by Scott Sigler
2-2 Hittoni Hullwalkers
2-2 Mars Planets
1-2 Alimum Armada (bye)
1-3 Themala Dreadnaughts
1-3 Ionath Krakens
SOLAR DIVISION
4-0 D’Kow War Dogs
3-1 New Rodina Astronauts
3-1 Bord Brigands
2-2 Sala Intrigue
2-2 Neptune Scarlet Fliers
1-3 Shorah Warlords
1-3 Jang Atom Smashers
1-2 Bartel Water Bugs(bye)
1-2 Jupiter Jacks(bye)
0-3 Chillich Spider-Bears
0-3 Vik Vanguard
JUST LIKE the Touchback up in orbit, Ionath Stadium had a full Kriegs-Ballok Virtual Practice System. Tucked in a sub-basement somewhere beneath the home stands, the VR field let players work out against full, photo-realistic opposition. Quentin had arrived at 4:45 a.m., dead-set on beating Rebecca Montagne to the field. He had beaten her, but only by five minutes. If their budding work-ethic rivalry kept escalating, neither one of them would get any sleep at all.
They didn’t speak to each other, just ran pattern drills until Halawa, Hawick, and Milford arrived ten minutes later for the voluntary pre-practice workout. Over the next ninety minutes, they all worked up a sweat. Halawa was learning quickly, a combination of her natural skill and the nurturing of Hawick and Milford.
Rebecca Montagne would never throw a football in Tier One, but Quentin had to admit she had great hands. She wouldn’t be mistaken for a world-class receiver, but she could catch and turn upfield almost instantly.
At 6:30 a.m., they all walked out of the VR room and headed to the main field for morning practice. They came out of the tunnel to a new sight — the rest of the Krakens sitting in the stands at the 50-yard line, packed together as if for a team photo.
“Hey, Q?” Rebecca said. “What’s all this, then?”
Quentin shrugged. “Beats me, I’ve never seen this before.”
Hokor’s golf cart hovered at the fifty, right above the sidelines. The cart turned to face Quentin and the others.
“Barnes! Get over here. The owner wishes to address the team.”
Quentin and his early-morning workout partners were apparently the last ones to report. Quentin and Rebecca started jogging to the sidelines. The Sklorno, of course, sprinted at top speed and were already up and in the stands before Quentin was even halfway there.
Gredok the Splithead stood on the sidelines, waiting. Quentin and Rebecca jogged faster.
At the back of the sideline section sat the stadium wall that, on game-day, separated the fans from the players and staff. Messal the Efficient stood at that wall, holding open a door that led up into the stands. Quentin walked through and up the stand steps, saw Yitzhak waving him over. Quentin sat next to the third-string QB.
“Zak, what’s going on?”
“Gredok wants to talk to us, and now is not the time for your smart-ass attitude. Just be quiet and listen, cool?”
Yitzhak seemed very anxious, as if any untoward action from Quentin might result in serious repercussions.
“Quiet!” Hokor called out over his cart’s speakers. “Gredok the Splithead is going to speak.”
Gredok took a step closer to the wall. Morning sunlight radiated off his purple shirt and platinum jewelry.
“This week, we host the Wabash Wolfpack,” Gredok said. “The Wabash owner is an old acquaintance of mine. And by acquaintance, I mean that a high point of my life will be to see her dead.”
Gredok paused, looking over his team. Black clouds seemed to swirl in his one big eye. Even though the stadium was vast and open-air, none of the Krakens dared to make a sound. The silence added to the tension.
“Her name is Gloria Ogawa,” Gredok said. “She is responsible for the death of my championship quarterback, Bobby Adrojnik. She was cleared by the GFL of any wrong-doing, but I do not care. She killed him. Since this franchise was relegated for the 2677 season, I have been waiting to play her team. Six... long... years, I have watched Wabash play in Tier One, while Ionath has toiled away in the shame that is Tier Two.”
Gredok’s eye flooded so black that the cornea looked like plastic. Quentin leaned back a little, noticed that other players were doing the same. Tiny and physically harmless, Gredok had a presence that made one know who was boss.
“If you do not win this week, if you lose in my stadium, in my city, I will be very... very disappointed.”
Gredok turned and walked toward the tunnel. The Krakens sat quietly, watching him go.
