The Rookie

by Scott Sigler

  “You’re looking good, backwater.”

  Quentin turned to look at Donald Pine, who was dressed in civy clothes. The crutches were gone, replaced by just a cane. The cane made him look like the old man that he was. How long had be been throwing games? Quentin could barely look at the Pine without feeling sick and angry. One of the best QBs of all time, and he threw games like some punk.

  “Bend your left knee more when you drop back,” Pine said. “You’re handling the slickness okay now, but in the second half, the field will be really beat up and way more slippery. You need that extra springiness a bent knee will give you to keep your balance.

  Quentin nodded, but didn’t say anything. Once again, he couldn’t trust what Pine had to say. Had Mopuk & Co. told Pine to make sure Quentin tanked? Was Pine going to play subversive mind games to ensure a loss?

  A long whistle blew as Hokor’s cart descended to the 50-yard line. The team gathered from all over the field — practice was over, and Hokor had to cover any last important notes before the players headed to the locker rooms. Tomorrow this same field would be filled with 110,000 screaming fans, as well as 44 players wearing the multi-shaded purple of the Sky Demolition.

  Quentin turned away from Pine and jogged to the mid-field gathering. Tomorrow was game day. Do-or-die day. One more loss, and the season was shot.

  Not under my watch.

  The team probably wouldn’t make the Tier Two tournament. But if that happened, it would be because Don Pine threw a game, not Quentin Barnes.

  Forget Pine.

  Forget Mopuk.

  Hell, for that matter, forget the To Pirates.

  Quentin wasn’t taking a dive for anyone. He would not let his teammates down.

  Live feed from UBS GameDay holocast coverage

  “Hello football fans, welcome back to this UBS holocast of GFL football. This is Masara the Observant, here with Chick McGee, the galaxy’s favorite color commentator. Well Chick, despite the score, we’ve seen some good football in the first half. The Demolition is up 14-3, but the Krakens’ defense has played well.”

  “You’ve got that right, Masara. Let’s take a look at the Bombay Gin Halftime StatBoard. Nothing eases a Worker’s day like the tasty taste of Gin from Bombay. Hmmm, that’s tasty.”

  “Chick, you shouldn’t be drinking that in the booth.”

  “Hey, now can I endorse it without sampling the product? Brady Entenabe is showing why he’s one of the top-rated passers in the Quyth Irradiated. He’s 12-of-17 for 203 and a pair of touchdowns, both to San Mateo. The Krakens’ secondary has done a good job of containing the Demolition pass attack, but gave up two big plays, a 68-yard TD strike from Entenabe to San Mateo, and another 27-yard TD that came on a crucial third-and-12 right at the end of the half. If they’d held them there, the Krakens would only be back by a touchdown.”

  “Chick, what does the Krakens offense have to do to put some points on the board?”

  “Well, Masara, they’ve got to do three things. First, rookie QB Quentin Barnes has to work on his footing. He’s not used to playing on this kind of surface — he’s already fallen twice on his drop-backs, slipping when he plants to step up and throw. Second, the Krakens have to start blocking. The Demo has sacked Barnes three times so far, knocked him down three more, and hurried him another four. Barnes has thrown two interceptions, both caused by heavy pass-rush pressure. If it wasn’t for his running ability, the Krakens would be worse off than they already are. Barnes has twenty-six yards on the ground on five rushing attempts, all of them scrambles. I tell ya, that Human has been chewed up like a Sklorno larvae during a famine.”

  “Um, Chick, I hardly think our Sklorno viewers would appreciate that ...”

  “Yes you’re right there, Masara. Sorry, folks — sometimes this old game of football gets me so fired up I slip back into cute colloquialisms. No offense intended.”

  “So let’s move on. We’ve got better footing, then blocking, what’s the third thing?”

  “Masara, the third thing is play calling. Hokor the Hookchest is being very predictable. The Krakens are running first, throwing second, and the Demolition knows it. The only time the Krakens throw is when they have to throw, and then the Demolition brings Yalla the Biter on a blitz almost every time.”

  “So why isn’t Barnes changing the plays at the line?”

  “You’ve got me, Masara. The kid seems like he knows the offense very well, but either he’s afraid to change the play, or Hokor isn’t letting him audible.”

