The Champion

by Scott Sigler

  Not anymore.

  Tonight, he would unleash every last shred of it, and High One help whoever stood in his way.

  Quentin Barnes looked out onto the field: green with white lines. How fitting that his final game would be on the same color field as used by the ancients.

  He closed his eyes. He put his hand on the tunnel wall, felt the vibrations of the stadium, felt the energy of the spectators gathered for the spectacle.

  They wanted carnage?

  Carnage they would get.

  He opened his eyes and ran onto the field.

  EVERYONE WAS WAITING for him on the sidelines.

  He saw by the looks in their eyes — a combination of pride, admiration, solidarity and sadness — that some of them knew this was probably his last game. He, John, Ju and Becca had kept things quiet, so as not to let anything potentially slip to the Jacks, but even so, word had obviously gotten out.

  The team formed a semicircle for him, then he understood — he had told Becca to lead the Krakens in the pregame chant, so the team would feel her leadership, but she had ignored that command.

  She, John and Ju had made sure he would get to do it one last time.

  A pinch formed in his throat, grew larger, both down to his heart and up to his eyes. He used the skills he’d learned from Gredok and shut those emotions down; this was the Galaxy Bowl, and his team needed strength, not tears.

  He walked into the semicircle. It closed around him, his friends and teammates pressing in, an endless wall of orange and black.

  Quentin Barnes raised his right fist.

  Everyone reached out and up, becoming one massive sentient rather than fifty-three individuals. He breathed deeply, then screamed louder than he ever had before, only to be answered by his championship-hungry family.

  “Whose house?”

  “Our house!”

  “Whose house?”

  “Our house!”

  “What law?”

  “Our law!”

  “Who wins?”

  “Krakens!”

  “Who wins?”

  “Krakens!”

  Quentin nodded, his smile wide and full of confidence, full of the swagger that had carried him through nine seasons of professional football.

  “Be excellent as individuals, and we’ll be unstoppable as a team. Let’s bring that trophy back home where it belongs, to Ionath!”

  A final single roar sounded from the six species wearing the Orange and the Black, then the circle broke up.

  Quentin heard the whistle from midfield: it was time for the coin toss.

  THE GAME HADN’T EVEN STARTED, yet the Stadium shook. Since the last time the Krakens had played here three seasons ago, an entire deck had been added. Old seats had been narrowed to fit more of them into existing rows, and every remaining available open space with a view of the green field had been turned into standing-room spectator areas. Rolling Rock Stadium had a maximum capacity of 62,500: the announcer had just declared today’s attendance at 64,213.

  At least seventy-five percent of those fans wore the silver, gold and copper of the Jupiter Jacks. Black jerseys didn’t matter: the championship was truly an away game.

  Quentin, John and Becca walked to the blue, white and purple Galaxy Bowl XXVIII logo painted at midfield. There waited Jacks cornerback Morelia, running back CJ Wellman and — of course — quarterback Don Pine.

  Copper helmets with gold facemasks, the Jacks logo on the sides. Gold jerseys with silver sleeves and black-trimmed copper numbers. Copper leg armor and shoes, the team logo gleaming on the upper thighs. The Alimum Armada might boast the league’s ugliest uniforms, but the Jacks definitely had the loudest.

  Don smiled wide.

  “Hey, kid,” he said. “So glad we could meet like this again.”

  “Thrilled,” Quentin said. He wanted to blast Don with his best glare, but the man’s smile was infectious. For all the bad blood between them, there was deep respect as well, and — Quentin had to admit — at least some degree of friendship. They were quarterbacks who had won a Galaxy Bowl: part of a very small, very select group.

  John pointed at Pine. “I never liked you, Donny. You have an ugly potato nose.”

  Wellman laughed. “Like you’re a pretty boy, Tweedy?”

  John moved his pointing finger to Wellman. “When I get done with you, even a blind man could tell which of us is better looking.”

  Wellman nodded an exaggerated nod. “That’s right, keep talking. I’ll see you in a few minutes, boy.”

  The floating zebe gave a short blast on her whistle, telling the players to calm down. Quentin glanced at Becca. She looked calm, cool and collected. She gave no indication of the role she would soon play.

