The Rookie

by Scott Sigler

  “They’ll keep pounding on him,” Yitzhak said, referring to the linebackers’ never-ending suicide assaults on Ju. “He’s got one weakness — he can’t hold onto the pellet.”

  Quentin nodded at this wisdom, but wondered that if a fumble ever did occur, would there be anything left of Choto, Virak or John Tweedy to jump on it?

  Ju’s performance seemed to inspire Mitchell Fayed, who ran like a man possessed. Fans of the running game were not disappointed by the Krakens vs. the Orbiting Death. And it was a good thing that Fayed ran so well, because Donald Pine was simply not his usual self. By the end of the first quarter, the two-time champ, the King of the Short Game, was 5-for-12 for 27 yards.

  Quentin watched him. Watched him carefully.

  Is he tanking, or just playing bad? Quentin found himself trying to give Pine the benefit of the doubt, but his eyes told him a different story. The Death’s defensive secondary just didn’t seem that impressive. Hawick and Scarborough looked open several times, but Pine’s passes either fell short, or were never thrown at all.

  With each possession, Quentin’s anger grew.

  Possession #1: A run, one incomplete pass, a sack — three-and-out.

  Possession #2: Sacked on third-and-long.

  Possession #3: Two completions, three incompletions, punt.

  Possession #4: Three straight completions, then an interception.

  Possession #5: Two strong runs, then a sack and a fumble — Death’s ball.

  “Jesus,” Yitzhak said quietly. “Three sacks already. Pine never gets sacked. And he never fumbles. We’re in some deep doo-doo, my friend.”

  Quentin kept watching. If it was a tank, as soon as the Death got up by two or three scores, Pine would strike to make it close.

  As the second quarter dragged on, The Mad Ju ripped off a 28-yard TD run, putting the Death up 17-0. Richfield returned the following kick to the Krakens’ 12, but Quentin had eyes only for Pine.

  If he’s tanking, he’ll come back strong to make it look good.

  Pine dropped back on the first snap. He planted — no busy feet this time, he stood tall in the pocket like some heroic statue.

  “She’s open!” Yitzhak’s excited voice called to Quentin’s right, but Quentin just watched Pine. A defensive lineman, the same one who already had two sacks, closed in, gathering up for a perfect blind-side blast on Pine’s back.

  “Take them deep!” Yitzhak screamed.

  Pine cocked back and let the ball fly — he didn’t have Quentin’s strength, but there was nothing weak about the throw. The ball shot downfield ...

  But Quentin watched Pine. The lineman closed in, only a half-second behind the throw, expanding violently for a blindside shot.

  Pine took one small step forward. The lineman shot past to fall in a clumsy, sliding heap on the ground.

  Pine, you tanking jerk.

  That same lineman, making that same blindside approach, had earlier racked up two sacks. Yet this time, Pine had slipped by as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

  Not eyes in the back of his head, Quentin thought. He just knows where every player is at all times. After watching Pine up close and personal for six weeks, Quentin knew the veteran was letting those sacks happen. Pine was so good, so unbelievably in control of this game that he could choreograph a tanking without anyone suspecting. After all, what quarterback can dodge a blindside sack, right?

  Donald Pine. That’s who.

  The crowd booed deeply as Hawick crossed the goal line for an 88-yard touchdown. Yitzhak ran onto the field for the extra point as Pine ran off. Quentin’s anger rose another ten degrees, then popped, almost audibly.

  Quentin met Pine on the sidelines.

  “Nice pass you piece of garbage,” Quentin said.

  Pine just nodded and kept walking towards the bench.

  “Hey, loser, I’m talking to you!” Quentin grabbed Pine’s shoulder pad and whipped him around. Pine’s eyes went wide with surprise, then narrowed with anger.

  “Leave me alone,” Pine said.

  “You throw two more TDs and I’ll leave you alone, you coward.” Quentin pointed his finger straight at Pine’s nose. Other players turned to watch the confrontation.

  “Shut up, kid,” Pine said. “I’ve got a game to play.”

  “A game? Is that what you call it?”

  Pine stepped forward, going chest-to-chest and nose-to-nose with Quentin.

