by Scott Sigler
Suddenly, Quentin recognized that feeling in his stomach — fear. The same feeling that ran through his mind and body for every punch-in and punch-out. The same fear he’d felt as a small boy, when the Holy Women that ran the orphanage had told stories about the nightmarish Ki, how they ate Humans, how they came in the night to snatch away bad little boys. He hadn’t recognized it because he’d never before felt that emotion on a football field. Now the twelve-foot-long, multi-armed boogey-creature from his childhood nightmares wasn’t just real, it was on him, smothering him.
“Get off me!” Quentin shouted as he tried to scramble out from under Per-Ah-Yet. The Ki’s four-jointed arms grabbed Quentin’s helmet and held it tight, his face close enough to push against Quentin’s facemask. Two of the five black eyespots stared into Quentin’s eyes. Per-Ah-Yet’s hexagonal mouth opened to expose the triangular black teeth.
“Grissach hadillit ai ai,” it hissed, the sound from his wormlike vocal tubes muffled by the curving black helmet.
Quentin didn’t understand the alien’s words. Per-Ah-Yet pushed off him, heavily, and moved back to the defensive huddle.
Yassoud reached down to help Quentin up.
“He doesn’t like you very much,” Yassoud said.
“What did he say?”
“He said something to the effect that you’d look good roasting on a spit at his family picnic.”
Quentin stood, his body emitting a dull throb of complaint. Defensive players weren’t supposed to hit quarterbacks, not in practice. He’d just been leveled and nobody seemed to care. Hokor, for one, wasn’t saying anything. Quentin nodded. Now he understood. Oh yeah, he finally got it. This wasn’t just a mind-game, he really wasn’t going to start. No coach let the defense hit a starting QB.
He was just a rookie, and that meant he was fair game.
It was going to be a long day.
• • •
AT THE END of practice, Hokor gathered the team in the orange end zone. They circled around their little coach in his little cart, fifty tired and bruised players that looked like they’d just been through a battle.
“Good practice today,” Hokor said. “We have only one more practice before we open the season. I know that is hard on you rookies, but most of you won’t see much playing time. That is the nature of the league’s schedule, and there is nothing we can do about it. Tomorrow’s practice is a non-contact run through.”
Quentin thought the term “run through” was a funny concept, because he’d been hit so many times he could hardly walk, let alone run. The first-string defense had had a field day with him, blitzing every down, throwing stunts and overloads and everything else they could think of. The second-string defenders hadn’t been any easier, especially Mum-O-Killowe, who attacked every play like he was seeking vengeance on someone who’d killed his family. The rookie Ki lineman had also delivered the biggest hit of the day — a cheap shot, a full two seconds after Quentin had thrown the ball.
He wasn’t going to be the starter, his battered body told him that as clearly as if Hokor had spelled it out on paper. He’d played poorly — again — throwing three interceptions on thirty plays. He’d also thrown two touchdowns, and gone 5-of-13 overall. But three interceptions! It was the freakin’ speed of the game, he just couldn’t get used to it. The defense came at him so much faster than he’d ever seen, and when he threw the ball, the Sklorno defensive backs broke on it like they’d been reading his mind.
He was third-string. And right now, that’s where he belonged.
“Prepare well for tomorrow’s practice,” Hokor said. “You are dismissed.”
As the players walked off the field, Hokor’s cart descended and landed in front of Quentin.
“Barnes, you are throwing behind your receivers. You’ve got to adjust your throws, and you’ve got to start getting the ball higher in the air when throwing to Sklorno. Do you forget that they can jump to catch the ball?”
“No, Coach… well, yeah, I do forget that sometimes.”
“Well stop forgetting. If Pine goes down against the Wallcrawlers you’re not ready to come in.”
“Coach, I’m ready.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it, but they rang hollow even to his own ears. “All I need is more reps, I’m getting the hang of things.”
“Are you? Fine, then tell me who is the primary cornerback for the Wallcrawlers.”
“Bangkok,” Quentin said. He was exhausted, and didn’t want to play this ridiculous trivia game, but would answer the questions asked of him. “Three-year veteran, Wallcrawlers MVP last year, started for last two years, eleven interceptions last year.”
