building caters to Humans. Several Krakens players live here, including Don Pine.”
Pine lived here? Quentin realized that Pine had never invited him into his home, as John had done. Was there a reason for that? Maybe Pine didn’t want to be caught slumming with a hayseed hick like Quentin. No, that wasn’t fair — Don had to have a reason for not showing hospitality. Didn’t he?
“Here is the elevator, Elder Quentin Barnes,” Pizat said. “Mister Tweedy is on the fifteenth floor, suite 15-B. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to hit any comm button and simply ask. The building staff will be happy to assist you.”
Quentin took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. He didn’t have to look for suite 15-B, because wild-eyed John Tweedy was waiting for him outside the elevator.
“Q! Come on in, brother. I just have to finish this call. Come with me.”
He followed John down the short hall and through the door to suite 15-B. Inside, football memorabilia seemed to cover every wall and rest on every flat surface, from the entry way into the living room. Pictures and holoframes of John in various uniforms from his career, mostly with the Krakens, but also others: a team with bright blue jerseys and silver helmets decorated with a blue lion on the side; a team with black jerseys and yellow numbers, black helmets with a single yellow stripe down the middle; and a team with green and gold uniforms. John looked oldest in the Krakens pictures, and progressively younger through the others.
John picked up a remote control and hit a button. The room’s central holotank flared to life, showing a tiny Human woman wearing a jersey that was half Krakens orange with black numbers, and half black with metalflake-red numbers — the jersey of the Orbiting Death. The woman’s shoulders were practically in her ears. She looked somewhat hunched over, making her even smaller than she already was. A big smile broke across her face.
“Well!” she said. “Jonathan, is this your little friend Quentin?”
“That’s him, Ma,” John said. “Quentin, say hello to Ma Tweedy.”
Families. Quentin never felt comfortable around families. “Hello, Missus Tweedy.”
“Call me Ma,” she said. “I’ve been watching you this season, Quentin. You’re not playing too bad, but you gotta start sliding.”
John leaned and whispered in Quentin’s ear: “Ma knows a lot about football.”
“Jonathan! No whispering!”
“Sorry, Ma.”
“So,” Ma Tweedy continued, “Quentin, you gonna start sliding? I mean, if you like getting hit in the mouth, I can send some of my friends from the shipyard to sm
ack you in the face with lead pipes, if you’re into that kind of thing.”
John leaned in again. “Ma does admin at a shipyard on Orbital Station One.”
“Jonathan! Whispering!”
“Sorry, Ma.”
“So, Quentin,” she said. “How about it? You going to start taking care of yourself and stop taking hits?”
“Uh... yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Uh... yes, ma’am?”
“Such a polite boy,” she said. “And... Jonathan, did you take your brother off of hold?”
“Oh, sorry,” John said. “I forgot.”
“Don’t lie to your mother, son. Put him on.’
John hit another button on the remote. Ma Tweedy’s image narrowed and slid to the side as a second image appeared. Quentin instantly recognized the big face — John’s brother, Ju.
“Dillhole,” Ju said. “Did you leave me on hold?”
“You’re the dillhole,” John said.
“Julius! Jonathan! Language.”
“Sorry, Ma,” the two men said in unison.
“Ma,” Ju said. “Don’t go using my full name in front of other people, okay?”
“Shut it,” Ma Tweedy said. “You and your fancy nicknames, it says Julius on your birth certificate and that’s what I’ll call you. Quentin, John tells me you have a fancy new yacht?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And you have the Wolfpack in Week Five?”
“Yes ma’am, we’re gonna win that.”
“There’s a difference between dreams and delusions, Quentin. You ain’t beating them unless you get some pass blocking. But that doesn’t matter — you have three days off in your bye-week after you play the Wolfpack?”