  “Next up we’ll take a look at the first half highlights, brought to you by Ju-Ku-Killok Shipping. Remember, if you’ve got to ship it across the galaxy, don’t you want to ship it with a Ki? Any way you look at it, Chick, it seems something’s got to change if the Krakens are going to get back into this game.”

  “You got that right, Masara. Otherwise the Krakens have about as much chance as a naked nun at a Purist Nation rapist convention.”

  “Chick! Now come on—”

  “Sorry Masara, sorry beings at home ...”

  • • •

  QUENTIN HISSED ONCE as Doc wrapped the cool blue patch around the right side of his neck. He’d been tackled by the neck on the last sack, a Ki arm tearing away a good six square inches of skin. He thought he’d been in the clear, but still hadn’t accounted for how far the Ki could jump out of a gather. The right side of Quentin’s jersey was deeply stained with his own blood, and he couldn’t swallow without an explosion of throbbing pain. The patch’s sting set in immediately — it only added to his anger. Pine sat on his left, cane in hand, and Yitzhak sat on his right.

  “We’ve got to execute better on first down,” Hokor told the assembled players. “We’re not getting off to a good start.”

  That’s because all you want to do is hand the ball off to Fayed, Quentin thought.

  “And we’ve got to start blocking on the offensive line,” Hokor said. “I don’t care what cultural crap you Ki are dealing with, but block.”

  Block, that’s right, Hokor, now you’re really leading aren’t you, you pint-sized idiot.

  “Defensively, we’ve got to get our coverages in sync.”

  Block, crap crap crap crap this hurts.

  “Entenabe is taking advantage of every blown rotation.”

  Tired of getting sacked, you scumbags ...

  “So let’s get back to our game plan. We don’t -”

  “Game plan?” Quentin stood so suddenly his chair shot out from behind him. “The game plan is not for me to spend four quarters getting pummeled like a half-frozen round bug!”

  “Barnes!” Hokor said. “Sit down and -”

  “I’m sick of it!” Quentin strode towards the Ki linemen. They sat on one side of the locker room, a huge mass of dangerous strength dressed in orange jerseys and multi-legged, orange leg armor stained white from the oily field.

  “You call that blocking? You garbage-eating cowardly scumbags! Scumbags!”

  “Barnes!”

  “Shut up, half-pint!” Quentin flashed a wide-eyed stare at Hokor before turning back to the Ki linemen.

  Pine leaned over to Yitzhak. “He’s lost it.”

  Yitzhak leaned back. “Yeah. Should we help him?”

  Pine shrugged. “Naw, this is kind of fun. They’ll either block for him, or eat him, I’m not sure which.”

  “You worthless losers! You’re not fit to clean the toilets in this place, you weak-willed pansys! After this game we’re gonna settle up, salamanders. Settle up with the lot of you!”

  The Ki didn’t move a muscle.

  Quentin turned and stormed out of the locker room, stopping along the way to kick over a water bucket and smash a chair into the wall. There was a brief silence, broken by an angry bark from Sho-Do-Thikit.

  “Don’t talk threats,” Pine said. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried to every ear. When he talked, the entire team turned to look at him. “Yes he insulted you. And you deserved it. All five of you. And you all know it.�
�

  • • •

  THE THIRD QUARTER was pure torture. Quentin saw play after play where he could have audibled to a pass that would have burned the defense, but he stuck to the plays that Hokor called. Entenabe, however, didn’t seem to have such restrictions. He struck for a 24-yard TD pass at the end of the third, putting the Demolition up 21-3 going into the fourth.

  The blocking, however, seemed somewhat improved. Quentin had time to set up and survey the field. He went 6-of-10 for 34 yards in the third quarter, but couldn’t string together enough passes to constitute a drive. With the extra time to set up, however, he started marking defensive nuances. Slowly but steadily, his mind began to place the Demolition defenders like a chess master marking out his opponent’s likely moves.

  With 10:02 to play in the fourth, the Krakens’ “D” forced a punt, which Richfield returned to the Demolition 45. Quentin couldn’t stand it any longer. They had to score and they had to score now. He ran to Hokor.

  “Coach,” Quentin said as he kneeled down. “Coach, how about letting me audible out there?”

  “Just run the plays I call, Barnes.”