“Go team,” Quentin said finally. “I don’t know about you guys, but that’s one whale of a pep talk.”
A few nervous laughs filtered out of the Human players.
“All right!” Hokor screamed through his loudspeakers. “As if that wasn’t enough motivation, we need a win to start climbing out of last place. First offense against practice-squad defense, and no contact — I don’t need another injury.”
Quentin and his teammates stood and walked onto the field. Today’s practice would be light, just enough to keep in form before tomorrow’s game.
Tomorrow’s game, against what appeared to be the mortal enemy of Gredok the Splithead.
• • •
THE HIT CAME from his blind-side, pounding the small of his back, driving him face-first into the blue field of Ionath Stadium. Quentin had held onto the ball too long, again, and had paid the price. He tried to get from his knees to his feet, but it was slow going. He hurt so bad. A big hand grabbed his arm and lifted him up as casually as a child picking up a rag doll.
Quentin was on his feet before he knew it, turning to look at Wabash Wolfpack defensive tackle Stephen Wardop. Wardop wore the Wolfpack away uniform; a pearlescent, white jersey with red letters trimmed in black, and a red band that led from the underside of the sleeves down the flanks. The red band lined up with a matching one that continued down the white leg armor. A black-trimmed, red wolf head logo dominated the right shoulder, the wolf’s snapping jaws ending at the left pec just above Wardop’s number 90. The tip of that same logo ended on his back, just above the number there. The effect gave him one red shoulder, one white shoulder. Both sides of his red helmet carried that same logo.
“You can really fly, know that Barnes?” Wardop said. “Hit like that, maybe you should think about insurance.”
“You call that a hit?”
The big tackle laughed. “No, my friend, I call that a launch. I mean, you just sailed. Something flies that far, it ought to have a punch-engine in it.”
Quentin rolled his eyes, slapped Wardop lightly in the helmet. Wardop had spent so much time in the Krakens backfield that he and Quentin now traded jokes like old friends. The sack had brought up fourth and fifteen. Quentin started jogging off the field as the punt team came on. As he ran, he couldn’t help but looking high up above the sidelines, above the lower deck and into the luxury boxes of the rich, the famous, and the owner.
Even from down here, he could make out the tiny form of Gredok the Splithead. Standing right next to him, a Human woman. It was too far away to see their expressions, but he knew that Gloria Ogawa was smiling, and that Gredok was doing everything in his power to keep his eye clear, keep his fur flat.
Midway through the fourth quarter, Wabash 35, Ionath 14. Yassoud wasn’t running worth a damn. The Krakens had to pass to move the ball. Michael Kimberlin’s individual protection was excellent, but he hadn’t gelled with his fellow offensive linemen. Wolfpack defenders slipped through in the confusion. Wabash also kept dropping linebackers into coverage, taking away the short and underneath routes. That made Quentin hold onto the ball a bit longer, waiting for routes to develop, and when you held onto the ball you were going to give up sacks.
Wabash was willing to take their chances on letting Yassoud break a big run. The gamble paid off with hits on the Krakens QB. Quentin had done something to his right knee. Or, rather, Wardop had done something to it. Quentin’s lower-left ribs hurt, but only when he ran. Or
walked. Or breathed.
Yassoud had racked up twelve carries in the first half for a whopping total of twenty-three yards before Hokor just gave up on him. In the second half, desperate for a solution, Hokor let everyone have a shot — Jay Martinez carried the ball five times for fifteen yards, Kopor the Climber had a rare four carries for ten yards, Tom Pareless notched eleven yards on three carries and even Becca “The Wrecka” Montagne got into the act, carrying four times for nine yards. Hokor needed someone to break out, to show something in a game that they had not shown on the practice field.
Hokor did not find what he was looking for.
Wabash quarterback Rich Bennett played well, not setting the world on fire but not turning the ball over, either. Wolfpack coach Alan Roark captialized on his team’s defensive dominance, using conservative play-calling aimed at ball control and field position. Tailback John Ellsworth followed bruising fullback Ralph Schmeer into the holes, taking on all tacklers, and always falling forward. When the Wolfpack did throw, Bennett kept his passes short, connecting to tight end Alexander Van Houten and wiry wide receiver Nakusp for eight yards here, ten yards there, chipping away at the Krakens defense.
