The Rookie gfl-1

by Scott Sigler

  “Hey, he started talking crap, I just — ”

  “Just nothing,” Pine snapped. “Shut your mouth and get back to the huddle, got it?”

  “Hey! I’m not going to take this, he — ”

  “Quentin! Shut up! Jesus, you Purist Nation guys don’t ever stop running at the mouth. Next play you get your butt back to the huddle and don’t say a word, you got it?”

  Quentin started to protest one more time, then closed his mouth. He was furious that Pine was talking to him this way, but it was Pine’s huddle. Pine looked at the sidelines, then shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Let’s keep it on the ground.”

  An unheard voice said something to Pine. He nodded towards the sidelines and turned back to the huddle.

  “Okay, we’ve pounded it up the middle enough for now, let’s mix it up. Y-set, screen pass right. Quentin, maybe this time you could actually run with the ball instead of pussyfooting it to the line so they can smack you around like a little girl?”

  Quentin’s eyes widened with rage. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’d have this game wrapped up if we had Fayed, or even Yassoud, but all we’ve got is you, you lazy backwater rookie.”

  Without thinking, he pushed his way forward to slide between Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, who were in front of him, bent down so the players behind them could see Pine. Quentin raised his right fist to swing at Pine, but two sets of hands and one set of tentacles grabbed him from all sides and held him back.

  “Hey,” Pine said, holding his hands out, palms up, that arrogant grin on his bloody face. “You want a piece of me you little spoiled racist brat?”

  The word seemed to slip into Quentin’s brain like a branding iron. He jerked against the hands holding him back as the huddle shifted and broke apart.

  “You wanna mess with me, Pine?” Quentin screamed. He tried to break loose. From behind, a strong arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed, lightly, just enough for Quentin to feel pressure on his windpipe — just enough to know he’d pass out if the arm tightened further.

  “Stop this right now,” Tom Pareless said quietly. “I let you go, you run the play, deal?”

  Quentin nodded, or at least moved his head — he couldn’t nod with Pareless’ thick arm wedged around his neck and under his chin.

  “WHAT’S GOING ON there, Chick? The Krakens are fighting in the huddle.”

  “Well, Masara, it looks like tempers might be flaring. Can we get a close-up of Barnes’ face? Now run it in slow-mo.”

  “You want to see if you can tell what this argument is about, Chick?”

  “You got it, Masara. Look at that guy, he’s as wide-eyed-mad as a Brahma bull getting a three-pound suppository. Hold on, let me see what he’s saying… well, it seems that Quentin Barnes had a few choice words. He said — ”

  “I think the viewers have a good idea what he said, Chick.”

  “Yeah, but he called Donald Pine a — ”

  “And we’re back to the action on the field! The Krakens are lining up in an I-formation with Hawick wide left, Scarborough wide right and Kobayasho at right tight end.”

  • • •

  QUENTIN LINED UP in the I-formation, right behind Tom Pareless. He was so mad he could barely see, barely hear the snap count. So now he knew what kind of a man Pine really was — screw all the favors Quentin had given him, screw the fact that Quentin had saved the man’s reputation and career: when the going got tough, Donald Pine passed the buck.

  “Green, twenty-eight!” Pine shouted.

  Quentin couldn’t even stand the sound of that blue-boy’s voice. How could he have been so stupid to give up the quarterback spot for the biggest game of the year? He asked Hokor for this!

  “Greeeeeeen, twenty-eight!”

  Well he and Pine would settle up once the game was over. That old man was going to get his, that was for certain.

  “Hut-hut!”

  Quentin drove forward and to the right as Pareless stood, hands out, to pass-block. On the screen pass, Quentin’s job was to block down on the defensive tackle, then bounce outside and wait for the pass. Cay-Oh-Kiware and Vu-Ko-Will, the right guard and tackle, respectively, would make half-hearted blocks, enough so that the defense could go right by, then bounce to the right and block for Quentin. The defensive line would chase after Pine, who would back up, drawing them in — when Pine threw the little dump-pass to Quentin, those same defenders would be too far away from the play to do anything about it.

  Quentin ran up as Chok-Oh-Thilit spun around Vu-Ko-Will’s pseudo-block.

  I’ll show you, Pine.