  “You wanna make a move, rookie? Then make it now!”

  Quentin cocked his left fist and started to swing, but was jerked away by strong Human hands. Quentin’s anger soared to a new level. He twisted and threw a hard left cross at this new foe. His fist smashed into Mitchell Fayed’s jaw. Fayed’s head snapped back and to his left. He slowly turned his head back to look into Quentin’s eyes, working his jaw from side to side.

  “Are you finished?” Fayed asked. “Or do I have to hit you back?”

  Quentin felt his anger seep away. His face felt scaldingly hot.

  “Aw, Mitch, I’m sorry.”

  “I said, are you finished?”

  Quentin nodded.

  “Good. This is not the place for this behavior, Quentin. Now calm down. You’re disturbing the team.”

  Quentin nodded again. He’d never felt so embarrassed. Once again, his temper had got the best of him. Maybe he could make it up to Fayed later. Then again, maybe not — he’d just hit the man in front of 133,000 fans, and probably another three billion watching at home. He walked down the sidelines, away from Pine. Anger returned, but this time it was a cold, calculating anger.

  Not now. Not now, Pine old kid, not when we can climb back into the hunt.

  Quentin had to think. He looked around the sidelines, searching for an answer. He couldn’t tell Hokor, not now, the coach wouldn’t believe him. Even if he did, Pine’s career was over (not to mention, when Gredok found out, probably his life).

  Quentin didn’t know what he was looking for until he saw it.

  Shayat the Thick.

  The drug dealer.

  “Holy crap,” Quentin said to himself. “We might win this game after all.”

  “YOU WANT DRUGS now,” Shayat said in a whispered hiss. “It’s the middle of a game. What do you want sleepy for?”

  “Just give it to me,” Quentin said. “I know you’ve got it in your locker. I know you wouldn’t let your shipment out of your sight. Now you either give me enough to knock a Human out cold or you and I are going to hook right now.”

  Shayat’s eye went from clear to light translucent green.

  “I would kill you, Human.”

  “Maybe so,” Quentin said. “But if you and I go, I’ll make sure I hurt you enough to keep you out of the game. And you don’t want that today, do you?” Quentin gestured to Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright — both Quyth Warriors were on training tables, Doc and Quyth Leader trainers tending to their wounds. Choto’s right pedipalp quivered sickeningly, even as he lay perfectly still on the table. The pedipalp looked broken, a very painful injury, from what Quentin had heard. John Tweedy might have been hurt, but no one knew, because he stood in front of his locker, bashing his forehead into the metal grate. His tattoo scrolled nothing but gibberish, his lips were frozen in a permanent snarl, and tears of rage trickled down his cheeks.

  “But I get to start the second half,” Shayat said. “You wouldn’t do that to me, I haven’t had a chance to play first-string all year.”

  “Sure,” Quentin said. “You’ll start, if you give me what I want.”

  Shayat looked back at Quentin, and the eye slipped back to clear.

  “I will give you the drug.”

  Quentin smiled a malicious smile. He was halfway home.

  • • •

  HOKOR WORKED the holoboard, outlining a new defensive strategy designed to shut down Ju. The defensive players, except for Virak and Choto, crowded around the board, pointing excitedly and offering suggestions. The Krakens were down 17-7, yet the defense showed no
sign of letting up. They couldn’t wait to get back on the field and take another crack at Ju. Especially John Tweedy. The Human linebacker’s eyes were as wide as wide could be, his nostrils flared in and out, and every word was a guttural scream. HATEYOUHATEYOUHATEYOU scrolled across his sweaty forehead tattoo — he couldn’t concentrate on it long enough to make a message. John looked like a man infused with the living, hunting energy of an entire special forces platoon.

  Hokor had already finished with the offense. There wasn’t much to talk about, really — everyone knew that to get back in the game, Donald Pine had to stop getting sacked, start completing passes, and hold onto the ball. Everyone knew this, yet there wasn’t one evil eye cast his way. The team knew that if it could be done, Pine would do it. If Pine couldn’t do it, well, than neither could anyone else. Pine was the kind of quarterback who could throw five interceptions in a game, yet never be pulled, because his next three passes might hit for touchdowns.

