by Scott Sigler
Pine grabbed the creature’s spinal ridge with his strong hands, then bit down in the center of the deer/crab’s back. The thing squealed louder. Don yanked his head backward once, twice, and on the third pull, a kerrrrack sound echoed through the clearing. Don stood, a chunk of the creature clenched in his teeth, black blood spilling down his chin and onto his chest. The deer/crab’s eight legs spasmed sickeningly, stuck out stiff and motionless for a second, then started spasming again, uncontrollably, limbs just moving without direction.
Don spit out the chunk of creature’s spine. It landed on the stone table, where it stuck with a wet flop.
The Ki linemen flipped the twitching creature on its back. Don reached down and sank his fingers into its abdominal area and pulled out a chunk of steaming, fur-covered meat. He gnawed at the exposed, black flesh, then nodded for Quentin to do the same.
“No shucking way,” Quentin said. “That thing is still alive.”
Quentin realized that the Ki linemen were staring at him, shiny black eyes locked on and waiting. The only sound came from the creature’s limbs scraping feebly against the stone table’s surface.
Don took another bite of the piece of creature held in his gooey left hand. He raised his right hand and wiggled his fingers. One of his Galaxy Bowl rings sparkled in the light. The other didn’t sparkle at all, because it was covered with a glob of black blood.
Quentin breathed in deeply through his nose, then sank his fingers into the bloody, still-twitching muscle. Despite the inhumane approach, he tried to tell himself that every steak, every piece of fish, every ounce of animal flesh he’d ever eaten had once been a living thing. Well, it was one thing to know that information as you bit into a hamburger. It was another thing entirely to watch the animal die, to actually help kill it yourself.
I think I’m going to become a vegetarian. But first, I have to finish what I started.
Quentin curled his fingers and pulled back. The flesh resisted his pull. He had to re-grip, brace his free hand on the stone table, then yank a chunk out of the animal. He looked at it, looked at the dripping black blood, looked at the steam coming off the meat. Quentin met the eyes of each of the ten Ki linemen, then raised the mess to his mouth and sank his teeth into it.
It tasted warm and salty.
He closed his eyes, tried to think about it as “fish,” and made a mental note to create a happy place as soon as possible.
Excerpt from “The GFL For Dummies”
by Robert Otto
One game, fifty planets — how the GFL standardized the playing field
Following the 2682 season, the Empire Bureau of Species Interaction (EBSI) approved the application of another eight Tier Three teams, bringing the T3 total to 288.
Add in 76 Tier Two teams and 22 T1 squads, and you have 386 professional franchises under GFL management. With five species playing for nearly four hundred teams across fifty planets, how does the GFL guarantee a consistent playing experience and a uniform on-field product?
The answer to that question is in the GFL rulebook, under the heading “Standards for Playing Fields & Stadiums.”
Just as the English language and the archaic Imperial Measurement System dominate football rules and culture, so, too, do the physical characteristics of the planet Earth dominate playing-field specifics.
For GFL measurement purposes, gravity is measured in units based on acceleration of 9.80665 meters per second squared, or the nominal acceleration at sea level on Earth. This constitutes one “G.”
The other factors are temperature, air pressure and atmospheric composition. Almost all GFL stadiums are self-contained so that these parameters can be tightly controlled.
Gravity Requirements
Playing field gravity is measured by official GFL scales and is based on a 350-pound weight, which is close to the average weight of a GFL player. Referees travel with their own 350-pound units, which are weighed before each game to ensure consistency.
Max weight: 1.06 standard gravity
(where 350 pounds on Earth would be 371 pounds)
Min weight: 0.94 standard gravity
(where 350 pounds on Earth would be 329 pounds)
Temperature
Due to the varying physiologies of GFL species, temperature must be closely monitored. Most GFL stadiums are indoors with artificial atmosphere management in addition to gravity modifiers. Earth has the most outdoor stadiums, but temperature conditions must be met for GFL play.
