by Scott Sigler
“Flying scares you?” Virak asked calmly.
“It’s not the flight,” Quentin said. “It’s the punch-out.”
He looked at the view screens, amazed at the sight of the Quyth homeworld. They’d arrived on the nighttime side, yet there wasn’t one dark patch to be seen. Every last square mile seemed covered with the soft glow of civilization.
“High One,” Quentin said. “Is the whole thing covered?”
“There is no more open land,” Virak said. “Nor much open water.”
“Seventy-two billion,” Quentin said in amazement. The population of Quyth seemed so staggering he had to say it out loud to appreciate it.
“Now you understand why we expand. We either find new worlds or stop breeding, and that is not an option.”
They said nothing more, simply stared at the overpopulated planet. The Purist Nation planets were relatively unpopulated. Earth, however, was at 18 billion and counting. He wondered how long it would be until the Earth, like the Quyth homeworld, was just one big city without boundaries or borders.
• • •
PINE DRESSED for the game, but had about as much a chance of seeing field time as the Purist Nation had of winning the Intergalactic Sentient Peace Award for good deeds done to other species. The team still didn’t know, save for Virak and Quentin.
But Hokor knew.
Gredok had obviously informed his workaholic coach that Donald Pine, two-time Galaxy Bowl Champion, one-time League MVP and erstwhile savior of the Ionath Krakens franchise had been taking Hokor’s detailed game plans and basically using them to wipe his butt. Pine had gone from starter to the doghouse faster than a ship moving in punch drive.
At least thus far, Hokor hadn’t told anyone else. Too many beings now knew. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the team discovered Pine’s horrible secret. And when it came out, Pine’s presence would be most unwelcome in the Krakens’ locker room.
But Quentin didn’t have time to worry about that right now. It wasn’t his problem anymore. He had a whole new set of problems. Forty-four of them, to be precise, each one wearing the metallic silver uniforms of the Quyth Survivors.
A losing team my rear end, Quentin thought. The only thing that matters is how they match up against us, and they match up very well indeed. The Survivors weren’t a losing team, they were an enemy, an obstacle standing between him and his dream. No, far more importantly, they were standing between his team and his team’s dream. There wouldn’t be any interceptions today, just completions, just a calm, methodical march down the field and a strangulating game of ball control and field position. He wasn’t going to give the Survivors any chances to get into this game and get a very erroneous thought in their brains that they had any right to be on the same field with the Ionath Krakens.
Ball control, Quentin thought. Ball control, patience, field-position.
• • •
THE PLANTS LOOKED just like Carsengi Grass, but the blades blazed a fluorescent orange. Black lines and numbers popped off the field in stark contrast.
First offensive play of the game. Krakens’ ball, first-and-10 from their own 33.
Is that what I think it is? Are those idiots in woman-to-woman when I’ve got three burners on the field?
Ba-da-bap went his hands on the center’s carapace.
Forget ball control, let’s go downtown.
“Flash, flash!” Quentin shouted.
Heads and eyestalks turned to look at him, waiting for the audible. He was changing the play at the line.
“Blue twenty-two!” he shouted down the left side of the line. Hawick had been lined up three feet to the left of Rick Warburg. Hawick jogged another ten yards to the left, almost to the sideline, her defender following. She stopped, stood, and waited for the snap.
“Bluuuee, twenty two!” he shouted down the right side of the line. Scarborough and Mezquitic stood at five and seven yards, respectively, away from the right tackle Vu-Ko-Will, Mezquitic on the line of scrimmage, Scarborough one step back from it. With the audible, Mezquitic took one step forward, while Scarborough took a step back, then went in motion to the sidelines, a slow jog that took her fifteen yards out.
“Blue, twenty-two!” Quentin shouted behind him. Tom Pareless and Mitchell Fayed had been in an I-formation, Tom in a three-point stance, Fayed two yards behind him, hands on his knees, head up high. They quickly adjusted so that they stood side-by-side in a pro-set.
Quentin turned back to the line. “Hut-hut!”