  Quentin launched himself forward just as Chok-Oh-Thilit finished his spin. Quentin’s elbow smashed into the Ki lineman’s helmet, snapping his head back. Chok-Oh-Thilit stumbled, then fell to the ground.

  BLINK

  The world decelerated: Quentin bounced to the right and looked back. Three defensive linemen closed in on Pine, who backpedaled and looked confused. The linemen gathered and shot forward towards the scrambling quarterback — who at the last possible second deftly tossed a floating pass. Quentin watched the ball in total fascination. It moved so slow he could read the small letters burned into the ball (Riddell GFL-licensed), and count the pebbles in the leather grain. The ball slowly spun towards him, until his hands seemed to reach out and pull it in like an old friend.

  He turned upfield. Vu-Ko-Will and Cay-Oh-Kiware were already in front of him, two biological bulldozers moving forward on multi-jointed legs. Kipir the Assassin tried to cut past Vu-Ko, but the Ki lineman managed to get a partial block. Kipir spun and stumbled by, off-balance but reaching for Quentin. Quentin switched the ball to his right arm, reared back with his left, and delivered a crushing forearm to the linebacker. Kipir’s feet came out from under him, and he went down hard.

  Quentin stayed behind Cay-Oh, who ran as fast as his little Ki legs would carry him. Jurong tried to reach Quentin, but she was fighting off a running block from Scarborough. Montrouge, the cornerback, came free, but had a bad angle — she tried to make a cut around Cay-Oh-Kiware, but the Ki lineman gathered at the last second and launched forward. Even in Quentin’s Zen-state, he heard the crowd’s “OHHH” when Cay-Oh-Kiware smashed Montrouge into a limp Sklorno puddle.

  Quentin cut outside, zipping past Jurong who couldn’t separate from Scarborough’s block. Suddenly, there was no one left. Quentin sprinted forward, big legs chewing up the yardage. The goal line loomed before him like the gate to heaven. He looked to his left — Volgograd closing in. Quentin watched in seeming slow-mo as she gathered for a touchdown-saving leap. Quentin’s brain effortlessly timed the Sklorno’s dive — when she went horizontal, diving at his feet, he launched himself lengthwise. Volgograd passed by where his feet had just been, her tentacles flailing as she tried to grab a foot, a leg, a shoelace, anything, but came up with only air.

  Quentin’s face mask hit the ground first — he slid forward, realizing, suddenly, that the grass he looked down upon wasn’t green.

  It was red, the color painted in the end zones.

  BLINK

  The world rushed back in a hammer-blow of noise and color and intensity.

  [TOUCHDOWN, KRAKENS! A 45-YARD PASS FROM PINE TO QUENTIN BARNES!]

  Quentin looked for flags, but saw none. The Harrah zebe signaled a touchdown. He glanced up at the scoreboard.

  Krakens 20, Earthlings 17.

  1:31 left to play.

  His teammates swarmed around him as he ran off the field. The Krakens faithful in the stands were a blur of jumping, screaming excitement — two sections of anarchy set amidst a stadium of disappointment.

  Now it was all up to the defense.

  • • •

  QUENTIN STOOD on the sidelines, as far away from Don Pine as he could get. Case Johanson limped onto the field, and Quentin felt a bond of brotherhood. Even from thirty yards away, Quentin could see the look in Johanson’s eyes — he was ready to sacrifice anything to get the win.


  Arioch Morningstar had knocked in the extra point, giving the Krakens a 21–17 lead. His following kickoff had sailed into the end zone. The Earthlings started their last drive at their own 20.

  Pookie Chang lined up as a single back. The Earthlings lined up in a “big” set — single back, two tight ends, two wide receivers. John Tweedy moved up onto the line, immediately showing blitz. His right leg twitched with anticipation, each hand tightened into a flesh-and-bone mace.

  Johanson dropped back five steps, limping slightly, then stood tall. Tweedy slipped between the linemen, but Chang picked him up and knocked him down with a perfect block. Johanson looked right, then turned left and delivered a tight crossing pass to Norfolk, who caught the ball and ran out of bounds just before Virak the Mean could tear off her head.

  Twelve-yard gain. First and 10 at the Earthlings’ 32, 1:17 to play.

