by Scott Sigler
He’d notched his first GFL win as a starter, but he’d paid a price. The concussion had him puking his guts out the rest of the night, and well into the next day, even though there was nothing left to puke. And with each stomach-clenching burst, his breath locked up and his muscles tightened — when he finally breathed and the muscles relaxed, the sudden rush of blood to his brain elevated his omnipresent headache to new levels.
While his teammates celebrated the win, Quentin spent the rest of that night in bed, which was where he spent the next day, and most of the day after that. He tried to get up and run through VR practice, but Hokor himself came to his room and told him to stay put, on Doc’s orders.
Now, two days later, he didn’t feel one ounce better. But pain or no pain, he wasn’t going to miss one single rep of actual practice. He wasn’t going to let his teammates down, not when this week’s game put them up against the 3-1 Sheb Stalkers.
Quentin walked through the door to Hokor’s office.
“You wanted to see -” he ended his sentence when he saw Pine in the room, fully dressed for practice.
“Come in, Barnes,” Hokor said. “Shut the door.”
Quentin did as he was told, a double-sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Double-sick: once because he couldn’t stand to look at Pine the Tanker, and once because he instantly knew the reason for this closed-door meeting.
“Barnes, you did an amazing job last week,” Hokor said. “You put us back on the board. If we can beat the Sheb Stalkers this week, we’re 3-2 and back in the running.”
Quentin nodded slightly.
“You’ve generated a lot of respect,” Hokor continued. “The team is now confident in your abilities. There’s a new feeling in the locker room, that we have a guy who can come off the bench and play big-time ball.
“Come off the bench,” Quentin said quietly.
“The bench,” Hokor echoed. “Pine is our starter, and he’s healthy.”
Quentin breathed deeply through his nose. That tanker was starting again.
“I just wanted to let you know in person,” Hokor said. “I know your goal is to start, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. You’re the future of this franchise, but right now it’s Pine’s team. You understand?”
Just run the plays that are called. The throbbing in his head suddenly kicked up a few notches.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I understand. Can I go now?”
Hokor nodded. Quentin turned. He meant to just tap the door-open button, but his fist hit it so hard the red plastic plate cracked. The door hissed open, and Quentin walked out into the meeting room.
Forget this team. They can all go straight to hell.
Quentin stormed out of the locker room and through the tunnel. He had just about reached the field when a hand grabbed his shoulder and gently stopped him. Quentin turned violently, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and looked into the surprised eyes of Donald Pine.
“Hey, kid, take it easy,” Pine said with a smile. “Try to relax a little.”
“Screw you,” Quentin said, pushing Pine’s chest to emphasize the last word.
Pine stumbled back a step. His tone changed and his smile faded away. “Why don’t you just simmer down. I know you’re pissed, I would be too, but you’ve got to play your role on this team.”
“And what’s my role? Just what, exactly, is my role? Sit on the bench?”
“If you have to, yes!” Pine’s expression had faded from smile to blankness, now it twisted into a mask of frustrated anger. “Sit on the damn bench, Quentin, and pay your dues. I know you think you’re hot stuff, but I’ve about had it with your attitude that you’re better than me. I’ve tried to help you, you stubborn moron, but you better pull your head out.”
“Oh is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right!” Pine’s voice dropped to a whispered shout. “You’re going to be great, but right now you’re not as good as me! Just relax and learn the system ‘til your time comes.”
“And when will that come? The next time you throw a game for Mopuk?”
Pine blinked rapidly and his breath stopped short, as if a knife had slid noiselessly into his heart. He took a small step back, then looked to his right and left, seeing if anyone had heard. The two quarterbacks were alone on the field.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pine said.
“Your party friends paid me a visit the day before the Demolition game,” Quentin said. “Mopuk said you were his property, Pine. That you throw games whenever he wants.”
Pine looked down, and in that instant Quentin knew it was true. He felt a part of his childhood die, right there on the spot — a man he’d idolized was a tanker.
“Why?” Quentin asked. “Why the hell do you do it?”
“Because he’ll kill me if I don’t,” Pine said quietly. “I ... I gamble, a bit. I’ve gotten in over my head.”