Max temp: 26 degree Celsius (78.8 degrees Fahrenheit)
Min temp: 14 degrees Celsius (57.2 degrees Fahrenheit)
Air Pressure
This is strictly regulated due to potential effects on the dynamics of throwing the football. The league understands that an active passing game is often preferred by the majority of fans. Therefore, rules are in place to make sure air pressure will not overtly affect the throwing game.
The air pressure on Earth, at sea level, is 14.7 pounds per square inch, or “psi”. This amount of 14.7 psi is known by the measurement term of “one atmosphere,” or “atm”. For GFL standards, stadium air pressures must fall within the range listed below:
Max pressure: 1.1 atm
Min pressure: 0.83 atm
Atmosphere Composition
All of the five races that play football have similar atmospheric requirements. While this is a primary reason for endless galactic war as these five races seek to expand their territories, it is also the very glue that holds the GFL together. Many hypothesize that oxygen-breathing biochemistry is evolution’s best choice for fast-moving, aggressive animal life. Sklorno, Ki, Quyth, Human and HeavyG are all oxygen breathing animals.
There are, however, variations in the optimal atmosphere for each race (the exception being Human and HeavyG, who both prefer standard Earth atmosphere). In the interest of both fairness and consistency, the air composition breakdown is as follows:
75 to 78 percent nitrogen
18 to 21 percent oxygen
1 to 3 percent other
Future Expansion And Races?
These strict parameters ensure that any team admitted to the GFL can play a fair competition against any other team of the Galactic Football League. But the standards will also impact the potential addition of future races to the league.
If additional sentient races are allowed to play, they will have to operate in the environment listed above. At this time, the GFL does not permit pressure suits, air tanks, air modifiers, or any other device that modifies the environment for a specific race or player. All players must compete without assistance of any kind, the only exceptions being armor that protects against the kinetic energy of other players, and skin-contact suits that regulate body temperature.
• • •
GAME TIED 10 TO 10, halfway through the third quarter. Third down and 18 on the Warlords 45. The lights of Ionath Stadium blazed down on the blue field, illuminating the black jerseys, armor and helmets of the Krakens as well as the pink-and-black gear of the Shorah Warlords. The home crowd screamed before, during and after each play, just as loud between plays, hungry for that elusive first Tier One victory.
So much rode on this game. A loss would put the Krakens at 0-and-3. The Warlords were also facing the reality that they, too, were in a fight against relegation. A loss would put them at 1-and-2, near the bottom of the Solar Division. There weren’t many wins in their future, and they needed this cross-divisional game against one of the weakest teams they would face this season — the Krakens.
As such, both teams were down for all-out war. Quentin had nanocyte tape wrapped around his neck, which did little to stem the flow of blood running down the inside of his armor. The Warlords All-Pro safety Cairns had caught him on a blitz — she’d tackled him with her tentacles, her big body, and an illegal rasper wrap around his neck that the refs had conveniently missed. Her raspers had ripped off an inch-thick strip of skin all the way around, and a little muscle to go along with it. Doc Patah had said Quentin had
come close to having his jugular ripped open, or some such garbage like that. Well, the jugular hadn’t been ripped open — Quentin could still draw breath, and that meant he could still play.
Quentin walked up to the line. Just like the last play and all the plays before it, he felt a brief sense of relief when his gaze passed over Aka-Na-Tak. Even though the right guard was rusty and out of shape, he was a drastic improvement over Shun-On-Won. Not just an improvement in protection, but an improvement in morale. The other linemen were playing harder now that their squad-mate was back from injury.
The lack of a pass rush and Aka-Na’s return was giving Quentin time to throw, and that was critical — once again, Yassoud Murphy’s running game was anemic at best. ’Soud had carried the ball fifteen times for just twenty-two yards.
Quentin looked over the defense. Shorah had come into the stadium looking all clean and new, dark-pink polka dots on bright pink jerseys, black letters spelling out warlords above block black numbers. Their right shoulder featured the team’s logo, a stylized Harrah done in — of course — pink and black. The same logo decorated either side of their hot pink helmets.
