by Scott Sigler
“But you broke the rules! Froese could fine me, or suspend me. We have six more games and—”
“Relax, guy. You can’t get in trouble because it’s just a rugged rumor, a giddy gossip, an innocent innuendo.”
“But it’s not a rumor.”
“I don’t have an offer on a contract box or an official communication, which means it’s a rumor.” Danny winked again. “If this rumor were true, though, the only way you don’t play for the Pirates next year is if the Krakens offer you more.”
This was really happening. The To Pirates. Quentin suddenly imagined prepping for a game, laying out his blood-red armor and blood-red jersey instead of the Orange and the Black.
“I don’t know, Danny. You work for me. You’re supposed to do what I tell you to do.”
“Am I supposed to run the plays that are called?”
Quentin felt his breath lock up in his chest. That was what Hokor always said ... said to Quentin.
“But there are rules.”
“Quentin, if Rick Warburg comes into your huddle and tells you what play he wants you to call, do you run it?”
Quentin stared at the holotank. He always felt two moves behind whenever Danny Lundy was concerned. Were Quentin’s onfield manipulations of Warburg that transparent, or was Danny just that perceptive? Either way, Quentin felt embarrassed that sentients knew. “How I handle my huddle is different.”
“Why? Don’t you do things the way you do because you know more than the others?”
“Well ... yeah.”
“And I know more about this than you do, buddy,” Danny said. “Contracts are my huddle, guy, and negotiation is my Sunday afternoon. You hired me to do a job. I’m doing it and doing it well. If you want to yell at me for making you the shucking star of the shucking galaxy, well, you’ll have to call Brenda and schedule time with me next week. I have a young tennis player coming in five minutes that is so good she makes me want to grow legs and change species. Go get a beer and relax, buddy — you certainly can afford it.”
Danny broke the connection, leaving Quentin standing speechless in his own room.
• • •
QUENTIN WAITED IN THE TUNNEL of Beefeater Gin Stadium, standing first on his left foot and shaking out his right leg, then shifting to his right foot and shaking out his left. Back and forth, burning off nervous energy and loosening up. His teammates packed in around him, the aura of rage radiating off of them, preparing for the battle ahead. Ju Tweedy was on his left, John Tweedy on his right. Ju would be the honorary captain this week, a slap in the face to Anna Villani and the Death fans that had turned their back on the former hero of OS1.
Quentin’s second trip to the Black Hole, home of the Orbiting Death. They’d won here back in his rookie season. They’d win here again today. He looked out the tunnel to the stadium beyond: four decks filled with fans clad in flat-black and metalflake-red. Sunlight sparkled off the stadium’s translucent blue crystal architecture, the living material that made up the artificial planet’s skeletal structure. Over 133,000 fans in attendance — a small stadium for the underground city of Madderch, which boasted a population of 50 million. Would the Death spectators throw trash on him? Even worse, could there be real danger from these fans?
The crowd chanted in fuzzy, loud unison, two lines of three syllables each. Quentin leaned forward, trying to understand the words. Then the sing-song message clarified. They chanted: WELCOME-home, MUR-DER-er.
Quentin turned to his right, to Ju Tweedy, the man that had become his comrade in arms. A year ago, John, Quentin, Becca, Choto, Sho-Do-Thikit and Mum-O-Killowe had saved Ju from certain death at the hands of Anna Villani. How had Ju repaid that debt? By intentionally fumbling, trying to throw games so that the Krakens would lose confidence in Quentin and instead accept Ju as the team leader. Quentin and Ju had settled their difference late in the season. Quentin won that brawl, maybe with a little “help” from Doc Patah’s old fight-game tricks. Was that only a year ago? Seemed like forever. Since then, Ju had proven his mettle. A galaxy’s worth of hatred had centered on Quentin and Ju, bonding them together as they fought against false accusations.
Quentin reared back and punched Ju in his well-armored shoulder.
“Hear them out there, Mad Ju? Do you? Those are your old fans wishing you well.”
Ju nodded so rapidly his helmet bobbled, hiding then revealing his wide, intense eyes. “Hell yes! I’ve got lots of love to show them right back. Gonna super-stomp them into the ground.”
Quentin’s head rocked to the side — John Tweedy had just head-butted him.
