THE ALL-PRO (Galactic Football League)

by Scott Sigler

  Ball on his right hip, Quentin ran to the right. Most of the defense had bought the fake. He ran past his right tackle Vu-Ko-Will, knowing George was blocking Yalla.

  He was wrong.

  George ran right by Yalla. No chip-block to slow down the All-Pro linebacker, who rolled in at top speed. Quentin’s mental timer began. He planted his feet, stopping his right-side momentum, turning back to the left -he didn’t even have a full second to react.

  He saw Becca on the goal line, side-stepping to an open area. Quentin threw faster than he’d ever thrown before, whipping the ball at her as he felt pincer-hands lock down on the backs of his shoulder pads. Then he was flying, spinning. The black ground slammed into him. He bounced, spots flashing before his eyes.

  He felt a burning sting rip across his chin.

  That pain made the spots vanish. Quentin’s hand shot to his chin, came away covered in blood. He looked up. Yalla stood there, red blood dropping from his right pedipalp fingers — not his blood, Quentin’s blood.

  Yalla put the bloody fingers in his mouth and licked them. “I ended your friend Paul Pierson’s career, but you I am going to kill. I’d have killed your weak friend Mitchell Fayed, but he wasn’t strong enough to make it to Tier One.”

  Yalla turned and walked away.

  How dare you even speak his name.

  Quentin stood and pulled off his helmet. He swung it like a weapon, bringing it down hard on the back of Yalla’s head.

  Yalla dropped to the ground, instantly limp.

  “You don’t speak his name!” Quentin screamed, then raised the helmet again. A Harrah ref flew in. Quentin tried to abort the swing, but the momentum carried the helmet into the blackand-white striped official. It wasn’t that big of a hit, but the level of impact didn’t matter — as soon as it connected, Quentin knew he’d screwed up.

  Flags flew, whistles sounded, the crowd booed, scraped and hissed. Three zebes flew around Quentin, circling him.

  “Ejected!” one of them said. “Number ten, get off the field. You’re ejected from the game.”

  Quentin’s rage had vanished the second he’d hit the ref. No point in arguing. As he walked off, he looked back to where Yalla still lie on the ground.

  Yalla lifted his head and looked at Quentin. For just a second, his single, baseball-sized eye flooded the yellow of excitement. In that moment, Quentin knew he’d been baited. It had been a setup, Yalla trying to draw Quentin into a cheap shot that would get Quentin kicked out of the game. And it had worked.

  Quentin walked off the field. Hokor and Pine were talking. The extra-point team ran on. Quentin glanced at the scoreboard: 14-13. His pass to Becca had gone for a touchdown.

  A ref escorted him to the tunnel. He’d been ejected and couldn’t stay on the sidelines. Quentin would watch the rest of the game from the locker room.

  • • •

  AT HALFTIME, THE KRAKENS filtered into the locker room. They were down 28-21. Condor Adrienne seemed unstoppable. Don Pine, on the other hand, seemed very stoppable. The veteran limped in, helped by Michael Kimberlin. Kimberlin set Don on a med table, then cleared the way for a fluttering Doc Patah. Don’s right eye was swollen shut. Blood trickled from a broken nose. All from another missed block by Crazy George Starcher.

  Don wasn’t the only one that looked beat-up. Ju lie flat on a bench, jersey and shoulder armor off, a bag of ice taped to his shoulder. Yassoud bounced in place. His jersey was torn and splattered with black blood, but other than that, he looked excited and ready to fight. Becca stood like a statue, bloody arms crossed in front of her. She had played a flawless game so far, executing perfect blocks and dishing out heavy damage when the opportunities presented themselves. She’d knocked Matt McRoberts out of the game for good and her second-quarter hit on Yalla had sent the All-Pro linebacker to the sidelines for repairs to his middle-right arm.

  The game between the Orbiting Death and the Ionath Krakens had turned into a street-fight. The Krakens were getting their asses kicked.

  “We’re being out-hustled,” Hokor said. “Out-hit, out-blocked, out-played and out-meaned. Krakens, we have to hit back and hit back hard! Doc Patah?”

  The Harrah spun in place.

  Hokor pointed at Pine. “Will he be ready to go?”