  The zebe floated between the two lines of players, reached a mouth-flap into her black- and white-striped backpack and retrieved a coin.

  “We are here for the championship of the Galactic Football League,” the zebe said, her voice echoing from the stadium’s massive sound system.

  “To celebrate the heritage of football, this coin is a relic from ancient Earth. It was used seven centuries ago for the coin toss of Super Bowl Twenty in the year 1986. This is heads.”

  She held out the mouth-flap. The coin showed two helmets facing each other, one from the ancient Chicago Bears and one from a team Quentin didn’t recognize.

  The zebe flipped the coin. “And this is tails.”

  It showed a stylized “XX” in the middle, with the words “New Orleans, LA, January 26, 1986” curving across the top.

  John nudged Quentin. “That thing is mega-old.”

  “Jupiter is the visiting team,” the zebe said. “Who will call it for Jupiter?”

  Don raised his hand. “I will.”

  “Call it in the air.” The Harrah tossed the coin high. It spun, strobe-flashing in the stadium lights.

  “Tails,” Don said.

  The coin landed on the white of the Galaxy Bowl XXVIII logo: heads up.

  “Ionath, you have won the toss. Do you want the ball, do you want to kick, or do you want to defer until the second half?”

  “The ball,” Quentin said. “We want the ball.”

  The Jacks elected to defend the south end zone. The north was packed with Jupiter fans: bottom to top, left to right. If Ionath was in position to score at the end of the first half, or at the end of the game, they would be heading into that end zone. A minor advantage for Pine’s team, but at this level, every advantage mattered.

  Quentin, John and Becca jogged back to the sidelines. Since the Krakens got the ball first, Quentin would get one last snap under center.

  Hopefully, he and Becca could catch the Jacks sleeping.

  THE JACKS LINED UP for the opening kick.

  Quentin stood on the sidelines, unable to stop himself from looking up at the crowd. His home field at Ionath Stadium sat 180,000, more than twice as many as Rolling Rock Stadium, but when engineers had updated this place, they had built it for noise. If sound could be a living thing, Jupiter’s home field would be a planet-eating dragon, a living devourer of worlds and destroyer of reality. The air seemed to blur from the concussive effect of tens of thousands of screaming Jupiter fans.

  The ref’s whistle blew. Quentin took one last glance up at the crowd that wanted to see him crushed, beaten and broken.

  My last game ... and I am going to tear your beating hearts from your chests.

  He looked out to the field.

  Jacks kicker Jack Burrill ran at the ball, his line of metallic-clad comrades running with him, and then the ball arced high into the night: Jupiter fans cranked the volume up just one more notch.

  The ball dropped down. Niami stood a yard deep in the end zone. Her tentacles hauled it in, and she was off and running. A wall of orange, black and white slammed into a wave of copper, gold and silver.

  There were no words, because no words were needed — a clash of two clans fighting for dominance, a language as old as sentience itself.

 
; Niami cut left, but she didn’t get far before a Jacks Sklorno brought her down.

  First-and-ten on Ionath’s 18-yard line.

  Quentin took the time to close his eyes, to take one breath. He tasted the air. He tasted the noise and the cold and the night itself. He swallowed it down and burned it into his brain: this moment, this last moment before his final snap, he wanted to know the memory would be there on his deathbed many years from now.

  For you, Coach.

  He opened his eyes and jogged onto the field, Becca Montagne at his side.

  SO LOUD IT HURT.

  Quentin walked up to the line. He stared over his wall of orange-numbered black jerseys, black arm and leg armor, black helmets sparkling under the stadium lights. And beyond them, five sentient species decked out in gleaming metallics.

  Behind Quentin, Becca and Ju lined up in an I-formation. George Starcher at right tight end, Milford wide right, Denver wide left.

  It was too loud to hear a snap count, but the Krakens had expected that, prepared for it. He’d called two plays in the huddle. If he lifted his left leg, they went with the first play, a dive-left to Ju. If he lifted his right, they went with the second, the play that they had worked on with the single day of practice available to them.

  Quentin looked over the defense, one of the best the GFL had to offer. Cornerbacks Morelia and Xuchang, free safety Luxemborg and safety Matidi. Linebackers Katan the Beheader and Ridley Korika, defensive tackle Kal-Gah-Het, rookie standout defensive end Tony Jones. If they weren’t the top defense in the game, they were second only to Ionath.