“Yeah, Q! And I’m gonna mega-super-stomp that pretty boy Condor Adrienne.” John held up his thick, scarred fists. UNCLE JOHNNY WANTS HIS SCALPS scrolled across his fingers and knuckles.
Ju grabbed Quentin’s facemask, snapped it around so they could look eye-to-eye, so lost in pre-game madness that he didn’t realize how hard he pulled.
“You do not stop giving me the ball,” Ju said. “Yalla the Biter is mine. I want a piece of that scumbag’s soul.”
The announcer called Ionath to the field. Quentin led the charge onto the jet-black, white-lined surface. He was ready for this stadium’s unique form of welcome. Most of the 133,000 flat-black-clad fans in the stadium’s four decks instantly fell silent, creating a strange stillness broken only by the 20,000-odd Krakens faithful — Ionath ex-pats or fans that had made the short, halfday trip to OS1. Last time, this roar-to-silence treatment had taken Quentin by surprise. But not this year. This was his third season. He had grown far beyond the wide-eyed orphan miner that once viewed the galaxy with bewildered surprise.
This was no time for innocence. In minutes, he would face the most lethal player in the history of the GFL — Yalla the Biter, middle linebacker for the Orbiting Death. If you didn’t have your head in the game against Yalla, he’d tear it off, then probably punt it 30 or 40 yards just to be extra mean.
The Krakens reached the sidelines and gathered: jumping, hitting, pushing, yelling, chirping. Quentin knew better than to start the pre-game chant — a hellstorm of noise was about to cut loose.
Without any prompt from the announcer, the crowd erupted. The OS1 Orbiting Death ran onto their home field. Flat-black leg armor, flat-black jerseys decorated with numbers and letters done in blue-trimmed metalflake-red. Afternoon sunlight sparkled off of metalflake-red helmets, sun that was eaten up by the flat-black circle logos on the sides of each helmet.
Quentin raised his left fist. “Krakens, to me.”
He led his teammates, his friends, his family through their pregame chant. Feelings of hatred and desire raced through his soul. He wanted to win every game, no question, but this?
This was special.
Chant finished, he stood there as the players filtered away. He rocked slowly from toes to heels, every atom of his body waiting to get out on that field and shut this crowd right the hell up.
“Quentinbarnesquentinbarnesquentinbarnes!”
That voice — the tone, the intensity, so unmistakable. Quentin turned, a smile already breaking on his face even before he saw her standing there, dressed head to toe in gold, silver and copper clothes, a visitor’s pass dangling from a lanyard around her long neck.
“Denver! What are you doing here?”
“A bye week, oh my Quentinbarnesquentinbarnes! Since my Jupiter Jacks and your Ionath Krakens do not play each other in the regular season, I asked Coach Hokor if I could come surprise you.”
“And Hokor said yes?”
“He told me I was not allowed to memorize anything or he would strike me dead with a meteor the size of a small moon,” Denver said. “So I will most assuredly not memorize anything, Quentinbarnes, for I do not wish to be smushed.”
Quentin laughed and gently pushed his old friend. “Hey, hell of a season you’re having, Miss Superstar.”
“I love Jupiter! Love-love-love! I catch many passes!”
“Well, Denver, you stay out of the way and enjoy the
game. We’ll talk after, okay?”
“Oh yesyesyes, Quentinbarnes! I love-love-love to talk to you! Are you going to use your holy powers to inflict damage on the Orbiting Death?”
Quentin nodded, then turned back to face the field, to get his head into the game.
Inflict damage? That was exactly what he was going to do.
• • •
QUENTIN BROKE THE HUDDLE and slowly walked to the line. The Orbiting Death had wasted no time, winning the toss, taking the ball, then scoring on their third play from scrimmage. Condor Adrienne managed to get Stockbridge isolated in single coverage on Death wide receiver Brazilia — Adrienne hit his teammate for a 42-yard strike. Adrienne’s first three plays? Three completions, 72 yards and a touchdown. If Quentin didn’t match Condor’s performance, the Krakens would be in trouble. This was it, the long-awaited showdown between the league’s hot young guns. Everyone thought Adrienne was better?
Quentin would show them all.