  Mai-An-Ihkole and Choto the Bright ran off the field, Mum-O-Killowe and Tiburon ran on as Hokor switched to a nickel package.

  The Earthlings again lined up in a big set. Johanson hobbled back in a five-step drop. Quentin looked downfield, his mind on offense, instinctively looking for the open routes. Mum-O-Killowe drove forward with his characteristic un-Ki-like agility, spinning and thrashing, trying to blast past the double-team that held him in check. Johanson felt the pressure, cocked his arm and delivered another short pass, this time to Bates McGee, the tight end. Complete for six yards, Virak the Mean on the tackle.

  Second and 4.

  Johanson signaled a timeout.

  Clock at 1:09.

  The Earthlings huddled up during the timeout, then hit the line in a three wide receiver shotgun. The defense settled in like an invading army awaiting the signal to attack. Mum-O-Killowe roared and came forward like a nightmare, two linemen punishing him all the way, yet he still drove towards Johanson.

  Quentin looked downfield — Norfolk ran a post, and was pulling away from Berea.

  “Oh crap,” Quentin whispered.

  Johanson side-stepped Mum-O-Killowe’s madman rush, looked downfield and saw the same thing Quentin had seen. The undauntable quarterback stepped up, cocked his arm –

  — and then there was Michnik. The massive heavy-G defensive end came from the blindside. He connected just before the Johanson’s arm started to come forward. Michnik hit him in the small of the back, 525 pounds moving at full speed — Johanson looked like a rag doll bent in half at the spine. The ball flopped away on a wobbly backwards arc. Johanson’s body just started to move back to normal alignment when Michnik drove him into the ground. They hit so hard, Quentin wondered if there would be an impact crater.

  The ball descended, hit the ground and wobbled in a spinning dance to the right. It took almost a full second for the offensive and defensive linemen to see the ball on the ground. An offensive tackle lunged for it, but his jointed legs seemed to mis-judge the ball’s speed — he managed only to hit it, sending it farther into the backfield. The ball bounced back past the 25 yard line like a wildly spinning brown windmill. Time ceased to exist — 250,000 sets of eyes watched its unpredictable motion, 250,000 beings held their breath.

  Three players dove for the ball simultaneously, and it squirted up into the air.

  Where Mum-O-Killowe snatched it.

  The rookie defensive tackle scuttled for the corner as the crowd’s roar erupted into a combination of excitement and anticipated doom. Pookie Chang ran after Mum-O-Killowe. The big Ki lineman scuttled across the 15 and headed for the end zone. Pookie’s speed closed the distance in less than five yards, and he latched onto Mum-O-Killowe’s torso. The Ki lineman sagged to the right under the extra 310 pounds, but he kept plodding forward. Pookie ripped at the ball, ripped at Mum-O-Killowe’s eyes, his mouth, at anything, desperate to save the touchdown that meant the end of the Earthlings’ chances.

  The moving war passed the 10-yard line.

  Mum-O-Killowe reached out his two right arms and lifted Pookie Chang right off the ground.

  Stunned at such a display of power, Quentin watched Mum-O-Killowe cross the goal line, the ball tucked under his left arms, Pookie Chang tucked under his right.

  The Krakens’ sidelines erupted into a shouting, screaming, clicking, clacking, jumping melee of exploding joy.

  Krakens 27, Earthlings 17.

  Fifty-two seconds to play.

  Quentin found himself jumping up and down and hugging teammates just like everyone else. The joy seemed to gush out of him like a volcano, limitless and unstoppable. Tier One! Tier One!

  The extra-point team ran onto the field. One more kick, and the Krakens were up by two scores with less than a minute to play.

  The extra-point team stopped as whistles blew. Johanson hadn’t got up. The Earthlings’ docs flew onto the field, their medsled floating behind them. They took a quick look at Johanson, then put the medseld over him. The tiny cables shot out, simultaneously immobilizing and lifting Johanson’s prone body. The medsled and the docs headed for the tunnel. Normally, all the players would have silently watched the procession, but not this time — this time they could barely stop themselves from screaming at the docs to get Johanson’s weak butt off the field.

  The extra point team lined up.

  Quentin found himself standing next to Donald Pine.

