by Scott Sigler
With the orbital elevator in place, Hudson Bay City blossomed. As one of two main hubs for interstellar commerce, Hudson Bay’s economy transformed from drilling to shipping. City officials also lured tourist dollars by building the largest football stadium on Earth. The city’s former isolation turned out to be its strongest asset — set in the middle of Hudson Bay, the stadium was easily defended from the airborne terrorist attacks that plagued many other Earth facilities.
Messal the Efficient scurried about, his helpers gathering the Krakens players.
“We are taking the tram to the stadium,” Messal said, loud enough to be heard by forty-four Krakens and other team staff. “Please follow me.”
The mass of players moved towards the underwater tram that would take them to the stadium, the area around them clear of other beings. Quentin noticed black-uniformed Human police all around the platform, each one armed, each one staring at the crowds of travelers with a look that promised severe trouble if anyone approached the football players. Fleeting shadows slashed across the floor — Creterakian soldiers flying through the complex, scouting for trouble.
Quentin smiled. Hudson Bay City had trouble, alright — trouble in the form of the Ionath Krakens. Trouble for the Texas Earthlings.
• • •
ONE LAST PRACTICE. One last practice before the biggest game of the year.
Quentin flowed through the plays as if he’d been created just for this one game, as if he’d been meticulously engineered to be a perfect quarterbacking machine. Lines of energy seemed to radiate from all his receivers, he saw them all in perfect clarity, delivering the ball in tight, rope-like spirals that arrived dead-center in passing windows no larger than ten inches across.
He had to be perfect. Yassoud had the potential to be a great running back, but he was at least two seasons away from that level. Even then, it was doubtful he’d match Mitchell Fayed’s powerful, punishing style. The defense wasn’t going to consider Yassoud a major threat — most of the defensive pressure would come via blitzing and extra defensive backs, probably both at the same time. The Earthlings would make the Krakens win the game on the ground.
Well, forget that. Quentin was going to beat them through the air, drive that ball so far down their throats they’d crap leather for a month. Everything had finally come together — he knew the moves, the speed, the tendencies of Hawick, Scarborough, Mezquitic, Denver, Milford and even Richfield. It wasn’t just the wide receivers. He had Warburg and Kobayasho down cold, and fullback Tom Pareless was a hidden receiving weapon coming out of the backfield.
“Huuut-hut, hut!”
The ball slapped his hands and he dropped back, watching the Krakens defensive backs try in vain to cover the Krakens receivers. Quentin checked through, his mind racing at bio-computer speed: Hawick, covered; Scarborough, open in another ten yards; Warburg, open on a short hook — back to Scarborough, open, as he knew she would be. He fired the pass in a straight line, drilling Scarborough right on the money twenty-five yards downfield. Scarborough cut upfield, adding another six yards before Perth gave her a little tap — full contact was out, they didn’t want any last-second injuries gumming up the works.
Next play: he dropped back and fired a long TD strike to Hawick, who was playing so well she now had to be considered one of the top five receivers in all of Tier Two.
Next play: short hook to Kobayasho, who cut upfield and went down easy on a light hit from John Tweedy.
Next play: Quentin dropped back, checked off his three receivers — all covered. He turned and threw the safety-valve pass to Yassoud, who hauled in the tight pass and cut upfield.
The snap was so loud it stopped everyone in their tracks.
Yassoud planted his right foot, and when he cut upfield the snap rang out like a gunshot. He let out a yell, then fell, both hands holding his right knee before his body hit the ground.
The ball rolled free, wobbling to a slow stop.
Forty-three spirits collectively sank.
Doc floated onto the field. Yassoud writhed, his face a twisted mask of agony, his hands still clutched on his knee in white-knuckle desperation. A freak injury, from nothing more than making a sharp upfield cut.
“Pareless!” Hokor barked from his floating cart. “Move to tailback. Kopor, you’re in at fullback.”
Four days from the biggest game of the year, the last obstacle to Tier One ball, and the Ionath Krakens had just run out of tailbacks.