  The Jacks lined up in their usual 4-3. Korika and Katan played aggressively, often overly so: both were hungry to prove their worth against Ju Tweedy, the best running back in football. They tracked Quentin, but only with cursory glances.

  They had eyes only for Ju.

  Here we go ... one chance, Quentin, make it count.

  The Krakens players were all looking at him, waiting to see what signal he would give.

  Quentin lifted his right knee high, then set it back down. As they’d practiced, Bud-O waited for a single count — one one-thousand — then snapped the ball at the very same moment the well-disciplined Krakens shot off the line.

  The ball slapped into Quentin’s hands, sending a lightning bolt of pain up his left arm. He gripped the ball tightly, mostly with the three fingers and thumb of his right hand. He stepped back with his left foot and pitched to Ju, who was running right with Becca in the lead. Quentin ran left, away from the play, hands up at his helmet holding an imaginary ball in the worst play-fake in league history.

  Kimberlin pulled from his right guard position, intending to lead-block for Ju but stumbled as soon as he took that first lateral step. Jupiter defensive tackle Kal-Gah-Het shot through the line and hit Kimberlin, knocking the HeavyG on his side, then scurried after Ju in a six-legged sprint. Becca stopped short: instead of leading Ju, she turned and put a shoulder into Kal-Gah — Kal-Gah bowled her over, six legs stomping past her as he tried to catch the fleeing running back.

  Out in front of Ju, Morelia, the cornerback, fought against the block of Denver, stretching the play to the sidelines and keeping Ju from turning it upfield. Korika, the linebacker, pursued from behind, closing in on Ju.

  Ju had nowhere to run. It looked like the play would end in a big loss, but just before the sideline, he stopped, turned to his left and threw a wobbler back to the middle of the field — where Becca was waiting. Forgotten by the defense, she had popped up, just as planned. Ju’s pass looked horrible, a wounded duck to end all wounded ducks, but it found its mark. Becca hauled it in, raised it to her right ear, then looked downfield — where Quentin was sprinting up the left sidelines.

  Xuchang, the other cornerback, saw the ruse but saw it too late. A sweep pitch-back to the fullback, then a downfield throw to the quarterback? So much to track on the first play, and Xuchang had been caught sleeping. The defense reacted quickly, came for Becca, but she fired the ball downfield before anyone could reach her.

  Xuchang sprinted with the blinding speed of the Sklorno, trying to catch up, but she’d drifted into the middle of the field when Ju was running right. The perfect spiral sailed through the air. Quentin watched it coming, knew he wouldn’t even have to break stride, all he had to do was haul it in ...

  The ball passed over his shoulder and hit his hands: another zap of pain in his left arm threw off his focus. The ball bounced up as he crossed the five, as Xuchang caught him from behind and tangled her tentacles around his legs.

  Quentin’s focus was the ball, only the ball, all that existed in the universe. As he fell he watched it come down. His big body hit the end zone, rattled against it. He slid, eyes never wavering ...

  The ball fell into his right hand. His thumb and three fingers grabbed it like a spider grabbing a fat, brown insect, grabbed and held.

  He slid to a stop: he was lying chest-down in the end zone, the ball firmly in his upturned hand.

  The first offensive snap of the game? A trick play for an Ionath touchdown.

  Live feed from

  UBS GameDay holocast coverage

  “Chick, what a first half it’s been. Quentin Barnes, last year’s Galaxy Bowl MVP, the man who this year broke single-season passing records for total yards and touchdowns, playing almost the entire half at fullback. It’s amazing.”

  “And the Krakens All-Pro fullback played almost the entire first half at quarterback, Masara. The Krakens did an excellent job of keeping mum after the horrible attack that killed coach Hokor the Hookchest and Kopor the Climber, because we had no idea Barnes was hurt and Becca Montagne would be the Ionath signal-caller.”

  “And obviously it’s something with his arm, Chick, because he’s still well enough to be on the field, although he’s not the best fullback I’ve ever seen.”

  “You can say that again, Masara.”