The line erupted with crashes and clacks and grunts for the game’s first trench battle. Pareless and Fayed each took a step up and a step outside, where they crouched, waiting for the first opportunity to block. Quentin dropped straight back, slipping between the two running backs like they were centurions guarding some ancient gate. Hawick and Mezquitic shot downfield on streak patterns, while Scarborough ran forward for fifteen yards, then angled to the middle of the field on a post pattern.
Those patterns drew single coverage from the two cornerbacks and the safety. Quentin watched the free safety, the key to the play. Hawick and Scarborough were both running even with their defenders, but Quentin could tell they still had an extra step in their gas tanks. The safety ran to the outside to pick up the Krakens’ most deadly threat — Hawick.
That was all Quentin needed to see.
He cocked his arm and threw just as Tom Pareless undercut the first Ki defender that broke through the line. The ball arced downfield, not a perfect spiral this time, but marred by a tiny bit of wobble. It didn’t look pretty, but it was on target. Scarborough remained step-for-step with her defender for another two seconds, then put on a sudden burst of speed that took her just a few feet past. She timed the ball perfectly, leaping high into the air to catch the ball without a single mid-air twist or turn or alteration. The defender reached for her, but Scarborough kicked out with her right leg, hitting the defender in the chest. The blow knocked the defender back, just a bit, and when the two hit the ground she had a good three steps of clearance, more than any Sklorno needed just fifteen yards from the goal line.
Scarborough ran into the end zone.
First play from scrimmage, a 67-yard touchdown strike.
• • •
THE REST OF THE GAME brought more of the same. Quentin had never felt so in sync before, not even in his Purist Nation days. He knew exactly where his receivers were at all times. The receivers seemed to read his thoughts, breaking off patterns to find the ball already in the air, moving to open spots in perfect time with any of Quentin’s scrambling efforts. He saw every defender, every disguised coverage, every blitz. He saw the sideways-rolling Quyth Warrior linebackers and knew when they would pop up into a pass-coverage stance. When he ran, he knew when they would lean in for the tackle, when their balance was all forward, and that told him just when to spin: juke moves didn’t work on them, but half the time spin moves left them falling flat on their face. He saw Ki defensive lineman raging past his offensive line, he saw them gather and knew when to step forward just as they released, springing violently forward to grasp only empty air. He saw the speed and timing of the Sklorno defensive backs, and knew just where to throw to avoid them. He even saw a safety blitz and two corner blitzes — but each time he threw in a fraction of a second, hitting the open receiver before the streaking d-back could close on him.
Nothing could touch him.
The Krakens’ defense played its best game of the season. Aside from one long run by Chooch Motumbo, the Survivors tailback, the defense shut down everything. By the end of the third quarter, the Krakens were up 28-7 and in clear control of the game.
That was when disaster struck.
• • •
THIRD-AND-3 on the Survivors’ 35.
Quentin surveyed the defense. He could have audibled to a slant pass, because the linebacker was cheating inside, but opted to go with the called play, a sweep to the right. He didn’t want to put the ball in the air now, nothing that m
ight give the Survivors a chance to get back in the game. Dressed in metallic silver jerseys, leg armor and helmets, the Survivors’ defense looked like a bunch of old-time science-fiction robots, ones that had been through a losing battle and were now covered in orange grass stains, dirt and blood. Lots of blood. Still, they weren’t giving up, and even though they were having their asses handed to them, the Survivors’ defense fought as hard as they could on every play.
“Hut-HUUUT!”
The ball slapped into Quentin’s hands. He pivoted backwards off his right foot, coming all the way around before softly pitching the ball to Fayed. Already moving right, Fayed caught the ball and ran parallel to the line of scrimmage, Kopor the Climber out in front to block. Sho-Do-Thikit, the left guard, stepped back and pulled to the right, giving Fayed two blockers on the quick pitch. The play’s design was simple — get outside as fast as possible and try to cut up and out. A good block on the outside linebacker could leave Fayed one-on-one with the slender Sklorno defensive backs, a punishing equation that would almost always end with Fayed driving the defender back for positive yards, if not breaking the tackle outright for a big gain.