• • •
QUENTIN WALKED into Hokor’s office and sat down. Hokor stared at the wall, his eye a translucent mauve. Quentin waited for the coach to acknowledge his presence, but the little Quyth Leader just sat there.
“Coach?” Quentin said lightly.
Hokor turned suddenly, his eye instantly going clear.
“Barnes,” Hokor said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“It’s okay, Coach. You strategizing?”
Hokor’s fur ruffled once, then lay flat. “Strategizing, yes. Trying to find an answer for our lack of tailbacks.”
“And?”
“There is no answer. You’ll have to carry the game, Quentin — Pareless can run, but the Earthlings won’t consider him a threat, nor should they. He’s a great blocking back and good for short-yardage, but basically worthless as an open-field runner. They’re going to blitz on every play.”
Quentin sat for a second, considering his words. Hokor started staring at the wall again.
“There is one answer,” Quentin said.
Hokor turned to look at him once again.
“Which is?”
“I’ll play tailback.”
Hokor kept staring.
“I’ve got the size and the speed,” Quentin said. “I know the offense inside and out.”
Hokor nodded. “Except for the small detail of who will play quarterback. You think Yitzhak can handle the Earthlings’ defensive backs?”
“I’m not talking about Yitzhak,” Quentin said.
Hokor looked blank for another second, then his eye flooded a deep black.
“Absolutely not! I will not have that betrayer run my team ever again.”
Quentin leaned forward. “It’s our only chance, Coach! You’ve got to let him back in.”
“No! I’d rather lose than see him on the field again.”
“Would you?” Quentin said. “Would you really rather lose than have him at quarterback. Because I’d rather do anything than lose! It doesn’t matter what he did, Coach, all that matters is that we give ourselves the best possible chance to win tomorrow.”
Hokor sat silent for a moment. “We won’t even get a chance to practice.”
“Who cares? It’s Donald Pine! You remember him? The guy who won two Galaxy Bowls? It’s not like he dropped off into retard-land in the one week he’s been gone. Get him in here.”
Hokor stared, his eye slowly fading from deep black to clear. “You would do this? You would give up the quarterback spot in the biggest game of the year? That’s not like you, Barnes.”
Quentin shrugged. “It’s like me now, Coach. I want to win. I want to play Tier One ball.”
“Do you know what you’re doing? Do you understand the level of punishment a tailback takes in a game?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to reach Tier One.”
Hokor said nothing. They stared at each other for a long minute, the seconds ticking away on some unseen, slow-motion clock. Finally, Hokor pressed a button on his desk. Messal the Efficient appeared as if he’d been standing just outside the door the entire time.
“How may I help you, Shamakath?”
“Find Donald Pine. Get him in here, immediately.”
Transcript from the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan & Akbar & Tarat the Smasher”
DAN: Thanks, caller, great point about the reliability of Arioch Morningstar. You know, Akbar, in all the commotion over Fayed’s death, we’ve kind of overlooked the quality performances from some of the Krakens players. That and wit
h the quarterback controversy.
AKBAR: Well, luckily the quarterback controversy is over.
DAN: It is?
AKBAR: Of course it is.
DAN: Okay, then who won it?
AKBAR: Barnes, for crying out loud.
TARAT: Barnes is starting against the Earthlings.
DAN: And that means the controversy is over?
TARAT: You saw him last week, Barnes was sensational.
DAN: Sure, against the Quyth Survivors. My mother-in-law could pass on the Quyth Survivors.
AKBAR: Come on, Dan, just admit it — Barnes is the man.
DAN: Are you insane? Are you completely brain-damaged? The kid couldn’t cut it against the Warpigs, Pine had to come in and bail him out.
AKBAR: So he had one bad game…
DAN: He throws interceptions! He’s the friggin’ King of Interception-Land! And now you think he’s the man?
AKBAR: But Pine’s not even practicing with the team.
DAN: That’s just a rumor.
TARAT: My sources say it’s true, he’s not practicing at all.
DAN: Then it’s a head-game, don’t you morons see that? Hokor is up to his old tricks again.
AKBAR: So what are you saying, Pine should start?
DAN: Damn right!