“So with eleven interceptions, do we throw to her side of the field?”
“Not if we can help it,” Quentin said.
“So if we don’t throw at her, who is the strong safety?”
“Marlette. Five-year starter. Has lost an estimated five inches on her vertical leap since leg surgery at the end of last season. Throw high and deep on post patterns.”
Hokor’s pedipalps quivered lightly. “Good. Say it’s third-and-seventeen. The nickel back comes in — who are you facing?”
Quentin started to answer, then had to stop and think. Nickel back for the Wallcrawlers… who did they bring in for passing situations?
“Oshkosh!” Quentin said quickly when the name jumped into his head.
“And what’s her weakness?”
“She… she…” Quentin tried to remember the one obscure fact about Oshkosh that could impact a game, but his tired mind came up with nothing.
“She has fused chitin plates near her hips,” Hokor said. “They’re too near her nervous center for anyone to operate safely. The fused plates greatly limit her ability to turn in mid-air, so if you throw to her area you throw behind her, where she can’t turn to get the ball. Your receivers know this already, and so should you. Now think about that while you start running.”
Quentin’s head dropped. He was exhausted. And he had to run again?
“Hold on, Barnes,” Hokor said. The diminutive alien turned and called through the cart’s loudspeakers.
“Mum-O-Killowe!” Hokor shouted a few more syllables, all of which were pure gibberish to Quentin. The giant rookie lineman turned and scuttled over. He stopped three feet from Quentin. The Ki’s black eyes burned into him in an expression of pure hatred (at least Quentin wanted to think it was hatred, and not the emotion he suspected it might actually be, which was hunger). Hokor barked a few more syllables. Mum-O-Killowe suddenly roared and reared up on his last set of legs, briefly making him a ten-foot-tall, arm waving monster.
Hokor, obviously unimpressed, simply pointed to the ground. Mum-O-Killowe dropped back down to six legs, and fell quiet.
“I have told Mum-O-Killowe he is to be punished for his late hit. Such undisciplined play could have injured you, and someday you could be a valuable component of this team. Therefore, he will run with you until I am tired of thinking about it.”
Quentin stared, dumbfounded, at his tiny coach. This thing wanted to kill him, and Hokor wanted the two of them to run laps like workout buddies?
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Coach,” Quentin said. “This guy will come after me as soon as we’re alone. He’s already tried twice.”
“Then you’d better learn to communicate with him, and fast. He is, after all, your teammate.”
Hokor flew off, leaving Quentin and Mum-O-Killowe staring at each other. Quentin shook his head and started to run, but was careful to keep an eye on the young Ki. Mum-O-Killowe followed suit and ran alongside, staring at Quentin with his unblinking black spider eyes.
• • •
FIFTY-THREE LAPS later, Hokor apparently got tired of thinking about it. He called over the stadium’s sound system, sending the two rookies to their respective locker rooms. They’d managed to run laps without an incident, to Quentin’s surprise.
He pulled off his drenched uniform, each motion an exercise in ache. He was so soaked he won
dered if even the plastic parts of his pads were sweat-logged. Quentin walked to a mirror and stared at himself — he already had discoloring bruises covering most of his right shoulder and chest, as well as darkening spots on both legs. Bruises. He hadn’t had any bruises since his rookie season in the PNFL. That was the last time anyone laid a solid hit on him.
The locker room, of course, was empty except for Messal the Efficient, who busily gathered up Quentin’s clothes and pads.
“Which way is the shower?” Quentin asked. Messal scrambled to open the first of a row of doors built into the wall.
Quentin sighed heavily — another nannite shower. It just wasn’t what he needed.
“Don’t you guys have a water-shower here?”
Messal nodded immediately. “Yes, sir, we do.”
Quentin felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Well, show me where it is.”
Messal nodded again and started walking, Quentin followed as quickly as his exhausted and battered body would allow.
“If you’ll follow me to the Ki locker room, sir,” Messal said. “I will be happy to take you there.”
