by Scott Sigler
“Okay,” Rick said. He nodded. “That’s your first reason. What’s your second?”
“The second reason—” Quentin extended his index finger and lightly poked Warburg in the chest “—is you. I did you wrong. I’m going to make it right. You want off the Krakens? You want other teams to see your skills so you can get that big contract? You want the ball? I’m going to get you the ball.”
“I’m not going to change who I am,” Rick said. “I know what the truth is, Quentin. I won’t betray my beliefs.”
“I wish it wasn’t that way, but that’s the way it is. Off the field, you can do whatever the hell you want. It’s not my place to judge. On the field, you’ll do your job and help us win games. I’m never going to like you, Warburg, but I’ll stop being the sanctimonious ass I’ve been — when we play ball, I’ll treat you like the asset you are.”
Warburg smiled. A small one, but genuine. He finally had recognition for his talent, for his efforts. “Okay. That works for me. I can tell you right now, though, you’re going to regret this.”
“Why?”
Rick again turned to face the mirror. His smile widened. “When you see what I can do, you’re going to wish you pulled your head out of your ass a whole lot sooner.”
Quentin stood. “I hope so. See you at practice.”
He walked out, hearing the groans of the patrons asking do you have to leave so soon? But he couldn’t stay.
He had to study. A win against D’Kow put the Krakens back in the hunt. A loss meant they were out of the playoffs for good.
• • •
“SO THERE’S NOTHING we can do?”
Quentin already knew the answer, but he had to ask. Danny Lundy’s mechanical arms played with the holo display a little more. Probably just for show — he already knew the contract inside and out. Aside from the two of them, Danny’s office was empty. He’d even sent home his eye-candy secretary.
A long sigh escaped Danny’s blow hole. “Nothing. This agreement is iron-clad, guy. You really should have let me do the talking.”
Quentin looked up to the ceiling, nodded. Danny was right. Quentin should have let his agent handle things. Instead, he’d played into Gredok’s hands.
“Look on the bright side,” Danny said. The Dolphin seemed resigned to the facts — contracts were his game, he’d taken on Gredok the Splithead and he’d lost. All’s fair in football and war. “You can’t play for another team, not even Tier Three ball. You got cheated out of twenty-five million, but you’re making more at this than you would, say, washing dishes, which is the kind of job you’d probably get with your high level of education and well-developed skill set.”
“That’s your definition of a bright side?”
“You wanted to be a Kraken, buddy. The bright side is you’re a Kraken and will be for the next ten years. Gredok has salary-cap room to go get other players. In a way, you got exactly what you wanted.”
Right. Like Quentin wanted to play for a sentient that had toyed with his emotions, manipulated him like some kind of pet.
“What if I quit football altogether?”
Danny’s Dolphin squeal-laugh had no humor. “Sure, buddy. Quentin Barnes is just going to quit the game. And I have a nice undersea bridge to sell you. Time to get over it, guy. You lost. You’re going to play because that’s all you want to do, it’s all you know how to do. You’re going to play for Ionath. You’re going to play for Gredok the Splithead. Mind if I give you some advice?”
Quentin laughed. “Sure, why not?”
“You lost. It’s over. It’s just like when you lose on a Sunday afternoon. Put it behind you, move on to the next game. The only sentient that can get you out of this contract is the owner of the Ionath Krakens and we know that’s not going to happen.”
Quentin bit his lip, then nodded. Danny had done all he could. The agent could do no more. Quentin stood, shook the metal hand, then left the office.
The only one who could get him out of the contract was the owner?
Fine.
That was just fine.
Quentin would worry about that another time. After the season. For now, he had to get his head straight, as Ma Tweedy had told him. If he led his team to a home win against the D’Kow War Dogs on Sunday, the Krakens might just make the playoffs after all.
One game at a time.
• • •
QUENTIN ROLLED LEFT on a boot pass, his feet flying over Ionath Stadium’s blue turf, Becca Montagne out in front of him to block. The game demanded every shred of concentration — it pushed away the thoughts of his father. Or maybe the horrific uniforms of the D’Kow War Dogs did that, so ugly they blocked out everything else.
Lime-green jerseys with purple numbers trimmed in orange. Quentin had been told the purple was something called mauve, but all he knew was that the color was even uglier than regular purple. Lime-green thigh armor with horizontal orange stripes on the thighs, purple lower-leg armor and shoes. The right shoulder showed the team’s emblem — a lime-green, stylized walking dog on a black-lined orange shield. The left shoulder showed the player’s number, again in orange-trimmed purple. Damn near hurt to look at the uniforms.
Three War Dog players closed in fast — HeavyG defensive end Michael Grace, Quyth Warrior linebacker Zeus the Ram and cornerback Tübingen. Tübingen barreled in on a corner-blitz. She had lined up woman-to-woman on Hawick, who was streaking down the sidelines.
Because Tübingen blitzed, the safety had to run with Hawick — that meant there were no defenders left on the outside to cover Rick Warburg, who was rushing straight upfield and about to make his flag-route cut of 45 degrees to the left.
Rick would be wide open, if Quentin had time to throw. Tübingen came from the outside, cutting off any run to the sidelines. Quentin’s feet chopped at the ground, stopping his momentum, taking him back to the right. He kept his eyes downfield as Michael Grace reached for him, but Becca launched herself like a missile and hit Grace square in his big chest. Grace stumbled back, his forward momentum gone.
