by Scott Sigler
• • •
QUENTIN HAD SEEN many amazing things in his season-and-a-half with the Krakens. A prison station turned GFL player testing center, irradiated planets on the road to recovery, artificial constructs the size of small moons, each thing more staggering than the last.
But when it came to sheer size and scope, none of those things could compare to the planet Satah.
“Wow,” Quentin said. “That sucker is big.”
“Eloquent, as always,” Doc Patah said. “You have such a way of turning sheer grandeur into the commonplace of the pedestrian.”
“Is that an insult?”
Doc Patah’s speakerfilm let out a heavy sigh. “No, not really, just a factual observation.”
“Well, I don’t care what you say, Mister Fancy-Pants — that planet is big.”
And it was. Bigger than anything Quentin had ever seen. A swirling mass of yellow, orange, and red. “Is that bigger than Jupiter?”
“By over thirty percent,” Doc Patah said. “Satah is the largest inhabited planet in the galaxy, young Quentin.”
“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I’m not that young.”
“Hmmm,” Doc Patah said.
The Touchback angled toward the city of Coranadillana. For once, they wouldn’t have to use the shuttle — the Touchback could dock at one of the orbital city’s massive piers. Coranadillana’s scope and scale made Quentin’s brain hurt. As big as the Touchback was, it moved toward a pier that might as well have been the tallest building in Ionath City turned on its side. And that pier was one of hundreds. In fact, if you took all of Ionath City and put it in orbit, you’d have a close approximation of Coranadillana. The piers radiated out from a yellow-tinted dome, inside of which Quentin saw the vague shadows of buildings.
“So, Doc,” Quentin said, “You gonna give me the grand tour? I hear you’re from here?”
The Harrah spun in place, not rising or falling from his hovering position seven feet off the ground. One second his flattish, rigid body was facing the window, his soft, undulating wings gently holding him in place, the next he had pivoted. His six deep, black sensory pits pointed right at Quentin’s face.
“Who told you I was from here?”
Quentin took a step back before he knew what he was doing. “Uh... I don’t know.”
“Who said it?”
“Doc, I don’t remember. It’s just some talk that’s going around, it’s no big deal.”
Quentin couldn’t detect emotion from the sensory pits, or the curved mouth, or the long tentacles on either side of that mouth. Doc Patah’s voice came from the speakerfilm mounted on his backpack — artificial, yet it carried all the emotion of any agitated Human.
“It is a big deal,” Doc Patah said quietly. “It is an extremely big deal, and I would appreciate it if you would squash that rumor whenever you hear it. Can you do that for me, young Quentin?”
Quentin nodded.
“Thank you. We can’t have loose lips sinking ships, now can we?”
“What does that mean?”
Doc Patah’s wings waved. He spun in place again to stare out the window. “It means nothing.”
Quentin took a step toward Doc Patah, then another, moving in rather close.
“I may be young,” he said quietly, “but I’m not stupid. I will do what you asked, but I need to know if I’m telling the truth for you, or lying for you.”
“Does it matter?”
Quentin nodded. “It does to me.”
The heavy sigh again escaped the speakerfilm. “Young Quentin, the only word for you is quaint. Well, naive and gullible come to mind as well, but quaint specifically applies to your beliefs in truth and honor.”
“Your Mister Big-Shot vocabulary means you are obfuscating.”
Doc Patah spun to face him again, and this time, Quentin could have sworn he saw the sensory pits widen, just a bit.
“My goodness,” Doc Patah said. “Obfuscating?”
“That’s right,” Quentin said quietly. “I looked it up. Now, answer my question.”
Doc Patah paused for a moment. Quentin stared at him, making a mental note that he had to learn more about Harrah emotional cues. The Harrah weren’t part of the on-field team, and as such, it had never crossed his mind to study up on them the way he studied up on the Sklorno, Ki, HeavyG and the Quyth. But that was an oversight — Harrah were part of the Krakens organization, and as such, he needed to know what made them tick.
“I will answer,” Doc Patah said. “When you tell sentients that I am not from Coranadillana, you are lying for me.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because not lying could get me killed.”