AKBAR: So he can choke again, like he has the last two years?
TARAT: He does seem to blow big games.
DAN: It’s the playoffs! You know, where teams play other teams that are pretty damn good?
AKBAR: Oh come on, Dan! Pine couldn’t finish a hot dog without choking on it.
DAN: He won two Galaxy Bowls!
TARAT: Oh not that again…
DAN: Screw you, Tarat! And screw you, Akbar! Next caller, dammit, next caller!
Playoffs Round Two: Ionath Krakens (7–2) at Texas Earthlings (8–2)
The Krakens gathered in the dimly-lit tunnel of Hudson Field. The 250,000 fans crowded into the stadium stamped their feet in unison, boom-boom… boom-boom… boom-boom… The walls and floor vibrated from the bloodthirsty beast’s stomping.
Quentin felt nearly mad with the hunger of battle. He was stepping into it this time, taking hand-to-hand combat into the field instead of sitting behind his wall of Ki linemen. The Earthlings would be coming after him relentlessly, literally trying to knock him out of the game. Cheap shots would abound. He knew damn well he was in for the beating of his life. But he was going to give as good as he got.
[INTRODUCING THE CHAMPIONS OF THE HUMAN CONFERENCE, PLEASE WELCOME THE TEXAAAAAAASSSSSS EARTHLINNNNNGS!]
The crowd’s choreographed stomping evaporated, replaced by the nova-like roar of mostly Human fans. It was a hostile environment — broadcasters had estimated 200,000 of the fans were Texas Earthlings supporters, another 20,000 were Krakens faithful, and the remaining 30,000 were mostly fans from other teams in the Human Conference. All that added up to a nice home game for the Earthlings.
The Krakens swayed back and forth, one organism, one collective brain set on grabbing the prey and tearing it to shreds, tearing it apart with tooth and claw and tentacle and rasper and bare hands. Society slipped away to some abstract concept — for now there was only the battle, there was only the intense, primitive pleasure of destroying another sentient being.
High One help those who stood in the Krakens’ way.
[AND NOW, THE CHAMPIONS OF THE QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE, THE IONAAAAAAAATH KRAAAAAAAAAAAAKEEEEEEEEEEENS!]
Quentin waited for Pine to call out to the team, to rally them into one cohesive, violent machine ready to crush and to punish and, if need be, to kill.
But instead of his trademark leader’s voice, Pine said only one soft sentence.
“Quentin, it’s your team now, lead us out.”
Forty-three sets of eyes turned to look at Quentin, who wore a warm-up jacket over his uniform. Pine’s words filled Quentin with raw emotion. It was his team now, now and forever, Pine had passed the torch in full view of his teammates.
He wasn’t a rookie anymore. He was the battle-hardened leader of this team, the general who led his soldiers into war. He’d fought and bled with these beings, won and lost with these beings, felt ultimate joy and faced the ultimate sadness. Somewhere during the season, and he didn’t know where, Quentin Barnes had become a man.
The team waited for Quentin to speak. He quickly looked from player to player, taking the time to measure up each Krakens’ emotions. They were all ready to go.
Instead of talking, he slipped off his warm-up jacket to show his orange jersey. Underneath, instead of his number 10, the black numbers with orange trim read “47.”
Fayed’s jersey.
“Screw the Earthlings,” Quentin said.
A brief pause, then a barbaric roar so raw and loud it made the 250,000 being crowd sound weak by comparison. The Krakens shot out of the tunnel like the fiery breath of some legendary dragon. They raced onto the surface, which was made up of a thick, emerald-green plant marked with bright white stripes and numbers. It was finer and softer than Micovi’s Carsengi Grass.
Quentin’s mind raced, not with thoughts, but a lack of thoughts, a mental blankness created by a primitive violence that suffused his every last atom. He walked out onto the center of the field for the coin toss, Hawick on his left, John Tweedy on his right. A zebe waited at the 50-yard line, right in the middle of the multi-colored GFL logo painted on the lush green grass. On the other side of the zebe waited their enemy: Case “Hot Pepper” Johanson, the Earthlings quarterback, and Chok-Oh-Thilit, their All-Pro defensive tackle. The Earthlings wore bright-red jerseys with blue letters and silver trim, blue leg armor with silver piping, and silver helmets decorated with a blue-trimmed white star.