Quentin spat on the ground, then looked into Pine’s shame-filled eyes. “How much do you owe?”
Pine looked away and shrugged. Quentin grabbed him by the shoulder pads, shook once, and pulled Pine close until their eyes were only inches apart.
“How much?”
Pine paused, then answered. “Four million.”
“Four million?” The number seemed staggering, but then he remembered that a Tier Two QB of Pine’s caliber made three or four million a year. On top of that, he had the endorsement deals that put his picture on almost as many ads as Yitzhak.
“So why don’t you pay it?” Quentin asked. “You’ve got that much, don’t you?”
Pine slowly shook his head. “Already went through everything I got. Savings, my salary ... I’m still four mil in the hole.”
“How long has this been going on?”
Pine looked away again. Quentin gave him a quick, single shake. Pine looked at his feet. “Since ‘79.”
Quentin’s eyes widened as he did the math. “Since ‘79? You’ve been tanking for four years?”
“I bet a lot of money on the ‘77 semi-final game with the To Pirates,” Pine said. “That put me in the hole. I’ve been working my way out ever since, and I’m almost out.”
“Four mil in the hole and you think you’re almost out?”
“I just need to win a couple of bets, that’s all, and I’ll be out!”
Quentin pushed him away. The two men stood in silence.
“You going to tell Hokor?” Pine asked.
Quentin thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“Why not?” Pine asked. “That would give you the starting position.”
He met this comment with a shrug. Pine was right, but Quentin didn’t want to win it that way. He wanted to earn it. The first players started to filter out of the tunnel for practice.
“Don’t do it again,” Quentin said quietly. “You do and I’ll take you down.”
Pine looked at him with the eyes of a haunted man, a man hunted from all directions for far too long. “You’ll take me down if I don’t do what you want? Hey, welcome to the club.”
Pine walked to the sidelines. Quentin stormed to a ball rack on the 30-yard line, anger and frustration whipping through his head. Without saying a word to them, Denver, Milford and Richfield lined up, waiting for Quentin to call out patterns.
“Deep,” he said, the word coming out as a bark. Denver shot down the field. Quentin dropped back to the 20, then threw the ball with a grunt. He’d put all of his strength into the throw. It sailed so far past Denver she didn’t even bother jumping — the ball arced through the air, sailing past the end zone, past the grass at the back of the end zone and bounced off the empty seats twenty rows up.
“Dang,” Quentin said quietly. He grabbed the next ball, oblivious to the fact he’d just thrown the ball over a hundred yards in the air.
From the Ionath city Gazette
Pine leads Krakens to second-straight win
By Kigin the Witty
IONATH CITY (Associated Press) — You can’
t keep a good veteran down.
At least that’s what Ionath fans are thinking following a 21-7 Krakens’ win over the Sheb Stalkers, a win that might as well be named “The Donald Pine Show.”
Pine missed two games with a broken femur, but showed that the time off didn’t affect him in the least. He went 21-for-34 on the day, throwing for 312 yards with two TDs and no interceptions. The Stalkers (3-2) came into the game with only one loss and were favored by nine points, but couldn’t find an answer for Pine’s accurate short-passing game.
“We did everything we could,” said Stalkers middle linebacker Brian Badrocke. “If we blitzed, he hit us short. If we didn’t blitz, he hit us long. It was a really long, frustrating day.”
The Krakens’ offensive line, which has given up eight sacks in the last two games, offered Pine laser-proof protection the entire game. It was the first time the Krakens didn’t give up a sack since Week One.
“Anyone could have thrown well with that much time,” Pine said after the game. “All the credit goes to the offensive line. They’re true warriors.”
Following Ionath’s come-from-behind win over Sky Demolition in Week Four, many Krakens fans saw a potential quarterback controversy between Pine and rookie Quentin Barnes. Pine, however, put those thoughts to rest with his flawless performance against the Stalkers.
The Krakens’ defense was a key factor in the win, holding the Stalkers to just 68 yards rushing while snagging four turnovers. Aleksandar Michnik notched three sacks, and Berea grabbed two interceptions.