His orange-jerseyed teammates formed up, Kimberlin and the Ki at the line of scrimmage, Starcher at right tight end, Hawick wide left and Milford wide right. Behind him, the I-formation of Becca at fullback and Ju Tweedy at tail back. Opposite his wall of orange, the metalflake-red helmeted, flat-black assembly of head-hunters: Kan-E-Shiro and HeavyG James Morr at defensive tackle, then the solid linebacker core of Yalla the Biter at middle linebacker flanked by the “Mad Macs” — Matt McRoberts and James McPike — at right and left outside linebacker, respectively. All three of the backers were big, fast, mobile and mean. Yalla had killed ten professional football players. Ten. That wasn’t something you could just brush off. Quentin needed to know where Yalla was at all times.
Black field, black uniforms, the stands filled with a sea of black.
This was payback for Quentin. But even more, it was payback for his friend Ju Tweedy.
Quentin bent under center, hands pressed against Bud-O-Shwek’s pebbly skin. “Blue, sixteen!” Quentin called out over the crowd’s roar. “Blue, sixteeeeen! Hut-hut!”
No surprises on the first play. The Krakens were a running team, Ju Tweedy was the best back in the game and that was that. Quentin turned to the left. Becca shot by, Quentin extended, a wild-eyed Ju Tweedy took the ball. Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit drove forward, pushing Kan-E-Shiro back. Becca landed a head-to-head shot on McRoberts, knocking the big Human linebacker on his ass. Then Ju raged into the narrow hole. Instead of cutting to the left, to open space, he cut right and lowered his shoulders, smashing head-to-head with Yalla the Biter. The crack echoed through the stadium, audible even up at the fourth deck. Both sentients fell to the black field, both instantly scrambled to their feet. They stood chest-to-chest, facemask-to-facemask, Human and Quyth Warrior leaning into each other in a wordless challenge so primitive and universal it pre-dated history and culture.
Yalla said something Quentin couldn’t hear.
Ju pushed the Quyth Warrior in the chest. “No, you’re an idiot!”
Yalla pushed back. The scene instantly disintegrated as Death and Krakens players grabbed, pushed, shoved, a swirling pile of aggression just a hair shy of a full-out brawl. Whistles blew. Black-and white-striped zebes flew in to break up the scuffle.
The Krakens’ first play of the game? A 5-yard gain and a fight. So this was how the rivalry would go?
That was fine. Just fine.
• • •
QUENTIN DROPPED BACK to pass, checking through the receivers, his brain aware of each lineman, of the pressure closing in, of how long he had to throw the ball. The Death had great linebackers, but the defensive line wasn’t that strong and neither was the secondary.
He fired the ball to the left sideline. His favorite pattern: throw the ball just a few feet out of bounds, where Halawa could stretch out and grab it, her feet dragging in-bounds before she slid into the sideline. Complete for 13 yards.
On the next snap, Quentin pitched wide right to Ju. All three OS1 linebackers read the play and came in hard. Becca delivered a knock-out blow on McPike, stayed on her feet, then managed to trip up McRoberts in a two-for-one blocking clinic. She took out two defenders, but Yalla came free. Ju again tried to go head-to-head. This time, he came out on the losing end. Yalla hit the big running back with perfect tackling form: shoulder pad in the gut, middle arms locking hard around the back, lifting and driving. Yalla put him hard into the black turf. That battle would rage all day, the league’s best running back against the league’s best linebacker.
On second-and-long, Quentin dropped back again. He saw Hawick angling deep to the middle of the field, saw that the safety was slow to react. Quentin launched the ball — a perfect spiral of brown and white against the stadium’s backdrop of highwalled black and crystal blue. It hit Hawick in stride at the 5. She carried the ball into the end zone untouched for a 65-yard touchdown.
Quentin knelt and plucked a few pieces of the tough black plant that made up the field’s surface. He held them to his nose and sniffed — the scent of sappy pine, just like he remembered from his rookie season.
Arioch Morningstar kicked the extra point. Tie game, 7-7.
Quentin’s first drive: 2-for-2, 78 yards and a touchdown.
Top that, Condor.
• • •
CONDOR DID. The Death took over at their own 25-yard line. The OS1 quarterback completed five straight passes, driving his team down to the Ionath 17. Coach Hokor stepped up the pressure by sending John Tweedy and Virak the Mean on an all-out blitz, but Condor seemed to be waiting for just that. He flipped the ball horizontally, out to the flat — a screen pass to running back Chooch Motumbo. Chooch followed his blockers into the end zone for a touchdown.