  Doc Patah spun again. Mouth-flaps touched Don’s eye, his nose. The Harrah turned to face the coach.

  “He’s out,” Patah said. “I will not let him return for the second half.”

  Hokor threw his little hat to the floor. “Goldman!”

  Yitzhak stood, his orange jersey clean and spotless. “Coach?”

  “You’re in for the second half. Talk to Barnes. I have to make defensive adjustments. We can’t give Adrienne that much time.”

  Behind by seven, half a game to go, and down to their third-string quarterback? It didn’t look good.

  • • •

  YITZHAK GOLDMAN’S UNIFORM didn’t stay clean for long. Ju ran the ball for the first two plays of the half. Then Zak dropped back on what was meant to be a short pass to build his confidence, but he misread a blitz and went down hard.

  The sack set the tone for the remainder of the game. Zak played hard, played tough, but he wasn’t up to the task. He didn’t have Don’s vision, he didn’t have Quentin’s feet.

  It got worse on the Death’s first possession. OS1 returned the Krakens’ punt to the Ionath 25-yard line, then scored four plays later on a dive from one yard out.

  Zak didn’t play bad, but he didn’t set the world on fire. Maybe if the Krakens had already held the lead, he could have managed the game, played the clock for the win. But because Ionath was down two touchdowns, he was forced to play catch-up. That meant throwing the ball. Throwing the ball meant getting sacked. It meant hurrying throws, which meant interceptions — in his case, two of them.

  John Tweedy finally got to Adrienne halfway through the third quarter. A vicious blind-side hit knocked the red-hot quarterback out of the game, but it was too late for the Krakens to catch up.

  When the gun sounded, the Black Hole home crowd roared in approval at their team’s 35-21 win.

  • • •

  THE VISITORS’ LOCKER ROOM looked like a hospital full of victims from some minor disaster. The healing tanks were full, which left less-injured players stretched out on benches and tables in the communal area. It would take hours to mop up all the multi-colored blood from the white floor. The Krakens had been beat up physically and mentally. There was no question that the Orbiting Death was the superior team that day. In a game of smash-mouth football, the Krakens got their mouths smashed in.

  Other than a blue nanocyte bandage on his chin, Quentin was unmarked. He hadn’t been in long enough to take any serious damage. He felt fine. Feeling fine made him feel guilty — as he looked around at his damaged teammates, he wondered what might have been had he kept his temper, had he not let Yalla the Biter play him like that.

  Quentin waited for Ju Tweedy, who was gingerly sliding his injured arm through the sleeve of his button-down shirt.

  “Good game, Ju.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You had a hundred and twelve yards, man. You ran your ass off.”

  Ju tried to button his shirt, but winced. “Ah, man, this hurts. Messal!”

  The Quyth Worker scurried over and started buttoning Ju’s shirt.

  Quentin picked up a shoulder sling sitting on the bench in front of Ju’s locker. “Doc say you gotta wear this?”

  “Couple of days,” Ju said. “Something about my rotator cuff or whatever. Doc said something like, blah-blah-blah, cartilage, blah-blah-blah, two days.”

  “Sounds like a very comprehensive diagnosis.”

  “Whatever,” Ju said. Messal finished buttoning the shirt, then helped Ju put his right arm in the sling. Messal then helped Ju into his sport coat. The right side hung armless over his shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Ju said to the Worker.

  Messal nodded. “Of course, Mister Tweedy, anythi
ng I can do to help. If you gentleman are ready, I am to escort you to a meeting room where Commissioner Froese is waiting.”

  Ju took a deep breath, let it out in a huff. “Nothing like getting your ass kicked for sixty minutes, then going to see the commissioner to get more of the same.”

  Quentin nodded. “The timing is great. You ready?”

  Ju slowly rolled out his neck. His eyes squeezed tight, wrinkling at the corners. Normally he wore an expression of anger, of arrogance, or both. This was first time Quentin had seen him look worried.

  “It’s a murder charge,” Ju said quietly. “I mean, when there was all the running and hiding and shooting, I was only thinking about staying alive. If Villani can make these charges stick, I’m screwed.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  Ju looked at him, smiled. “Except for my brother, anyone else would have bailed on me. Especially after that hack-job article.”