  “But Coach, we’re losing!”

  “I know that, Barnes. Now shut up, I’m going to turn you loose this time. Just do what I say, and run the plays that I call, got it?”

  Quentin felt frustration welling up inside of him, but he nodded.

  “We’ve run on seven of the last eight first downs,” Hokor said. “Go deep this time. Z-set, play-action, 42-fly.”

  Quentin felt his pulse quicken. He ran onto the field. Z-set put two tight ends in the game, along with Fayed and Pareless, the fullback. The only receiver would be Hawick on the left flank. Bud-O-Shwek snapped it and Quentin turned to the left, stabbing the ball towards the onrushing Fayed. He pulled it away at the last second, putting the ball on his left hip and letting his right hand brush Fayed’s belly. Fayed put both arms together, just as he would if he’d been handed the ball, and smashed into the line. The Krakens hadn’t used play action all day — and the fake drew in the run-oriented defense. Quentin tucked down to hide the ball even as he dropped back. After five steps, he turned and stood ...

  ... and saw Yalla the Biter, already through the line and coming right for him.

  BLINK

  Quentin juked left, which Yalla instantly matched. Quentin started to juke right, his patented double-move that always got him out of trouble in the PNFL, but in a millisecond’s time he knew Yalla could effortlessly mirror that move with the amazing lateral movement and reaction time of a Quyth Warrior.

  Quentin’s instincts took over. He suddenly saw Yalla’s direction as if there were an arrow pointing forward, like a video game, and sensed the linebacker’s force and momentum like a growing pressure in his thoughts. Timing, it’s all in the timing ...

  Yalla leaned far forward to deliver the hit, suddenly coming off all-fours, pedipalps and arms reaching out. At just that instant Quentin spun violently to the right. The quarterback pushed off with his right hand as he spun, the ball in his left hand, his body between Yalla and the ball. He spun so fast he almost fell over from the momentum, but the move worked. Juke moves took too much time against Quyth Warriors, but a spin move, just as Yalla came off all-fours to deliver the hit, that didn’t give the linebacker enough time to react: one millisecond Quentin was there, the next he was two feet right of where he had been.

  Yalla’s momentum carried him past the spinning quarterback, but his powerful pedipalps grabbed a double-handful of jersey on the way past. Quentin felt himself sliding backwards on the slick white surface. He instinctively tucked the ball and started pumping his legs with short, quick, jabbing steps. The Quyth linebacker fell to the ground ... Quentin planted his legs and pushed against the weight dragging him down ... a ripping sound, and suddenly Quentin lurched forward, free to move once again.

  He instantly stood tall and looked downfield — Hawick streaked down the sidelines, a full two steps ahead of her defender.

  Quentin fired the ball downfield high and long — as usual, he had no problem hitting an open receiver. Hawick sailed fifteen feet into the air, caught the ball and landed in full stride. The left cornerback was behind her and didn’t stand a chance ... the safety came over to help, but she’d also lost a step with the play-action fake. Hawick strode into the end zone untouched.

  BLINK

  The crowd booed, but without much intensity. Quentin flipped them off en masse as he ran off the field, his torn jersey flapping around him. Morningstar knocked in the extra point, cutting the lead to 21-10.

  Quentin sat on the bench, his heart racing, a feeling of pure ecstasy coursing through his brain. Teammates came up to shake his hand, slap his shoulder pads, or just grunt some unintelligible alien words of encouragement.

  Pine slid onto the bench next to him. “You’ve got to watch Yalla’s feet,” he said. “He’s showing blitz when he’s on his toes. When he’s flat-footed, he’s in run coverage.”

  Quentin nodded. He didn’t know if he could trust Pine, but that bit of advice sounded reliable.

  Pine smiled and thumped Quentin on the shoulder pad. “Nice pass, kid, you just need a couple more.”

  Pine hobbled away. Messal approached with a box held in his arms. He set it down and removed a gleaming metal device that looked like a combination of a small pistol and a pair of pliers.

  “What the hell is that?” Quentin asked.

  “For your uniform,” Messal said. His strong pedipalps lined up the torn edges of Quentin’s jersey. Messal pinched the bottom edges together and slid them into the opening of the gun-pliers. The machine made a small whirring noise, and Messal expertly slid it up the length of the ripped Kevlar fabric, knitting the shreds into a ugly but neat line.