Quentin watched the three Krakens sweep right, orange jerseys with black numbers and orange trim, orange leg armor with black piping, orange and black helmets. The outside linebacker, a powerful heavy-G giant from Rodina named Sven Draupnir, drove upfield as the middle linebacker, Kylee Cannell, used his impressive speed to dash towards the sidelines, trying to stay just inside of Fayed’s left shoulder, preventing an inside cutback that could go for big yards. Draupnir crashed forward like a tank. Wen-E-Deret tried to reach him, but Draupnir stepped to the right tackle’s outside shoulder and drove past, batting away strong Ki arms like some mere annoyance. Wen-E-Deret gathered and leapt, but was too late. Kopor stepped up and met Draupnir head-on — the resulting collision sent a clack so loud it was heard in the upper deck, even over the roar of the crowd. Kopor was knocked back as if he were a child, rolling feet-over-head right into Fayed.
Fayed reached one arm down as his feet came off the ground. His extended hand met Kopor’s shoulder pad. Fayed pushed off quickly, an amazingly athletic move, his arm absorbing the shock. Instead of being knocked over, he was simply knocked back — his lithe feet landed on the ground, he stumbled once, then recovered and headed for the sidelines.
Fayed’s athleticism was a wonder to behold, but Cannell was no slouch. He used Fayed’s momentary stumble to close the gap. Cannell dove, his big fingers grabbing handfuls of Fayed’s jersey. Fayed’s strong legs pumped away, dragging the prone, 420-pound Cannell along the ground.
Topinabee raced up field at top speed, a silver streak headed for the encumbered Fayed. Fayed started to lower his shoulder, but like a water-skier bouncing up from some trick, Cannell slid to his feet, his fingers still deeply wrapped in Fayed’s jersey. With a primal grunt, Cannell planted his feet and swung. The motion first stopped Fayed cold, then ripped him in a blurring, backwards horizontal arc. At the end of the arc, almost 360 degrees from where he started, the orange-jersied blur met the oncoming silver-jersied blur of Topinabee with a crack that made the Draupnir/Kopor collision sound quiet by comparison. Quentin winced as the two came together. The crowd “ooohheed” in amazement, most of them probably wincing themselves.
Cannell pounded his chest, playing to the crowd.
Topinabee slowly rose to her feet, stumbled, then fell.
Fayed didn’t get up.
His foot twitched, and the fingers of his left hand opened and closed spasmodically, but he didn’t get up. He was laying facedown — actually, he should have been face-down, because his stomach and chest were on the ground, but his face was actually looking up.
“Oh High One,” Quentin said, then ran to his teammate.
Fayed’s eyes were wide with terror. He tried to breath, but couldn’t seem to draw air. His head was turned so far around, he could almost have looked down and seen his own spine.
“Fayed!” Quentin said. He reached for his teammate, then kept his hands away, remembering someone telling him once not to touch a head or neck injury.
“The banana… meteors…” Fayed said. His foot kept twitching, but his hand suddenly stopped the spasmodic opening and closing. The fingers froze in mid-move, curled rigid like a talon.
Quentin was distantly aware of a medsled racing out, of Doc fluttering down next to Fayed. Quentin felt a hand, or a tentacle, he didn’t know, grab his shoulder pad and gently pull him back.
Doc pulled a laser scalpel from his bag and deftly sliced off Fayed’s back armor. Doc then removed a small, rectangular device. He punched a few buttons on the device, then pressed it against Fayed’s back. There was a sickening squelching sound as tendrils reached out of both sides of the device and penetrated Fayed’s skin, curing in towards his spine. A soft orange light started flashing on the device — blink, blink, blink, blink…
Doc zipped to the medsled and maneuvered it over the top of Fayed’s body. The metallic tendrils reached down. The medsled lifted, and Fayed rose off the ground without his body moving an iota, like some magician’s trick of levitation. Doc flew off the field, the medsled moving behind him, slowly, so as not to jostle Fayed.
As the cart and patient slid noiselessly towards the tunnel, Quentin’s sharp eyes remained fixated on the orange light.