Johanson stared at Quentin. “What’s with the number change, boy?”
Quentin just stared back. Johanson had played three seasons of Tier One ball with the Earthlings, before their fall from grace last season down into Tier Two.
“Don’t you know it’s bad luck to wear a dead man’s number?” Johanson asked, his face twisted into a half-smile/half-sneer.
“Keep talking, douche bag,” Tweedy growled. “You’re wearing a dead man’s number, you just don’t know it yet.”
JOHANSON THROWS LIKE A GIRL scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.
Johanson’s sneer faded, briefly, but it faded nonetheless. The hotshot quarterback’s attentions turned from Quentin to John Tweedy, who just stared and grinned his I’m-not-quite-sane grin. Johanson didn’t say anything else.
“Krakens are the visiting team,” the zebe said, his voice amplified by the stadium loudspeakers so that it cracked like the sound of the High One himself. “Who will call the toss for the Krakens?”
“She will,” Quentin said, pointing at Hawick. She had been given that duty, and she shook with a intense fervor. Quentin didn’t understand how the coin toss factored into the Sklorno’s strange religion, but apparently it was an honor that surpassed even the cathartic thrill of catching a long touchdown pass.
“This is heads,” the zebe said, showing a metal coin with a picture of a Creterakian head. “This is tails.” He flipped the coin to show stylized planet — Creterak.
“Call it in the air,” the zebe said, and he tossed the coin.
“Heads!” Hawick screamed, more rapture than excitement. The coin bounced on the grass, flipped three times, then landed flat.
Heads.
Hawick collapsed and lay on the ground, quivering.
“Krakens win the toss,” said the zebe, echoed by the loudspeakers. “Do you wish to receive or defer?”
“We want the ball,” Quentin said.
“A stay of execution,” Tweedy said, staring straight at Johanson, who no longer looked as cocky.
Quentin and Tweedy picked up Hawick and carried her to the sidelines. Quentin let out a slow, controlled breath. He wouldn’t have long to wait — one quick kickoff, and he’d be on the field, squaring off against Chok-Oh-Thilit and the other Earthlings
defenders.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” the crowd started the low, tribal, pre-kickoff chant. Adrenaline poured through Quentin’s veins, so thick it might have spilled out of his pores and dripped onto the green grass at his feet. He tried to breath slow, but found it difficult — his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. He blinked rapidly, gritting his teeth, waiting for the coming battle.
“OHHHHHHHHH…”
A hand on his shoulder. Donald Pine.
“Relax, kid,” Pine said, his smile easy and genuine. “We’re going to do this together. Once you get that first hit, you’ll be fine.”
Quentin nodded, then turned back to the field.
“AHHHHHHH-AH!”
The ball sailed through the air. Richfield jogged back past the goal line, her eyes fixed on the tiny brown dot in the sky.
“Just take a knee,” Pine said, more to himself than anyone else.
The ball descended as the Krakens’ special teamers formed up into the wall.
Thunk, the ball dropped down in Richfield’s arms at the very back edge of the end zone. She looked up, hesitated for half a second, then ripped forward at a dead sprint.
“No!” Pine said.
Quentin just watched.
Earthlings “wall-breakers” smashed into the Krakens’ wedge at the 10-yard-line. Bodies flew in all directions. Richfield ran up into the wall and disappeared amongst the carnage.
“Well there goes field posi — ”
Pine’s sentence died on his lips as Richfield popped out the other side, untouched and moving at top speed. In the blink of an eye she passed the 30, then the 40 and moved across midfield.
“Well slap my face and call me Sally,” Pine said.
Sklorno Earthlings took deep angles of pursuit. Serj Tanakian, the Earthlings’ kicker, ran upfield, trying to cut down Richfield’s running angles. She ran right at him, cut once to the left, then to the right, then to the left again. Tanakian matched the first move, stumbled on the second, and fell face-first on the third.