Quentin stopped dead in his tracks. “The Ki locker room? Are you kidding me?”
Messal nodded. “Oh no, sir. The Ki prefer running water to nannite cleansing.”
“Well so do some Humans!”
Messal nodded again. “No, sir, Humans prefer nannite cleansing.”
“Not this Human, pal.”
The nod, Quentin realized, was a gesture of subservience, not agreement. “Yes, sir, of course. I will take you to the water shower.”
“Isn’t there one in this locker room?”
Nod. “No, sir. It is in the Ki locker room. I will happily take you there so that you are satisfied with my service.”
Quentin hung his head. He was bruised, beaten and exhausted, but he wasn’t that tired. He waved Messal away and dragged himself to the nannite shower.
• • •
HE SAT IN HIS ROOM, marveling at how much a body could hurt after just one practice. It wasn’t enough to stop him from playing. Nothing hurt that much. But it sure wasn’t a walk in the park either. Quentin’s fingers deftly worked game controls as he guided his players around the holo tank. Games were a good way to get his mind off of practice — he didn’t know who “Madden” was, but “Madden 2683” was the best football sim he’d ever played. His To Pirates were up 22–16 over the Jupiter Jacks in a re-match of Galaxy Bowl XXIV.
His door-buzzer rang.
[MITCHELL FAYED IS AT YOUR DOOR]
Quentin hit pause and limped to the door. Fayed stood there, all 6-foot-9-inch, 350 granite-block pounds of him.
“Good evening, Quentin.”
Quentin just nodded.
“Why are you not at second meal?”
Quentin shrugged. “Just wanted to relax after practice.”
“You do not make friends easily with the rest of the team.”
Quentin didn’t know what to say. It was a statement, not a question.
“It does not matter,” Fayed said. “I came to say something to you.”
Fayed paused, as if waiting for permission.
“Well go ahead,” Quentin said.
“I have been in Tier Two for seven years now. Three with the Citadel Aquanauts, and four with the Krakens. I have worked all my life to reach Tier One. That is all I want.”
Quentin nodded.
“I came here to tell you that,” Fayed said. “I hope reaching Tier One is as important to you as it is to me. If you should take over the quarterback position, I will support you. I think you have talent. I want you to be strong in these first few weeks. I suspect you have not been hit like this before?”
Quentin shrugged. “There were some big hits in the PNFL.”
“And none of them reached you,” Fayed said. “I have watched holos of your games. You are new to this level of hitting. And it will get worse during the games. Far worse.”
Quentin tried to imagine how he could be hit any harder. Maybe if he crashed a hoversled into a brick wall at 180 miles per hour. Maybe.
“You get used to it,” Fayed said. “You have a big, strong body, like me. I have watched you. You can take the hits. You may not know it yet, but you can take the hits. Be strong. Keep working hard and good things will come.”
Fayed then nodded once, turned, and walked away.
Quentin stared out the door for a few seconds, then returned to his game. Did Fayed want something from him? Why was be being so nice? He didn’t know what to make of the guy. Hell, he didn’t know what to make of any of his teammates. But… did Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed believe in him? Quentin shook his head. This had to be something else. Fayed had to have some kind of motive for this. Couldn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust anyone on this team. A voice in the back of his head reminded him he hadn’t trusted anyone on the Raiders, either. Hadn’t trusted anyone in a long, long time.
He picked up the controller, trying to ignore the pangs of loneliness as he focused on making his To Pirates win Galaxy Bowl XXIV.
BOOK THREE: THE REGULAR SEASON
GAME ONE: Woo Wallcrawlers (0–0) at the Ionath Krakens (0–0)
An hour before the game, the Humans started dressing. The stadium was already mostly full. Even three stories below the stands, inside the locker room’s thick walls, they heard the crowd’s roar.
Music pumped from Yassoud’s locker. He loved scrag music: loud, boisterous, boasting rhymes produced from the downtrodden culture of Rodina. Several people had asked Yassoud to turn it down, but John Tweedy liked the music, so nobody pressed the point.