Blink, blink… blink…. blink….
Then nothing.
Before Fayed slid into the tunnel, Quentin knew the orange light had stopped flashing.
• • •
HE FINISHED THE GAME. He didn’t know how he did it, but he did it nonetheless. He even scored another touchdown, this one a twelve-yard run. He had to do the running himself — Yassoud’s face went pale each time Hokor called his number, and ran with all the intensity of a galley cook. When the game was on, Quentin didn’t have to think about it; he either ran the offense on the field, every last scrap of his intellect devoted to analyzing the defense, or he sat on the sidelines, intently studying a holotable of the last series in case he found a weakness to use on the next possession.
But when the final seconds ticked off the clock, and the scoreboard read Krakens 35, Survivors 7, he didn’t have anything else to distract him. The team gathered in the central meeting room. Hokor stood in front of the holoboard, as usual.
Except this time, his eye wasn’t black or orange or even pink.
It was deep purple. Opaque purple.
Quentin had never seen that color before, but somehow he knew exactly what it meant.
“First of all, I want to sing all of your praises for a hard-fought game,” Hokor said. “We played, and won, as a team. I have very little to say of negative things. The Ionath Krakens are now the champions of the Quyth Irradiated Conference.”
A half-hour ago, that same phrase would have drawn a deafening roar from the assembled players. Now it was met with silence, a silence broken only by some Human trying to clear phlegm from his throat.
“We have lost one of our warriors,” Hokor said. He looked down at a palmtop. “Mitchell Fayed suffered a severed spinal cord and a collapsed lung. Doc tried to used a Galthier Spinal Cord Controller to regulate Fayed’s breathing and heart rate, but there was too much damage, too soon. Attempts to repair the damage and reanimate him failed.”
There was a loud sob. Quentin looked over to the source of the sound. John Tweedy, big, dangerous, deadly John Tweedy, sat on a bench, his elbow on his knee, his forehead propped on his hand, his eyes squeezed shut, his solid shoulders shaking in time with his sobs.
The noise seemed to open a dam of emotion. Other Humans started sobbing, or sniffling, or coughing to hide their self-perceived weakness.
One of the Ki linemen produced a long, serrated knife. They passed it from one to the next, taking turns cutting a long gash into their own upper left arm. With each cut, black blood spilled down in a noisy, splattering rivulet, spreading out across the tile floor.
They’re letting their own blood
, Quentin thought. So it can join Fayed’s blood on the field of battle.
Messal the Efficient silently slipped out of the Quyth Warrior locker room. He walked over to Virak the Mean who sat limply on the floor. Messal opened the box and removed a metallic, penlike instrument. The instrument hummed lightly as Messal started moving it across the chitin on Virak’s left forearm. Choto the Bright stood behind Virak, Killik the Unworthy behind him, a line of Quyth Warriors slowly forming. Quentin didn’t recognize the new writing on Virak’s shell, but he knew it was a Quyth rendition of Fayed’s name. It stunned Quentin to see a Human name being written on a Quyth Warrior’s shell.
But that’s what Fayed’s constant, punishing work ethic had meant to everyone.
Quentin felt cold. Fayed had been on the field with him, battling away, not even an hour ago. And now he was gone. Horrible injuries were part of the game. Big bodies, strong bodies, and speed. Force equals mass times acceleration. Beings got hurt, but then beings got fixed. All the plaques he’d seen in all the stadiums, commemorating those who died on the field — it had seemed somehow, distant, something from the game’s past, from before the reality that embraced him once he joined the ranks of the elite.
Fayed was dead.
Quentin wasn’t about to let that death be for nothing.
He looked at Donald Pine. Instinctively, he expected Pine to stand and say something, anything, talk of how the team would win for Fayed. But Pine said nothing, he just sat there, head bowed. He was a disgraced man. Even though the team didn’t know it, he knew it. Pine was broken, his mantle of leadership… gone.
With sudden clarity, Quentin realized that he now held that mantle.
Something had to be said. And he was only one who could say it.