Their uniforms didn’t look clean and new anymore.
Just like the Krakens, the Warlords jerseys were ripped and torn, streaked with blue from the Iomatt plants, stained with three shades of blood. Pink polka-dot arm and leg armor looked chipped, scratched and dented.
Pink was a strange color for football, but that pattern apparently represented the Shorah tribe. Pink, it seemed, was the color of Harrah blood, something Quentin had not yet seen.
He bent behind center, eyes locking on each player, automatically hunting for Cairns. He saw her, cheating up to the line, threatening blitz again.
Then he saw what she was doing.
All four armored eyestalks aimed right at him. She pointed her two raspers at him, wringing them together clockwise, then counter clockwise, like a twisting rope made of tooth-studded snakes.
Quentin stood straight and stared at her. Cairn’s message was clear — Quentin’s blood tasted good, and she wanted more. Whatever behavioral controls he’d developed, all his newfound culture, it all vanished, blown apart by an instant rage that curled his upper lip and furrowed his brow.
He pointed right at her and screamed. “Is that right? You want a second helping?”
He vaguely noticed the play clock counting down, his teammates looking back at him, confused. He reached to his neck and ripped off the nanocyte patch. He tossed it behind him, then rubbed his hands on his bleeding neck. He slid his palms and fingers over his helmet, feeling the blood spread across the chipped, scratched surface. He finished by pointing a bloody finger at Cairns, then pointing at his helmet — a message of his own, one that said: You want it? Well come and take it.
He wiped his palms against his jersey, then settled in beneath center.
“Greeeennn, ten-eighteen!” he called out, audibling to a QB naked boot right. The Krakens knew their assignments and turned to face their foes. “Green, ten-eighteeeen!”
Cairns was too smart to get drawn in by a naked boot, she’d see it coming, and that was exactly the plan.
Just before the snap, he stared at her again, his nostrils flaring, the rage in his chest bubbling up all wicked and lovely. She wanted to play in his world? Well if you want blood, you got it.
“Hut-hut!”
The ball smacked into his hands. He opened to the left, putting the ball on Yassoud’s belly and riding him into the line. Quentin pulled the ball free and spun on his right heel, away from the line, coming all the way around before he started sprinting to the right. A pink-clad Ki lineman reached for him, but only for a moment before the black-jerseyed Aka-Na-Tak upended the defender and crushed him to the ground.
Quentin tucked the ball into his right arm and ran, felt the air rush across his sweat-slicked face, felt it burning the torn skin of his neck, each step a surging rush of glory and life and immortality. Huntertown, the Warlords left cornerback, saw the run and instantly crashed toward Quentin. Quentin adjusted his pace — Huntertown wasn’t paying attention to the outside edge of the field, to Halawa, who was in at right wide receiver.
One thing most Sklorno receivers were not good at was blocking. Too many collisions took its toll, affecting a Sklorno’s ability to catch the ball if not injuring her outright. So while they would block, they usually just got in a defender’s way, forcing that defender to change direction. Sklorno receivers normally didn’t hit with everything they had.
Halawa, apparently, was not most receivers.
In a fraction of a second, Quentin’s chess-master mind calculated direction and velocity — he ran straight down the line, not changing his path, letting Huntertown come in fast. Just before she reached him, Halawa reached her. The oversized Sklorno receiver blindsided the cornerback, knocking her pink-spotted pink helmet clean off and sending her flying like a rag doll.
BLINK
The world downshifted to a speed where he was King, where he saw everything, heard everything, felt everything, smelled everything, tasted everything.
Halawa’s hit not only left Quentin free to turn up the sidelines, it energized him. It was a burst of pure kinship, soul-binding with another species that played the game the way he played the game.
He ran down the sidelines. With Huntertown out of the way, Cairns was the only Warlord player in position to catch him.
If you want blood...