Quentin hadn’t expected that answer. It seemed that Doc Patah, surgeon extraordinaire, had a past.
A soft shudder rolled through the Touchback. It had docked.
Quentin leaned in even closer, and whispered. “I’ll shut down that rumor, no problem.”
“Thank you.”
[KRAKENS PLAYERS AND SUPPORT STAFF, REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO ACCESS HATCH TWO FOR ENTRY INTO CORANADILLANA]
Quentin reached down, scooped up his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. “So, Doc, are you going to come into the city with us?”
“No,” Doc Patah said. “Coranadillana is a place I can never go again.”
Quentin started to walk away.
“Young Quentin,” Doc Patah said.
Quentin turned and waited.
Doc fluttered away from the window, his wing-skin slowly propelling him forward. “You followed the advice on clothing and colors?”
“I wouldn’t call it advice, exactly. Gredok said that all players can wear nothing but orange and black, and clothing must display the Krakens logo. Considering Gredok is less than pleased with me at the moment, I decided not to rock the ship. Fortunately, being on the team, most of my wardrobe is orange and black with a Krakens logo.”
“I see,” Doc Patah said. “Speaking of not rocking the ship, I know you had some trouble on Orbital Station One? Ran into some of the Cloud Killers players?”
Quentin shrugged. “We did what had to be done.”
“True,” Doc Patah said. “But remember that the Cloud Killers are owned by the Warlord Yashahon. If you should ever cross paths with her, or any sentient in her organization, can you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Pretend to be someone else,” Doc Patah said. “Pretend to be someone who does not have a cocky attitude, and show respect.”
Quentin made a pshhh sound. “And why should I?”
“Because Yashahon is dangerous,” Doc Patah said. “And she may not have as much respect for GFL diplomatic immunity as the rest of the owners do.”
Still no emotional tell from the blank face, but there was something in Doc Patah’s voice that carried heavy emphasis.
“Okay,” Quentin said. “I’ll take your word for it.
“You are wise beyond your years, young Quentin.”
“I wish you’d stop calling me that.”
“Hmmmm,” Doc Patah said.
Quentin rolled his eyes and left the observation deck.
• • •
CORANADILLANA FELT LIKE HOME — the home Quentin wanted to forget. After the regimented order of Ionath City, the perfection of ToPor, the orbital city of Coranadillana seemed like encapsulated chaos.
A wheeled passenger transport carried the team through the streets. The lightly traveled road looked unkempt and generally dirty, as if it received little attention from the city staff. Most vehicles he saw were cargo haulers. There were also many wheeled ground cars — no grav-sleds — customized for the race of the driver: long vehicles for Ki mostly, along with those built for Quyth Workers, and cars that seemed to adjust to both Humans and HeavyG. There were a few Sklorno vehicles, but mostly the long-legged creatures chose to walk, or rather, they ran. Nothing really got in the way of their sprinting full-out, as they were just about the only pedestrians Qu
entin saw.
Little road traffic and few pedestrians, which was no surprise, because if you wanted to see the populace of Coranadillana all you had to do was look up. Thick clouds of Harrah flashed overhead, diving, spinning, banking, and circling; so many that their constantly streaking shadows blocked out the sunlight and caused a constant, flickering, strobe-light effect.
Quentin had spent time with Doc Patah, seen Harrah referees, but he’d never really seen the race in its element. There was no way to count the Harrah that ranged through the domed city. They flew in all directions, so fast that if you tried to track one whizzing by you would get whiplash. It was so different from watching the Creterakians. The bats flew like a flock of birds, packed tightly together, moving almost as one multi-headed animal. The Harrah, on the other hand, were all individuals — individuals flying at insane speeds with built-in collision-avoidance systems that never seemed to fail.
And then the sky seemed to clear, at least a patch of it. Two Harrah entered the space, flying in tight, concentric circles around each other. One trailed fabric streamers, green with blue dots. The other trailed orange streamers covered in red-ringed green dots. They banked and swerved, maneuvering inside an instant, moving sphere of tightly-packed Harrah.