  “Amazingly, despite losing the coach and two fullbacks before this game, the reshuffled Krakens are only down ten to seven. Our sideline reporters tell us that Barnes is calling the plays on offense, and John Tweedy is calling them on defense. Both are obviously doing an amazing job. Chick, how have the Krakens kept this lead to just three points?”

  “The old-fashioned way, Masara — with ball control and defense. Becca Montagne doesn’t have the throwing power or accuracy of Barnes, but you know what she does well? Hand the ball off to the Mad Ju. Ju Tweedy has eighty-two yards on twenty-three carries. The Krakens haven’t scored since that first trick play to open the game, but they’ve held onto the ball for twenty-one minutes, leaving Don Pine with only nine minutes to work first-half magic.”

  “And there hasn’t been much magic there for the Jacks offense, has there, Chick?”

  “About as much magic as my honeymoon with my second ex-wife, who passed out during the best man’s toast.”

  “Chick! Stories about your mating rituals are not—”

  “Sorry, Masara, sorry, folks at home. The Jacks offense hasn’t been able to get into a rhythm, due to lack of time with the ball and due to the Krakens defense. Don Pine was sacked three times in the first half, once by Mum-O-Killowe, once by Alexsandar Michnik and once by Ibrahim Khomeni. Pine has a lousy seventy-six yards passing, but one of those was a fifty-one yard strike to New Delhi to set up a ten-yard CJ Wellman touchdown run. Wellman has run wild, carrying the ball fifteen times for a hundred and six, but hasn’t been able to put the Jacks into scoring position other than one long run that set up a Jack Burrill field goal.”

  “What do the Jacks need to do in the second half, Chick?”

  “If I was Jupiter, Masara, I’d throw in the towel on the passing attack and just feed Wellman the pellet. Not only were Choto the Bright and Virak the Mean out coming into this game, but Shayat the Thick suffered a broken leg in the second quarter, and he’s out as well. That means if the Krakens stick to their four-three defense, they have no subs at linebacker. John Tweedy, Pishor the Fang and Samuel Darkeye are goin
g to be three tired puppies by game’s end. Look for Jupiter to keep it on the ground in the second half.”

  “Chick, do the Krakens have any chance at all?”

  “Sure they do, Masara. Montagne isn’t Barnes, but if the Jacks keep focusing on Tweedy, she’s going to burn them sooner or later. And Tweedy himself is going to keep grinding away. Ionath is just a field goal down, so one big play either way could decide the Galaxy Bowl.”

  “Excellent, Chick. We’re ready for the second-half kickoff. Let’s go back to the field.”

  QUENTIN STRUGGLED TO STAND. Bodies were piled around him, both orange and black and metallic. His chest hurt because he’d tried to block Ridley Korika, who had come in on a run blitz and hit him right in the sternum. His back hurt because Ju, seeing the hole was blocked, had put his head down and just driven forward — right over Quentin and Korika both.

  His left arm screamed. The ravaged nerve thrummed with eight-out-of-ten pain that had him constantly wincing.

  Three quarters of play had left him battered and drained. His body hadn’t fully recovered from the Sandoval beating, which now felt like a warm and fuzzy memory compared to the punishment he’d suffered blocking for Ju, Yassoud and Becca. Quentin had delivered his share of hits, true, but compared to the number of times a lineman or linebacker had laid him out, they were few and far between.

  A big pair of hands grabbed his rib armor, lifted him off the ground, set him on wobbly legs.

  “Are you okay?”

  Quentin looked into the eyes of Michael Kimberlin. Eight feet tall, over six hundred pounds, a giant even to someone Quentin’s size. A massive block of long-armed HeavyG granite, yet his eyes were those of a man lost. If he wanted forgiveness for his past, for how his silence had killed Hokor and Kopor even more than Quentin’s had, this wasn’t the time or the place.

  “Fine,” Quentin said. He slapped the side of Kimberlin’s helmet — with his right hand, mind you. “Get your damn head in the game, Mike.”

  Third down and goal, ball on Jupiter’s 5-yard line. Neither team had scored in the third quarter. Ionath was still down three. Quentin’s ball-control strategy had kept it close, had disrupted Pine’s rhythm and — maybe most important of all — had taken the Jupiter crowd out of the game. But none of it mattered if Ionath couldn’t put more points on the board.