  Quentin shrugged. “I believe you, that’s all.”

  “That’s not all, Q. It wasn’t me on the cover of Galaxy Sports, it was you. Somehow all this crap landed on your head. I never meant for that to happen.”

  Quentin felt uncomfortable, just wanted the conversation to end. “I know you didn’t. Nothing we can do but ride it out. The truth will set us free.”

  Ju laughed. “Ah, all that religious stuff, right?”

  Quentin nodded.

  “Well I hope your High One can lend a hand. We can’t avoid Froese anymore. If he pulls my immunity, I don’t even get to leave OS1. I could be in jail tonight. If I am? You can bet I’ll be dead by morning.”

  Quentin had known how serious this all was, sure, but he hadn’t thought things out that far. Ju’s life was in danger.

  “Ju, I said I won’t let that happen. And see? Your problems are a lot worse than mine. I’m not the one accused of murder.”

  Ju looked away, staring into nothing. “I loved Grace. I really did.”

  Another expression Quentin had never seen on Ju’s face — pain. Or maybe loss. Probably a combination of both. Quentin wanted say the right thing, but he had no idea what that was. Words weren’t really his strong suit and he knew it.

  “Gentlemen,” Messal said. “I have no desire to interrupt your conversation, but if I may suggest that we meet with the commissioner now? He is waiting and I believe that Gredok is alone with him.”

  “Oh, no,” Quentin said. “Ju, let’s move. Gredok hates Froese.”

  Messal led the way. Quentin and Ju followed.

  • • •

  QUENTIN HAD UNKNOWINGLY grown used to newly built stadiums, used to pristine, shining temples built to glorify the gridiron game. Ionath Stadium was only eleven years old and it was one of the older constructs in Tier One. Everywhere Quentin played, he found spotless hallways, fresh paint or new smart-paper, gleaming glass and sparkling fixtures.

  Beefeater Gin Stadium, on the other hand? It looked as beat-up and worn-in as an ancient leather helmet. Messal led them through narrow tunnels carved into the rock and through veins of blue crystal. Pipes lined the ceiling. Glow-bulbs cast dim illumination. Where there was paint, it was cracked and peeling. This place predated the GFL — sports of some kind had been played here for many decades.

  The stadium reminded Quentin of the mines on Micovi. That should have made him hate it, but instead, that familiarity made him instantly fall in love with it. This place? This was real. The Death organization didn’t seem to care about appearances. What mattered was what happened on the field.

  Messal stopped at a door. The door looked slightly odd — new and smooth set amidst old and gnarly. Flat-black, decorated only with the Orbiting Death logo and a name.

  ANNA VILLANI

  “Crap,” Ju said.

  “Please enter,” Messal said. “They are waiting for you.”

  Ju looked at Quentin. “What do you think, Q? Want to make a run for it?”

  “No,” Quentin said. “We’d forfeit the next six games. Let’s get this done.”

  Ju sighed, then opened the door and walked in. Quentin followed.

  Inside waited the three faces Quentin had expected — Gredok the Splithead, Commissioner Froese and the hulking form of Leiba the Gorgeous. There was also one face he should have expected, but had not — Anna Villani, owner of the Orbiting Death.

  “Hello, boys,” she said. She wore a jacket of black fur that ended at her waist. It made her oddly resemble Gredok the Splithead, if Gredok was a smoking-hot Human woman with red, six-inch heels and legs clad in black fishnet stockings. Her dress was a “skirt” in name only, as there was barely enough material to cover her curvaceous hips. She’d changed her hair since the last time Quentin had seen her. Still raven-black, but now shorter, done in glossy waves that rose up and vanished into a black lace hat decorated with a small metal Orbiting Death logo. Like last time, her lips and fingernails gleamed metalflake-red. All the decoration and beauty, however, did little to mask her soulless, gleeful eyes, expectant eyes — Anna was enjoying this.

  “I thought I’d make my office available for the meeting,” she said. “To make it easier on all involved.”

  Ju pointed at her. “You’re a super-mega bitch.”

  “Aw, Ju, honey, don’t be mean. Nice effort out there today. Sorry you couldn’t bring home the win. That Yalla is one tough sentient, isn’t he?”