WEEK FIVE LEAGUE ROUNDUP (Courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)
The big story this week is the Whitok Pioneers (4-1) 24-21 loss at the hands of Orbiting Death (4-1). The Death’s win puts them in a three-way tie for first with the Pioneers and the Glory Warpigs (4-1), who put another mark in the win column with an easy 42-17 drubbing of Sky Demolition (0-5). The Pioneers’ loss is even more devastating considering the injury to league-leading quarterback Condor Adrienne, who suffered severe damage to his right elbow. Adrienne is out for three to four weeks.
The Bigg Diggers (2-3) defeated the Woo Wallcrawlers (1-4) 22-6. The Quyth Survivors (2-3) edged out the Grontak Hydras (2-3) in a 23-20 overtime thriller.
DEATHS:
Chicago, wide receiver for the Sky Demolition, was killed by a gang-tackle involving Glory Warpigs defensive backs Keluang and Wellington. League officials ruled it was a clean hit.
WEEK #5 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:
Offense: Donald Pine, quarterback, Ionath Krakens. 21-of-34, 312 yards, two TDs, one INTs.
Defense: Sven Draupnir, linebacker, Quyth Survivors. Sixteen tackles, one interception, one forced fumble.
GAME SIX: Ionath Krakens (3-2) at Orbiting Death (4-1)
QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS
QUENTIN WALKED into the central locker room to find the place already half-full of players, and buzzing with excitement. The players crowded around the holotank in the center of the room.
“What’s going on?” Quentin asked.
“Oh yep,” Yassoud said, making room for Quentin. “Check out our first break of the season.”
The holotank showed two Human broadcasters, Christoff Berman and Dr. Mary Warwick, reviewing a holographic replay projected on the desk between them. The ESPN GameDay logo circled above them.
“The Orbiting Death’s upset win over the Whitok Pioneers puts the Death in a three-way tie for first,” Berman said. “But the bigger story is this injury to the Pioneers’ money-man, Condor Big-Playdrianne. Just how long is Adrienne out for, Mary?”
The replay froze. She poked the tip of a plastic pointer into the holographic display. In the display, Condor Adrienne had his right hand on the ground, obviously trying to keep himself from going down. A defensive lineman for the Orbiting Death, dressed in a white jersey with black trim and metalflake-red helmet, was also frozen in mid-fall, leaning against Adrienne’s arm. Quentin suddenly realized that Adrienne’s arm was bent the wrong way.
“As you can see here, the elbow is badly hyper-extended,” Dr. Warwick said. The replay moved forward another second, then froze. Adrienne’s arm bent further, and a bone poked out of his skin accompanied by a freeze-frame flash of blood. A groan of disgust rippled through the Krakens players.
The holo started to move forward, then backward in re-wind, then forward again, over and over to show the injury.
“Like a chicken wing!” Yassoud shouted joyfully.
Dr. Warwick continued. “Here we see severe bone and ligament damage to Adrienne’s arm. This will require major reconstructive surgery. He could be out three to four weeks while they rebuild the joint.”
Quentin felt bad for the man, but also felt a surge of excitement. With him gone, the Pioneers were no longer the unbeatable machine they had been for the first four weeks. The Pioneers’ win over the Krakens meant that even if the Krakens won out, and the Pioneers only lost one more, both teams would finish at 7-2 and the Pioneers would win the conference on the head-to-head tiebreaker. But if the Pioneers lost two games, the Krakens had a chance to win the conference outright. The Orbiting Death was also 4-1, but they only had to lose one more game — that week’s game, against the Krakens.
If the Krakens prevailed against the Orbiting Death, both teams would hold 4-2 records. However, that same head-to-head tiebreaker would this time favor the Krakens. Even though the Krakens’ shot at a conference title meant they had to win their last four games, the injury to Adrienne and the upcoming match with the Death made all things seem quite possible.
To Quentin, it felt like a shroud had lifted. In a two-game span, the team had gone from falling to 1-2 and losing its starting QB to crawling back to 3-2 with an outside shot at a title.