Quentin stood on the sidelines, staring, his chest roiling with jealousy.
Nine passes, nine completions, 157 yards, two touchdowns. Condor was setting the bar at an impossible level.
A hand on his shoulder pad. Quentin turned to see the blue face of Don Pine.
“Don’t worry about him,” Don said. “He’s hot. He’ll cool off. Hokor will figure out how to slow him down. You play your game, got it?”
Quentin paused, torn between pushing the man away or listening to the advice. Before he could decide, Don turned and walked off. Quentin pulled on his helmet and prepared for the next drive.
• • •
THE FIRE OF COMPETITION BURNED so intensely that his face felt hot, his stomach twirled, his toes tingled. Quentin was the future of the league, not Condor. No way.
Quentin completed his first two passes, a cross to Cheboygan for 8 yards, followed by a swing pass to Becca. She made one move to leave a Death player grabbing air, then lowered her shoulder and smashed the cornerback into the ground. She stepped over the fallen defender and sprinted forward, turning a simple 3-yard pass into a 20-yard gain. Quentin and Condor weren’t the only ones having big games — everything Becca did, from blocking to catching to running, it all seemed to be disciplined, perfect.
The next round of Ju vs. Yalla went Ju’s way. The younger Tweedy brother took a handoff and went straight up the middle, reaching full speed as he slid between the blocks of Bud-OShwek and Michael Kimberlin. Yalla read the play too late, was caught flat-footed. Ju’s helmet buried in Yalla’s thorax, knocking the Quyth Warrior linebacker to the ground. Yalla’s pedipalps reached up, ripping skin from Ju’s hands, but the big running back barely slowed. Trailing blood, he pounded straight downfield to the OS1 12-yard line before the safety tripped him up from behind.
Ju stood, pointed his right hand at the stands and banged on his chest with his bloody left fist. He was challenging the crowd directly, body language screaming to a hundred-thousand fans that they should have never doubted him, never turned on him. They booed, they scraped pedipalps, they hissed, filling Beefeater Gin Stadium with the sound of hate.
The face of Hokor the Hookchest appeared in Quentin’s headsup display.
“Barnes, Ju needs a breather. Power set, wing right, boot-pass right. Use your head be
fore you use your feet.”
“Okay, Coach.”
The Krakens huddled up for the next play. Ju, Hawick and Milford ran off, replaced by Yassoud Murphy, Yotaro Kobayasho and Tara the Freak.
Quentin clapped three times to get their attention. “Okay, boys and girls, let’s tie this game up. Power set, wing right, boot-pass right, X-out, Y-curl, A-wheel. ‘Soud, need a big fake from you, we have to sell the run — you do it right and Yalla is going to knock you on your ass.”
“Oh, yep,” Yassoud said. “I’m ready for his ugly face.”
“Right,” Quentin said. “If Yalla doesn’t buy the fake, we need a block on him from the tight ends before you run your route. We can’t let him come clean, got it?”
Yotaro nodded, but George seemed to be staring off to the right, at the crowd, not paying attention. His black face-paint seemed a strange choice for this game.
Quentin reached out and slapped his helmet. “Starcher! You hear me?”
George’s eyes snapped up, blinked. He nodded.
“Good,” Quentin said. “Okay, let’s get those points. On three, on three, ready?”
“BREAK!”
The Krakens lined up. The power set put seven big bodies on the line of scrimmage: the offensive linemen, plus Yotaro at left tight end, Starcher at right. Cheboygan lined up a yard behind and a yard to the left of Yotaro. Becca at fullback, Yassoud at tailback.
Quentin scanned the defense. The Death’s 4-3 put four linemen down on the line, three linebackers behind them. Yalla was the middle linebacker, but he was cheating to his left, Quentin’s right, toward George’s side of the line. Quentin smiled — Yalla would have to choose between covering George or coming in to tackle Quentin. If Yalla did the former, Quentin would cut up field for a big gain. If Yalla chose the latter, George would slow Yalla with a chip-block, then roll out to the open area of the field for an easy pass.
“Red, twenty-two! Red, twenty two! Hut-hut ... hut!”
The lines collided. Quentin turned to his left, letting Becca rush by. He extended to Yassoud, who brought his arms together just as Quentin pulled the ball away and turned to the right. The Mad Macs filled the holes, leaving no openings, so ‘Soud just slammed into the line.