On the snap, Cairns had dropped back into coverage, and now streaked in with the blazing speed that only the Sklorno possessed.
“Get out of bounds!” Coach Hokor shouted in his headset. “Slide!”
No, not this time.
He tucked the ball tightly into his right arm.
The pink-and-black-and-white blur of Cairns shot in. Quentin reared his head back like a mountain ram, then screamed a primal scream as he brought it forward with all his strength, timing it to smash his enemy at the moment of impact. The hit rattled him. Still in his slow-motion mode, he felt the wiggle of his liver, the vibration of his stomach, the quiver of his kidneys. He heard something snap near his left shoulder, suffered a sword-stab of pain driving down into his lung.
He lost all sense of reality, of time and space and distance, but his feet kept moving, little hard-working creatures that had brains of their own. Quentin looked up into the stands as he ran. His watery eyes saw a blurry wash of orange and black — banners, flags, sentients — all melding together into one giant black monster with orange eyes that demanded sacrifice, blood sacrifice, and the monster must must must be appeased for the monster is High One himself.
He looked forward, saw the long, flat, black mouth of the monster, the High One, opening wide to accept him, to take him home. Quentin felt love and war-lust rage through his chest, bouncing off his wounds both internal and external, making the pain a distant thing, a thing to be felt by the weak and the damned.
He also sensed demons coming for him, things that would stop him from diving into the monster’s welcoming maw. Not today, demons. His smart-feet moved faster, faster, pushing him across the blue Iomatt as if he were in a gravcar. He felt the heat of the demons, so close now. His feet launched him forward so that he was floating, he was flying, flying headlong into the monster’s maw, into freedom.
BLINK
The sound of a whistle called him back, and brought with it searing agony.
“Unnghhh!” was a semblance of the noise that came out of his mouth. He couldn’t move his left arm, his throwing arm. He tried to get up, but could not. His right arm still worked. He let go of the ball and blindly grabbed at a handful of Iomatt. He lifted his hand to his face and looked at the plants.
Painted black.
The black of the end zone.
He had scored.
Faces swarmed over him, the faces of his teammates, worried and excited and reverent.
He reached his right hand to his left shoulder, gently feeling for a second or two before re
alizing his shoulder pad wasn’t there. The hit had cracked his indestructible armor, ripped it free. It felt like someone had driven a screwdriver down his neck and into his lung.
Quentin knew he was out for the game.
“Bring it home, boys and girls,” he said, realizing that even talking hurt, and not really caring about the pain. “Bring it home! Protect our house!”
Medsled wires wrapped him and lifted him. Now he truly was floating. He didn’t move a single iota when the sled carried him to the tunnel and back to the locker room.
• • •
BROKEN COLLARBONES hurt.
A brace under Quentin’s chin isolated his head and kept it above the rejuvenation tank’s pink gel. Even through high-anxiety concerns about his ability to heal, to play next week, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by the process.
It was his first visit to the stadium’s white-walled hospital. He’d seen the training room, sure. That room was just off the communal locker room. It had training tables, limb-sized rejuve tanks, surgical facilities for grafts and casts, the usual stuff. That was where he’d done his physical therapy and healing sessions after Yalla the Biter had torn his hand. The training room worked for small things like that. His new injury, apparently, required something bigger.
The hospital looked large enough to handle three or four critical patients at once. His tank alone was larger than his quarters on the Touchback, larger than all three rooms combined. Other than his head, his entire body was submerged. Doc Patah was actually inside the tank, gently undulating wings carrying him through the fluid. Quentin couldn’t see below the neck brace. Holotank monitors on the wall let him watch Doc Patah’s seemingly slow-motion flaps.
“Quentin,” Doc Patah said. “Are you sure you want to watch this?”
Quentin started to nod before he remembered — for the hundredth time — that he couldn’t move his head at all.
“I’m sure,” he said. “I know your voice is coming through the speakers in the walls and all, but how the heck can you talk to me from in there, anyway? You’re swimming in pink pudding.”