  That was, of course, when he was trying.

  Pine sat in front of his locker, reviewing defensive sets on a portable holotank. Holding a water bottle, Quentin walked up and sat down. Pine glared at him with a look that combined hate and shame.

  “Come to yell at me some more, kid?”

  Quentin shook his head. “I came to apologize.”

  Pine raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Apologize? You?”

  Quentin shrugged again. “Look, you’ve got some stuff to deal with, I shouldn’t have lit into you on the field. We can talk about it later.” He handed Pine the water bottle. Pine took it, his eyes never leaving Quentin’s face.

  “This isn’t my choice,” Pine said quietly. “I just want you to know that.”

  “I know,” Quentin said, and walked away.

  Pine took a long drink from the water bottle, then turned back to the holotank.

  • • •

  THE ORBITING DEATH received the second-half kickoff. Choto the Bright lasted only three plays, until he tried to “arm-tackle” The Mad Ju. Trying to take down Ju with a broken pedipalp was a bad idea at best. Ju ripped through Choto’s valiant effort, leaving the Quyth Warrior writhing on the ground.

  Shayat the Thick ran onto the field to take Choto’s place. Samuel Darkeye was Choto’s normal backup at outside linebacker, but Hokor needed Shayat’s size to try and stop The Mad Ju. The Krakens “D” kept hammering at the Ju, and the Ju kept hammering back, yet the fumble-fruit of his so-called slippery hands never seemed to materialize. At the end of the drive, to quite literally add insult to injury, Ju crossed the goal line with John Tweedy on his back.

  Extra point: good.

  Orbiting Death 24, Krakens 7.

  Richfield returned the ensuing kick. The Krakens offense took the field, starting from their own 34. Quentin watched carefully. He’d given Pine enough sleepy to knock out a Ki lineman. If he gave too much, the overdose could easily cause brain hemorrhaging. Quentin hoped that wouldn’t happen, but he had a game to win.

  The huddle broke and Pine walked up to the line. He seemed to walk slower than normal. He looked around a few times, then shook his head violently and lined up under center. A handoff to Fayed picked up four yards. The team returned to the huddle, but Pine stayed where he was, staring down at the grass as if it were the most interesting thing in the known universe. A blast of anticipation adrenaline shot through Quentin’s body — it was working.

  Fayed walked up to Pine, who continued to stare at the ground. A Harrah ref floated up to both Humans. Pine stared at the zebe as if he’d never seen such a thing before. A steady murmur burbled through the capacity crowd: like most of the players, they wondered what was going on. Pine turned to Fayed and said something. Fayed instantly signaled for a timeout.

  “Barnes!” Hokor called. “Let’s go!”

  Quentin followed Hokor onto the field. They ran up to Fayed and Pine.

  “What in the name of the Mother of All is going on here?” Hokor barked, his fur fluffed up with anger.

  “Um ...” Fayed said. “I, uh, think Pine was hit in the head, or something.”

  “Heyyyyy,” Pine said with a smile, never looking away from Fayed. “I can see right into Fayed’s brain. Right inside!”

  “Pine!” Hokor barked. “Pine snap out of it!”

  “Fayed is thinking about a ham sandwich.”

  “No I’m not,” Fayed said.

  “Pine, you okay?” Hokor asked.

  “Ham sandwich with Texas mustard,” Pine said. “Don’t deny it, you liar. I can see your thoughts!”

  “Pine!” Hokor said. “You’re going to have to sit out a few.” Hokor signaled to Doc for the medsled.

  “But I’m not lying,” Fayed said. “I don’t like mustard.”

  Hokor turned to Quentin. “Okay, Barnes, it’s up to you now. We need some points on the board. Just run — ”

  “The plays that are called, yeah, I know, Coach.”

  “Ham and you are a beautiful thing!” Pine screamed. “Don’t fight your urges, Fayed!”

  Doc flew up to Pine, the medsled right behind him. Pine pointed a finger in Fayed’s face. “You know how many pigs die every year? Their lives are on your conscience! Swine-eater!”

  “I kind of hate mustard,” Fayed said.