“That’s crazy,” Quentin said. “Hey, Kimberlin! This some kind of mating dance or something?”
Michael looked up through the bus’s clear glass roof, then shook his head. “I’m afraid not. That looks like an honor flight.”
Quentin watched them banking, marveling at the control, the dexterity — living things just shouldn’t be able to move that fast. “Sweet. Like a fly-off or something?”
The two fliers split, seemed to hit the edges of the living sphere, then came back at each other at blinding speed. As they passed, Quentin saw something pink spray into the air. The two creatures hit the sphere walls, banked, and came at each other again. At the last moment, the one with the blue-dot streamers banked just a bit to the right.
The one with the red-tinged green dots fell from the sky like a rock, trailing long, liquid splatters of pink that caught the flickering sunlight. The lifeless body hit the sidewalk just to the right of the passing ground-bus. Thin, pink liquid splattered against the sidewalk, the street, and some of it even hit the bus’s windows.
“Oh,” Quentin said. “That kind of honor flight.”
He sagged into his seat. Like so many things in so many places, death never seemed to be far away.
The ground-bus ran over a bag of trash, then turned a corner, giving the Krakens their first view of Cloud Killer Stadium. It looked only a bit larger than the open-air stadiums he’d played in back in the PNFL.
“It’s small,” Quentin said, happy to lose his thoughts in football and try to forget the brutal, primitive display he’d just witnessed.
“Seats about eighteen thousand,” Kimberlin said.
“That’s all? We’ve played in front of almost two hundred thousand. I can’t believe a Tier One team has only eighteen thousand at a game.”
Kimberlin smiled. “I said it seats eighteen thousand. The actual attendance is a bit more. You’ll see soon enough.”
Quentin nodded and closed his eyes. Soon enough indeed — they would play in less than four hours. He settled into his seat and started to mentally run through the Cloud Killers’ roster, recalling the memorized list of names, positions, statistics, and tendencies.
The Cloud Killers were 4-and-3, but they were beatable. If, that was, Ju Tweedy decided to hold onto the ball.
• • •
QUENTIN TRIED TO FOCUS, tried to block out the constantly flickering shadows playing across the yellow field. A bright yellow with black lines.
He looked up, like he did before and after every play. He knew he had to stop doing that, but he couldn’t help it. Tens of thousands of Harrah swarmed overhead, high enough to be completely out of the vertical playing area required for long passes and punts. They were so thick they looked like a living, moving dome. That, apparently, was how they watched the game — by flying over it.
He forced himself to look down again, to survey the defense. The game had turned into a dogfight. Late in the fourth quarter, the Krakens were down 16 to 14. Krakens offensive players bled through ripped orange jerseys and the cracked armor beneath. The Cloud Killers defense looked no better, blue-polka-dotted yellow jerseys torn and stretched, coated with different colors of blood. Quentin didn’t know if there had been a rivalry before the bar fight, but there sure was one now — he felt pure hatred on both sides of the ball.
Ju had fumbled twice, but he’d also scored two touchdowns. Was he tanking on purpose? Quentin still didn’t know, and couldn’t say as much to Coach Hokor. The Krakens were on the Cloud Killers 34-yard line — another first down would put them well within the range of Arioch Morningstar’s foot. A field goal would put them up 17-16 with only a couple of minutes left to play, if that.
A field goal would possibly win the game.
Quentin slid his hands under center. He had Ju Tweedy behind him in a single-back set. Starcher was the right tight end. Five yards outside of him, Halawa was a yard off the line of scrimmage. Milford was lined up wide left — Hawick had taken a late hit from Smileyberg earlier in the quarter and had yet to return.
Smileyberg, the Cloud Killers left cornerback, was playing a good eight yards off of Halawa. Smileyberg didn’t want to get beat deep by Halawa’s speed. If the defender was that far off, though, Halawa was supposed to read that coverage and run a shallow slant-in. Would she adjust her route on her own? Did he need to audible to make sure she ran the slant?
“Blue, forty-one!” Quentin called down the line. He looked at Halawa, who looked back with two of her eyes. Both eyestalks quivered, only for a split second, and in that split second Quentin knew what route she would run. He felt a lightning bolt thrill ripple through his chest, all the way down to his knees.