Against Ionath’s anemic offense, the game plan worked like a charm. As the clock reached 0:00, Quentin heard something that set his soul on edge — the boos of the Ionath Stadium crowd, the hiss of Quyth Workers rubbing their pedipalps together in that species’ favorite sound of derision and disappointment.
Quentin couldn’t blame the fans, not one bit. Heading into their bye week, the Krakens were 1-and-4 and in last place. They weren’t on a collision course for a Tier One championship, not anymore... now they were flying headlong toward relegation and a trip back to Tier Two.
And, perhaps even worse than that, they had disappointed Gredok the Splithead.
From the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan, Akbar, & Tarat the Smasher”
DAN: Okay, caller, you’ve now established that inbreeding runs in your family for at least six generations, possibly seven, so we really don’t need to listen to anymore of your drivel. Sklorno own soccer, always have, always will. Humans can’t compete.
TARAT: I just don’t like that game, Dan.
AKBAR: You and me both.
DAN: All right, this is Sunday post-game review, so let’s get back on the topic of the GFL. Two big stories today — Frank Zimmer’s concussion and the passing of Sikka the Death, owner and founder of the Orbiting Death in the Quyth Irradiated League in Tier Two.
TARAT: Sad to see Sikka go. I played my last two years of football for him.
AKBAR: Hold on, hold on, big fella. Did you say see him go? Isn’t that kind of a nice term for a shuttle crashing into his office, killing him and four other sentients?
TARAT: Accidents happen.
DAN: Yeah, Akbar, accidents happen.
AKBAR: Accident? Come on, guys, isn’t it time we talked about the organized crime’s influence over the game?
DAN: No, Akbar, it is most definitely not time to talk about that.
AKBAR: When is a good time? Next week?
DAN: Oh, I know! How about never?
AKBAR: You’re just afraid the gangsters that run the league will get mad at you.
DAN: And why would I worry about that, Akbar? Maybe because a shuttle just flew into the office of one of those alleged gangsters? Do these really sound like the kind of sentients you want to anger?
AKBAR: I’m not afraid. These gangsters are ruining the game.
TARAT: I disagree, at least in the case of the Orbiting Death.
AKBAR: What? More Quyth Leader worship from a Quyth Warrior? Wow, what a surprise.
TARAT: It’s bigger than that. Sikka founded the Orbiting Death. He built them into a quality Tier Two franchise that was always close to reaching Tier One. They never made it, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Sikka took chances on players that other teams wouldn’t. Discipline cases like Ju Tweedy, or players that other teams thought were over the hill, like me. I know Sikka wasn’t a model citizen, but it was his money and influence that resulted in the construction of Orbital Station One’s first intergalactic-caliber sports facility, Beefeater Gin Stadium.
DAN: Don’t you mean, The Ace Hole?
AKBAR: Hooo! That never gets old.
TARAT: I don’t know why you Humans always laugh at that name. Anyway, that stadium and its jet-black field is a major cultural unification point for the sentients of OS1. Sikka the Death was a great owner and he built an excellent organization. I will miss him.
AKBAR: Well, you can shed a giant tear from your giant eye, Tarat, but I’m more concerned about how his demise impacts the Orbiting Death franchise. Who owns it now?
DAN: Reports are that Anna Villani, Sikka’s second-in-command, has taken over his... uh... his affairs.
AKBAR: What do you want to bet that she knows people in the shuttle-crashing business? So she has Sikka whacked, and now she owns a GFL franchise?
TARAT: Well, doesn’t someone have to own it?
AKBAR: Sure, but should the league reward murder?
DAN: Hey, ho, slow down there, chief! Let’s not go throwing the m-word around, Miss Villani might not appreciate that. Let’s change the subject and talk about Frank Zimmer’s concussion.
TARAT: Human brains are so fragile.
DAN: Despite all the protective gear technology, concussions continue to be a major source of injury.
AKBAR: I don’t know why they can’t just invent a better helmet.
DAN: It’s not that easy, Akbar, there are physics involved.
AKBAR: What do you mean, physics?
TARAT: Physics is the science of matter and energy and interactions between the two, Akbar.