  “Hey, not bad,” Quentin said as he pulled at the new seam. It held tight.

  Messal simply bowed and scuttled off to attend to some other managerial duty.

  • • •

  THEY WERE STILL DOWN two scores, but the Krakens seemed suddenly energized. Entenabe had faced little pressure on the day. Hokor suddenly changed strategy, sending a blitz after the Demolition quarterback on nearly every play. Entenabe managed one completion before Mai-An-Ihkole sacked him on a second down, and Virak the Mean got him on third for a 10-yard loss. The Demolition’s drive chewed up only three minutes. Richfield signaled fair catch on the punt — Krakens’ ball on their own 41, 6:52 to play in the game.

  Quentin ran out onto the field, Hokor’s one-eyed face in the heads-up display.

  “Now they’re watching out for you,” Hokor said. “This time go X-set, 42-base draw play ... we’ll see if Fayed can finally make something happen.”

  Quentin called the play and walked to the line. The defensive backs had moved to five-yard cushions instead of their one-yard bump-and-run. The linebackers had moved back as well. At the snap, Quentin held the ball to his ear, showing pass as he dropped back five steps. The defensive backs and the linebackers immediately backpedaled into pass coverage. At the end of his drop, Quentin suddenly handed the ball off to Fayed, who dashed into the line. He cut left into a big hole created by Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit. Warburg moved to block Yalla the Biter. Yalla tucked his head and drove his right arm into Warburg, crushing the big tight end to the ground. Warburg barely slowed Yalla at all, but it was enough for Fayed to slip by, and suddenly the running back was in the defensive backfield. The d-backs converged on him and brought him down, but not before he’d picked up 23 yards and moved the ball to the Demolition 36.

  6:28 and counting ...

  Paul Pierson came in for Fayed at tailback. The Krakens huddled up, electricity and momentum filling the small space.

  The Krakens players looked tired, but their eyes blazed sharply and their intensity felt ubiquitous.

  His earpiece crackled. “We need to score and score quick,” Hokor said. “Y-set, 42-post, look for Pierson on the delayed route over the middle, we may catch Yalla sleeping.”

/>   Quentin called the play and surveyed the defense as the Krakens lined up. The Demolition showed a normal 3-4, which left them with four defensive backs. Quentin’s instincts told him to watch for the blitz, but Yalla’s feet looked flat.

  At the snap Quentin dropped back. Hawick and Scarborough streaked downfield then cut inside on an angle, drawing the free safety and safety with them. Pierson ran to the line acting like he would block, then released and sprinted down the field. Yalla tried to cover him, but Pierson’s superior speed carried him past. Quentin feathered a light toss that sailed just beyond Yalla and hit Pierson in stride. Yalla dove, covering ten yards in the leap, and brought Pierson down from behind after a 22-yard gain.

  First-and-10, ball on the Demolition 14, 6:02 to play.

  Whistles blew as Harrah officials flew to Pierson, who rolled on the ground in obvious pain. The officials waved their tentacles madly to the Krakens’ sidelines. Before Doc arrived with his cart, Quentin saw Pierson roll to his back, his bloody hands clutching at his foot — which dangled sickly from only a scrap of skin and a few strands of bloody muscle. Yalla’s tackle had ripped the man’s leg in half. Blood shot out of his ravaged leg, splashing on the white field, on Doc, and staining the zebes’ black-and-white uniforms.

  Fayed came back in as Doc’s medsled rushed Pierson off the field.

  “High One,” said a wide-eyed Quentin. “Did you see that? His whole leg almost came off!”

  “Give me the ball,” Fayed said. Intensity narrowed his eyes to angry slits. “I’ll show that cheap-shotting motherless fool.”

  Fortunately, Hokor called a dive right — exactly what Fayed wanted. The team lined up. Quentin took the snap and pivoted. Fayed nearly ripped the ball out of his hands and drove forward like a tank. Yalla the Biter came at him, and the two hit head-on like a pair of rams. Yalla fell backwards and Fayed stumbled over him, falling for a five-yard gain. Fayed stood and tossed the ball to the ground in front of Yalla, who was slow getting up.