Two days of practice on the Touchback, then two days at Orbital Station One, home of Orbiting Death. Orbital Station One, “The Ace,” was even larger than “The Deuce.” Even the fact that Quentin was about to see yet another new world was not enough to offset his rage.
He was still on the bench, backing up a tanker.
• • •
IT WAS ONLY A FEW minutes after breaking out of punch space that Quentin found himself in the observation deck, looking out at another massive, mobile, artificial world. The Ace was an order of magnitude larger than The Deuce. Where The Deuce had seemed like a spherical sea urchin, complete with long, tapering spines, The Ace looked more like a medieval mace. Short, blue, stubby points dotted its spherical shape — the remnants of framework spikes, like on The Deuce, but with the area between filled in by harvested space debris.
Quentin walked up to Virak the Mean. “Just how big is that?”
“Largest artificial construct in the galaxy’s history,” Virak said. “Much larger than Emperor One.”
Quentin let out a long whistle. “I bet the Creterakians don’t like that.”
“They hate it.”
“How many beings live on that thing?”
“One-point-one billion.”
Quentin shook his head. That was more beings than all the Purist Nation’s outlying colonies combined. Hell, it was more than two entire planets, Allah and Stewart. The Ace wasn’t a station, it was a whole world. Still, while Allah and Stewart, especially Stewart, looked alive and vibrant, The Ace looked like a rock studded with blue metallic points.
“Not much to see from space,” Quentin said.
“Inside it is amazing,” Virak said. “Even better than Orbital Station Two.”
Quentin didn’t have to wait long to see the inside. The Touchback locked into orbit near an entrance shaft. Quentin rode down on the first shuttle. He wasn’t starting, yet he was listed on the starters’ shuttle. He didn’t know what that meant — what he did know was he didn’t want to talk to Donald Pine on the way down.
Pine couldn’t even meet Quentin’s eyes. The older quarterback spent most of the trip staring out the window, ignoring the hateful glances Quentin couldn’t help but shoot his way.
If Pine tanked a game, th
e Krakens were out of the playoff hunt, plain and simple. But if Quentin told anyone, it would destroy not only Pine’s career, but the man’s reputation and legacy as well. Maybe Pine was a moron for getting himself into trouble, but he was also a two-time Tier One champion. Did Quentin have the right to ruin that?
Pine wasn’t the only one acting odd. John Tweedy sat in a chair, left fist methodically punching into right hand. Whap. Pause. Whap. Pause. Whap ...
MOM ALWAYS DID LOVE YOU BEST scrolled across his forehead.
Quentin nudged the massive Khomeni, then gestured at Tweedy.
“What’s his deal?”
“This is the biggest game of the year for him,” Khomeni said in a voice that sounded like a deep well full of gravel. “The Death’s running back is Ju Tweedy, John’s brother.”
Quentin had read about “The Mad” Ju Tweedy, Tier Two’s leading rusher, in the weekly reports and seen him run on the highlight reels, but he had never connected the last name.
“John looks like he’s about to kill someone,” Quentin said. “He and Ju get along?”
Khomeni laughed as he pulled a large sandwich out of his duffel bag. “Yeah, they get along.” He took a big bite, then spoke around a mouthful of ham on rye. “They get along about as well as the Purist Nation gets along with the League of Planets.”
Quentin left Khomeni to his sandwich as the shuttle slid into the entrance shaft. At The Deuce, the crystalline growths had been mostly straight, like green quartz crystals. Here, they curved in all directions, like crystals of blue gypsum, sometimes spiraling outward like a ram’s horn. Curls grew off of curls that grew off of curls, until the walls of the shaft were like a tangled jungle overgrowth of translucent blue. There were also smooth facets, their polished surface matching the contour of the shaft’s outer diameter.
“Why isn’t it as orderly as The Deuce? This looks like crap.”
Virak seemed to wince at the comment, and before Quentin could ask why Choto the Bright slid out of his seat and stormed over. Choto’s eye flooded a deep green. His strong pedipalps reached for Quentin. Quentin felt a blast of adrenaline rip through him in response to the oncoming 400-pound linebacker. Without even thinking, Quentin’s fists balled up and he started to look for an opening.