AKBAR: I know what physics is Smasher. I’m asking why the great brains of the universe, those computerized egghead scients of the League of Planets, why can’t they make a better helmet?
DAN: Well, from what I understand, there is so much mass and force when a six-hundred-pound Ki nails you that your brain bounces off the inside of your skull. Helmets can protect the outside, but unless they put some kind of shock absorber between your skull and your brain? Not much can be done. Hence, the situation we have with another Frank Zimmer concussion.
TARAT: His seventh, I believe.
DAN: Yes, his seventh time, and this time Zimmer went down for the count. He took a vicious hit from Mars Planets safety Parbhani, and was taken out of the game. The Pirates had been up fourteen to nothing, but with Zimmer out, the offense couldn’t do anything. The Planets came back to tie it up in the fourth quarter, then win 17-14 in overtime. The Pirates’ first loss of the season. And the concussion is apparently so bad that Zimmer will not play this week against the Isis Ice Storm in a battle for first place in that division.
TARAT: I think this puts the Pirates’ entire season in question. Their backup quarterback is not at Frank Zimmer’s level.
AKBAR: It’s not like people didn’t see this coming. Zimmer can’t quarterback forever. Why didn’t the Pirates go out and find a backup they could groom to take over?
TARAT: The rumor was that they were going after Quentin Barnes.
DAN: If that’s true, the Pirates could still get their man. If Barnes stays in Tier One, the Pirates can’t touch him this year or next due to league regulations. But if the Krakens drop down to Tier Two? Then Barnes is a free agent.
AKBAR: Why would Barnes leave the Krakens?
TARAT: My sources tell me that Barnes is making league minimum.
DAN: What? No way.
TARAT: My sources assure me it’s true.
DAN: You heard it here first, Universe. Quentin Barnes, the quarterback of the Tier One Ionath Krakens, is making league minimum. Let’s get some response to this. Line three from Orbital Station Two, you’re on the space, go.
• • •
QUENTIN SANK INTO the healing warmth of a training room rejuve tank. Doc Patah hovered over him, checking readouts, positioning a clamshell fixture
over Quentin’s right knee.
“Is it bad, Doc? It hurts, but it doesn’t feel that bad.”
“You have a slight tear in your ACL,” Doc Patah said. “In its current state, you could have easily shredded it. I admire your wanting to ignore pain, Quentin, but you need to tell me when you are hurting.”
“I thought you said we footballers weren’t tough, at least not compared to your fancy mixed-martial-arts fighters.”
“Different sport. Fighters do not have backups that can spell them for a few plays if the doctor needs to make adjustments. They also have one fight every seven or eight months, not a season of twelve games. You’re not a child anymore, Quentin, you are the focal point of a multi-billion-credit business.”
Quentin opened his mouth to argue, but realized he didn’t have a counterpoint.
“At any rate, it is minor,” Doc Patah said. “Twenty minutes in the tank, no strenuous activity tonight or tomorrow, you’ll be fine.”
Doc’s mouth flaps called up the tank’s controls. He moved icons, and the clamshell fixture closed on Quentin’s knee. Quentin felt cold metal for a moment, then a poke as the nerve blockers kicked in, then nothing. He picked up some vibrations in his thigh — the echo of tiny machines burrowing into his knee to repair the damage. Quentin settled in, put his head back on the tank’s rear lip, and closed his eyes.
He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there, or if he had fallen asleep, when he heard a voice he did not want to hear.
“You failed me.”
Quentin opened his eyes and sat up, as much as he could sit up with his knee gripped in the fixture. Gredok the Splithead sat on a tiny stool just outside the rejuve tank. No one else was there.
Quentin felt a stab of tension, then forced it away. The rejuve tank’s warm goo comforted him, relaxed him. He could use that to keep his emotions steady, not betray anything to the half-pint crime lord.
“I am humiliated,” Gredok said slowly. “You are the quarterback, therefore, it is your fault.”
Quentin nodded. “That’s right.”
Gredok stared at him for a moment. Quentin ignored the urge to talk, to fill the silence.
“I just said it is your fault I am humiliated, and you agree with me,” Gredok said. “Most sentients would try to deflect my disappointment, knowing what might happen to them if they do not. Why do you not attempt to share the blame?”