  “Nice touchdown run, Q,” Pine said, grinning. “Ever notice how you play better when you’re mad?”

  Quentin stared at Pine for a second, then it sank in. His face turned red with embarrassment. Even in the biggest game of the year, Pine, the master manipulator, had goaded him into a rage. It hadn’t been personal, it had been calculated. Quentin realized that when the rage hit, he’d forgotten all about his battered body and just played.

  Quentin smiled as Pine tousled his hair. Together, they turned to watch the extra point.

  Morningstar knocked it through.

  Krakens 28, Earthlings 17.

  • • •

  “WELL, CHICK, I think you can say this one is pretty much over. The Earthlings’ backup quarterback, Dan Erlewine, just isn’t the same caliber as Case Johanson.”

  “I think the Earthlings are about as done as a three-day-old dog turd, Masara.”

  “Chick… we’ve only got a few minutes left, can’t you just try to knock it off?”

  “Masara, you’re as uptight as an anal-retentive accountant.”

  “You know what? I give up.”

  “Hey, Masara, you can’t leave the booth, the game is still on!… well, um, folks, Chick McGee here, now on play-by-play. Dan Erlewine is in the shotgun, and he looks nervous. He’s got to come up with two touchdowns in less than forty seconds. He drops back, looking, looking, he’s going deep to Norfolk! The pass looks short, and Berea’s got it! Interception! That’s the ballgame, folks, the Earthlings are headed to the showers, and the Ionath Krakens are headed to Tier One!”

  • • •

  AN HOUR AFTER the game, every player remained crammed into the communal center room. Mitchell Fayed’s jersey had been taped up to the holoboard. Grass stains darkened the orange jersey, as did Quentin’s red blood and several streaks of Ki black. It hung there, a memorial to their fallen comrade, as if Fayed watched over them, participating in their celebration.

  Pine walked up to Quentin. They hugged like long-lost brothers. Quentin didn’t feel any pain this time — with the game over, Doc had injected several brands of rather efficient pain killers.

  “You did it, old man!”

  “No, you did it, Q!” Pine said, his blazing genuine smile as different from his arrogant grin as night was from day. “You’re a quarterback, and you rushed for 64 yards and caught for another 82. You’re the hero of the game.”

  “An MVP performance, eh?”

  Pine laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, the MVP goes to Mum-O-Killowe — three sacks and the fumble-recovery for a TD.”

  Quentin shrugged and laughed. He’d get his playoff MVP someday. Mum-O-Killowe had savaged the Earthlings offensive line a
nd sealed the game with the fumble return for a TD. He deserved it as much as anyone else.

  “Well he earned it,” Quentin said.

  “Brother, we all earned it.”

  “Looks like we’re in another QB controversy, Tier One season is only a month away!” Quentin said it jokingly, but Pine’s smile faded.

  “Hey,” Quentin said. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Pine shook his head. “No. And there isn’t a QB controversy, anymore. You’re the guy.”

  Quentin stared at the veteran. “Don, you just put the team back into Tier One. I’m not going to go down without a fight, but you finally did it.”

  Pine shook his head again. “No. I had my chances, and I pissed them away. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. This team won because of you, Quentin, because of your leadership. I used to have that ability, but not anymore, not like you have it. Look around you — any one of these beings would follow you straight into hell. And believe me, Q, that’s what Tier One is — hell on a football field. They’ll follow you. I’ll follow you.”

  The words stunned Quentin. Donald Pine, two-time Galaxy Bowl champ, one-time League MVP, was going to be his backup. Permanently. Quentin Barnes, dirt-faced orphan from a backwater planet in a backwater system, would lead the Ionath Krakens into Tier One.

  “Don’t stand there with your jaw open,” Pine said. “I swear, you Purist Nation guys never shut your mouth. Now go congratulate your teammates.”

  Quentin moved from player to player, thanking them, congratulating them, celebrating with them. It struck him as he danced with Sklorno, hugged Humans, clacked his armor off the chest of Ki and butted heads with Quyth Warriors (the most annoying of all the various races’ celebratory habits), he no longer thought of them as aliens. They were Krakens, pure and simple. They were his teammates, his fellow warriors. He’d been through hell and back with them, fought together on the field and off, killed and been killed, all in the name of winning.

  Winning together.