Quentin sat on the bench, already dressed, his thoughts focused on the game ahead. His first Upper Tier game. He barely noticed his teammates or the music. He didn’t come out of it until he felt someone near, staring at him. Quentin looked up and saw Don Pine only a few feet away. Quentin’s eyes narrowed to hateful slits.
“What do you want, Pine?”
Pine shrugged. “Nothing.”
“So go stare at someone else’s booty.”
“Kid, you need to relax.”
“I really didn’t appreciate your joke back on the landing platform.”
“What joke?” “What are you talking about?”
“Denver. You had Denver come up to me — in front of everyone — and ask if I needed help with my passing.”
Pine blinked a few times. “You thought that was a joke?”
“Not a very funny one,” Quentin said. “You’ll get yours.”
Pine shook his head in amazement, then sighed. “Well if you get in today, kid, good luck.”
He turned and walked away. Quentin didn’t return the sentiment.
• • •
THE KRAKENS PLAYERS GATHERED in the tunnel that led to the field.
The announcer said something in Quyth, then repeated it in Human: “Here is the visiting team, the WooooooOOOO Wallcrawlers!”
A scraping sound filled the stadium, like a million carpenters sanding a million rough boards. Quentin pressed his hands to the ear holes of his helmet. He turned to Yitzhak. “What the hell is that?”
“Fur-scraping,” Yitzhak said, leaning into Quentin and shouting so he could be heard over the horrible noise. “Workers scrape the bristly fur on their forearms together — it’s kind of like a Human booing.”
The Krakens packed tightly into the small space. Clean or-ange-and-black jerseys covered the bodies and armor of Human, Heavy-G, Sklorno, Ki and Quyth Warrior. No one pushed, no one shoved, no one threatened. The very walls vibrated with the growing roar of the capacity 185,000-being crowd. Intangible electricity filled the air, making the skin on the back of Quentin’s neck tingle with excitement.
Racial hatred disappeared. That wasn’t quite true — it didn’t disappear as much as it transformed, mutated, moving from alien teammates to the unified body of the enemy: the Woo Wallcrawlers. The Krakens players were no longer individual species, no longer individual beings with petty
biases and hatreds and arguments.
They were warriors.
Headed to battle.
The announcer said something in Quyth, and the crowd erupted with the roar of the High One himself. The unified army of orange-and-black surged forward. The announcer repeated the call, this time in Human.
“Beings of all races, let’s hear it for, your, Ionath, KRAAAAAA-KENNNNNNNS!”
Quentin found himself carried along in a wave of teammates. This was nothing like it had been on Micovi, where the starters were introduced one at a time, and the largest crowd he’d ever played before amounted to 24,500.
The team sprinted out through the tunnel mouth into the perfect daylight of Ionath Stadium. Quentin had never seen such a concentration of life. The crowd’s roar hit like a physical, concussive force. At the sidelines, the Krakens gathered in a tight circle. Quentin found himself packed in shoulder-to-shoulder against Milford on his right, pressed next to Mum-O-Killowe on his left, and Killik the Unworthy behind him. In front of them all, at the center of the circle: Donald Pine.
“This is it,” Pine said. He wasn’t yelling, yet his words carried loudly despite the crowd’s massive volume. “This is what we’ve worked for. The road to Tier One starts right here, right now.”
His voice rang with authority and command. All around him, Quentin felt Krakens players leaning in towards Pine. The veteran quarterback radiated calm and utter confidence. Creterakian civilians dressed in tiny orange and black uniforms flittered about, translating Pine’s words into Ki.
“We’ve got to go out there and establish ourselves right now,” Pine said. “No waiting. They won the toss. Defense, I want the ball back. Offense, I want to score on our first drive. Then I want to score on our second drive. Then I want to score on our third drive. No letting up.”
He raised his fist and the circle tightened in a convulsive surge. Hands, pedipalps, chitinous arms and raspers reached out to Pine, who stood in the center of it all like a battlefield hero. Quentin found, to his surprise, that he instinctively reached out his own hand as well — but he stopped himself only a few inches from the veteran quarterback, pretending that he couldn’t quite reach.