  Quentin sat Pine down on the medsled. “Doc, get him out of here, now.” Doc led the sled off the field — Pine carefully watched the grass go by.

  Quentin and Fayed walked back to the huddle. The team looked at Quentin with a new expression.

  Like I’m the savior, he thought. They think I can pull this one out. The thing was, he thought he could pull it out. They’d spent a half-game of futility and had only seven points to show for it. Quentin knew he needed to get these guys some momentum, and he needed to do it quick.

  “Okay, they’ve been blitzing all day. Let them come. We’re going quarterback draw on two, on two. Just give them a good fit and let them come on by.” The huddle seemed revived with electricity.

  “Dive right to Fayed,” Hokor called in his ear-piece. Quentin nodded, then broke the huddle. Hokor’s plays would have to wait — he knew what his team needed. They needed a burst of excitement, not a methodical ground game.

  Quentin surveyed the defense as he lined up behind center. He’d guessed right — they showed blitz all the way. Orbiting Death ran a 5-2, and both Quyth linebackers leaned forward on all-fours, weight on their arms.

  “Red twenty-one! Red, twenty-one!” The linebackers leaned farther forward. Quentin waited a second to give the Ki linemen a chance to pick their targets.

  “Hut!” The Death linemen and linebackers surged forward with a metal-plastic crash against their backpedaling offensive enemy. Quentin dropped back three steps, planted and sprang forward. The blitzing defense didn’t even have a chance to slow down before Quentin was past them, moving like a tall, strong wind. His first five steps took him ten yards downfield, leaving seven defenders behind him. The defensive backs reacted instantly, but the three-step drop had given Hawick and Scarborough a chance to move into blocking position. The two receivers danced with the safety and free safety that tried to avoid them — they weren’t good blocks by any means, but with Quentin’s speed they were more than enough for him to shoot past.

  BLINK

  Everything moved in slow motion. Quentin suddenly saw every last detail the field had to offer. The left cornerback came from his right side — she dove for his legs. Quentin planted and spun outside, a whirling blur, the cornerback grasping only empty air as he straightened and moved downfield. The right cornerback closed on him and he bounced outside. He saw everything, her raspers hanging out just a bit from her chin-plate, her flat-black uniform flapping slightly with each powerful thrust of her long legs. She moved in, reached out.

  Quentin felt a blast of something primitive. His lip curled up of its own accord. He felt the strength of a supernova in his limbs. He switched the ball to his right hand and reached out with his left, grabbing the cornerback by the neck just as
she tried to wrap around his waist. He squeezed and lifted — she was so light. Like a tribesman carrying a spear, he ran another five yards with her neck in his hand, her feet dangling uselessly, her eyestalks showing sudden pain and fear. He casually tossed her away as one might discard an apple core. She flew threw the air, landing heavily on her head, tumbling in a rolling heap.

  He felt something grab at his back and try to pull him down. The extra weight slowed him, but only for a second, his legs pumped with the power of an entire universe. The weight fell away and he was once again free. He distantly heard the roaring booo of the crowd, a faraway noise that was none of his concern.

  He crossed the goal line, and the world blinked back to real time with a rush of deafening sound. He tossed the ball to the floating Harrah ref, then knelt and plucked a few blades of black grass. He sniffed deeply — smelled like a sappy pine tree. Hawick and Scarborough arrived suddenly and leapt on him hard enough to knock him over.

  “Touchdown, Krakens, 62-yard run by Quentin Barnes,” the loudspeaker blared amidst the crowd’s boo and the hiss of Quyth Workers scraping in derision. Quentin laughed and pushed aside Hawick and Scarborough. He stood, only to be knocked down again, this time by Fayed and Kobayasho.

  “What an excellent run!” Fayed screamed at him, his facemask smashed against Quentin’s. “A much better use of energy than punching me in the face!”

  Quentin managed to stand amidst friendly-but-hard slaps to his head and shoulder pads. He ran to the sidelines and was engulfed by teammates. They seemed energized as if they were up by four touchdowns instead of down 24-14.

  “Barnes!” Hokor screamed in his headset. “What was that? I called a dive!”

  “Sorry Coach,” Quentin said. “I thought you said QB draw.”