“Blue, forty-one! Hut-hut... hut!”
He took the snap, raised the ball as he turned his shoulders and launched a laser-shot to his right. The only way the ball could be caught was if Halawa came off the line at a forty-five degree angle downfield and toward center.
And that was exactly what she did.
Five steps in, the ball hit Halawa dead in the chest. She never even broke stride. Quentin felt another burst of that lightning sensation ripple through his stomach, his skin — in that flicker of time he knew that short pass was the perfect union of quarterback and receiver. Halawa turned upfield. Smileyberg had run with her, accurately covering the inside slant, but a ball thrown that perfectly could never be defended. Smileyberg wrapped her tentacles around Halawa’s shoulder pads — too high to bring down the huge rookie receiver. Halawa half-jumped, raised her right foot to Smileyberg’s facemask, then stomped down hard. The safety’s helmeted head drove into the yellow field. Halawa kept on going. She tried to cut to the sidelines, but the safety and strong safety reached her and drove her out of bounds after a fifteen yard gain.
First-and-ten on the 19. A chip-shot for Morningstar. Quentin looked at the clock — 1:16 to play.
Coach Hokor’s face appeared in the heads-up holo. “Barnes! Dive right. They only have two timeouts left, let’s force their hand and grind this out.”
Quentin nodded. That was the right strategy. Run the ball, chew up the clock, maybe get one more first down and kick the field goal with time expiring. If they couldn’t get a first down, then take the lead and leave the Cloud Killers with only fifteen or twenty seconds to play. Running the ball in this situation was basic football strategy... so why did Quentin’s instincts scream at him to not do it?
“Coach, let me run a quarterback keep-out. I promise I’ll slide.”
“No,” Hokor said. “Give the ball to Ju.”
“But Coach, I—”
“Run the plays that I call!”
Quentin felt pulled in multiple directions. All Ju had to do was slam the ball into the line and the Krakens had the
game wrapped up.
Quentin huddled his players. “Okay, forty-one dive on two, on two. We run three times, take the field goal and we win this thing. Ju, you hold onto the ball, you got it?”
Ju stood, pointed his index finger at Quentin, then winked and flipped his thumb down twice. Bang-bang. “You got it, captain,” he said.
They walked to the line accompanied by the sound of a deafening drumbeat, thousands of flying Harrah pounding their hollow chests. The terrestrial fans were also shouting, screaming, and clacking; loud but barely audible over the Harrah’s thunder.
The Cloud Killers knew it was a run and they crowded the line, daring Quentin to put the ball in the air where they might have at least a chance of a bobbled pass, a tipped ball, something that would stop the inevitable game-winning field goal.
Run the plays that are called.
“Red, forty-two! Red, forty-two! Hut-hut!”
The ball slapped into Quentin’s hands. He pivoted to the right, extending the ball for Ju. Ju’s giant arms clamped down, but clamped down too soon. Quentin felt the ball squirt away. It hit the ground and bounced in front of the big running back. Ju reached for it one-handed, slapped it, and the ball sailed forward, arcing over the offensive line to the defense beyond.
Killers defensive end Jesper Schultz reached his big hands up and caught the ball in the air. He curled his body around it, then fell to the ground in the HeavyG equivalent of a fetal position. Sho-Do-Thikit was the first to reach him, drilling the tucked-up defensive end with a full-on extension shot, but Schultz just skidded across the yellow field.
The whistle blew. Zebes flew in.
Despair and denial swept through Quentin’s soul as he looked up at the scoreboard. One minute, thirteen seconds to play, Krakens with only one timeout, Cloud Killers with the ball and ahead by two.
It was over. All Coranadillana had to do was take a knee three times.
The chest-cavity-pounding drum beat hit such an intensity that Quentin felt his eardrums vibrating in complaint. They’d had the game won, but a Ju Tweedy fumble had let it slip away.
Quentin walked off the field, seeing the same dejection that he felt hanging from the shoulders and heads of every Krakens player.