  “Enough,” Froese said in his big voice that didn’t fit his little body. “Everyone, have a seat.”

  Ju again pointed at Anna. “Why is she here?”

  “Because I want her here, Tweedy,” Froese said. “Now sit.”

  Froese sat behind Anna’s desk, which looked big enough to swallow him up. Anna and Gredok sat in chairs off to Froese’s right. Leiba remained standing, in his usual place right behind the Commissioner. That left the two chairs in front of the desk for Quentin and Ju.

  They sat. Quentin noticed the desk was full of knick-knacks and holocubes. Only a couple of the cubes showed Anna. Most showed a red-furred Quyth Leader, always dressed in Orbiting Death gear. Quentin realized who it was — Sikka the Death, former owner of the OS1 franchise. Anna hadn’t removed Sikka’s things. Perhaps she kept it as it was like some kind of trophy. That woman made his skin crawl.

  “Gredok,” Froese said, “you have managed to delay these inquiry meetings. It was a year ago the crime happened and only now do we sit down with all the parties involved.”

  “We’ve been awfully busy,” Gredok said.

  “Never again,” Froese said. “If there is ever another disciplinary issue and you evade me like this, I’ll pull the franchise charter.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Gredok stared, blinked. “Don’t make idle threats, Commis-”

  “They’re not idle, Gredok. I have authority from the Creterakian Emperor himself. You screw with me ever again and I will crush you. Do you understand?”

  Quentin sat as still as he could, watching the showdown between the two tiny-yet-powerful sentients. Was Froese suicidal? The commissioner was pushing Gredok too far, unless he actually did have the Emperor’s backing. Little was known about the Emperor other than that he (or she, or it) was the most powerful individual in the galaxy.

  Froese leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Gredok, I asked you a question.”

  Tiny waves ruffled along Gredok’s black fur. “Yes, Commissioner Froese. I understand.”

  Froese nodded, leaned back. “Good. Now, on to the business at hand.”

  “Yes,” Anna said. “Let’s talk about this murderer’s future.”

  Froese turned to her. “Villani, you will sit there and keep your mouth shut.”

  “What? Froese, I am a Tier One owner, if you think you can speak to me like that, then you—”

  “Enough! You thought I involved you in this meeting so you could be a spectator of the theater that you created?”

  “I created? Ju Tweedy is a murderer! You have been lax in your duties for too long, letting him abuse diplomatic immunity and—”<
br />
  “Leiba,” Froese said, “if this woman says another word, throw her out.”

  “She’s so delicate,” the Quyth Warrior said, a certain eagerness in his voice. “I might hurt her in the process.”

  Froese nodded. “That’s the idea.”

  Anna opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when Leiba took a single, sudden step in her direction. She looked around, seeming to search for her gangland goons that weren’t there.

  She closed her mouth.

  Froese turned to face Ju. “Now, as for you, Tweedy.”

  “I didn’t kill Grace McDermot.”

  “I’ll get to that in a moment. What you did do was play games with me and I’m going to make an example of you.”

  “But Commissioner,” Quentin said, “he’s telling the truth!”

  Froese jabbed a finger at Quentin. “Barnes, you shut your mouth! I’ll get to you in a moment, but until then, not ... another ... word.”

  Quentin leaned back in his chair. Gredok was frightening because he could have people killed. So was Anna. The diminutive Froese was frightening in another way, an all-football way. On a whim, he could have Quentin banned from the game. For some reason, that scared Quentin far worse than the concept of death.

  Froese glared at everyone in turn, daring someone to speak. No one did. He then looked back at Leiba.

  “Bring her in.”

  Leiba walked to the office door and stepped outside. The five remaining sentients sat in awkward silence. When the door opened, things got even more uncomfortable.

  She walked in on crutches, her left leg in a rejuve cast, a dark bruise on her left eye. Beat up, but no mistaking that perfect purple skin, darker purple lips or that white hair — Yolanda Davenport. She wore jeans and a modest-yet-professional light blue jacket. Yolanda was equally as beautiful as Anna, but an antithesis of the crime lord’s ostentation.

  “You?” Anna said, more a noise of disbelief than an actual word. “But, you’re ...”