Becca should have fallen to the ground, but somehow she twisted in mid-air, stretching herself out the other way to fall at the feet of the sprinting Quyth Warrior, Zeus. The linebacker tripped — not enough to fall, but enough that he also lost his momentum. Tübingen shot past them, closing in from the left. Quentin threw just before she leveled him, an awkward left-handed toss while running right. The ball sailed through the air, wobbly but on-target, toward the sidelines — it dropped in just over Warburg’s left shoulder.
Looking back over that shoulder, Warburg watched the pass, so soft it could have been a baby set in his palms by a worried mother. He hauled it in, tucked the ball in his left arm as he turned upfield, big legs chewing up the yards. The screaming crowd urged him on.
The safety broke off of Hawick and rushed in to meet Warburg at the 10. Warburg reared back to deliver a big blow. The safety reared back to match, but just before contact, Warburg made a little jump to the right, to the inside. The safety flew by, her tentacles ripping across his thigh armor. Warburg was too big to be brought down like that. He ran into the end zone for his second touchdown of the day. Ionath up 34-30, extra point still to come.
Quentin felt his shoulder pads being pulled, someone trying to lift him off the ground. He stood, seeing that Becca and Tübingen had both helped him up. Quentin brushed blue turf off of his black jersey.
“Nice hit,” he said.
Tübingen shivered. “Oh, thank you, Godling! I tried to please you!”
Becca laughed. “By knocking him on his ass?”
“Absolutely,” Quentin said, then patted the cornerback on the helmet. “You are a blessing to your team.”
Tübingen knelt, used her tentacle fingers to pluck a few blades of blue-leaved Iomatt, then handed it to Quentin. “Now you sniff your touchdown powers of holy-holiness?”
“Huh?”
Becca nodded toward the offered blue plants. “The sniff. You do it after every big touchdow
n.”
Quentin looked at her. “I do?”
“Yeah.” She again nodded to the outstretched tentacles. Quentin took the offered plants and sniffed. Smelled like cinnamon.
Tübingen squealed, then sprinted off the field at full speed. Quentin and Becca jogged to the sidelines as the extra point team came on.
“Did you see that move Warburg threw?” Becca said. “I always thought he was nothing but a bruiser.”
“Usually he is. He likes to hurt sentients, especially Sklorno. Seems he’s got skills he hasn’t used.”
“I’ll say,” Becca said. “Very athletic.”
Hands and pedipalps and tentacles patted them as they reached the sidelines. Quentin looked for defensive end Rich Palmer. He grabbed the rookie’s jersey, looked at the nervous blue eyes inside the helmet.
“Palmer, we need you to step up.”
Palmer nodded, said nothing. The look on his face carried a dual expression of excitement and anxiety.
“Khomeni’s hurt,” Quentin said. “We need to play smart, okay? You can do this. Bring home the win.”
Quentin slapped Palmer’s helmet. The big defensive end ran on to the field. Quentin took off his helmet. He and Becca walked to a medbay. Lying on his back on that bench, Ibrahim Khomeni. The star defensive end’s knee was lost inside of metal rigging, wires and needles. Doc Patah’s mouth-flaps flicked in and out of the rig, the open flesh beneath it, working a ligament stapler and a bone grafter.
Ibrahim opened his eyes, saw Quentin.
“Sorry,” he said.
Quentin laughed. “Not your fault, man. Everyone gets hurt sooner or later. Palmer will finish the job and you’ll be back next week.”
Khomeni gave a weak smile. He wouldn’t be back next week. He knew it, Quentin knew it.
“You know it, Q,” he said. “Just finish this one off for me.”
Quentin lightly patted Khomeni’s thick shoulder, then walked to the benches and sat. He grabbed two water bottles, handed one to Becca, took a long drink from the other.
“Becca,” he said when he finished, “what you did out there on that last drive? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
She took off her helmet and gave him a quizzical look, her black hair plastered wetly to her head. “Me? I just blocked.”
“I should have been sacked on that play. Not just sacked ... more like executed. You blocked two players at the same time. What are you, like an acrobat or something?”
She scowled and shook her head. “I just blocked. You must have been hit harder than you think. Good pass, though.”
The rest of the offense gathered around them, including Warburg. Hokor squeezed into the middle dragging a portable holotank, cutting off all conversation.
“We’re up 35-30,” he said. “Barnes, nice pass. Warburg, great run. Becca, amazing blocking. Now, we have to assume our defense can’t hold them, so let’s be ready for a two-minute drive to set up a field goal.”
His pedipalp fingers worked the holotank. A field appeared in mid-air, showing the play they’d just run. Hokor’s fingertips started drawing lines of light that hung there, revealing the paths of various players.
“We can hit this pass again if we have to,” he said. “Now, everyone, if the corner doesn’t blitz, look at what’s available.”
Quentin leaned forward, focusing on the inch-high football players and their respective paths.
GFL WEEK ELEVEN ROUNDUP
Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network
WITH A 45-42 UPSET win over the Yall Criminals (7-3), the Vik Vanguard (7-3) locked up the third playoff spot in the Solar Division and capped an amazing turnaround from last year. In 2683, the Vanguard finished 2-10, barely ahead of relegated Chillich Spider-Bears, who finished at 1-11.
This is Vik’s first trip to the postseason since they lost the 2679 Galaxy Bowl to the New Rodina Astronauts. The Vanguard has now won five straight games.
“We’re thrilled with a trip to the playoffs, but we’re not done,” said Vanguard coach Katie Lampkin. “We have two games left in the regular season. We’ll be fighting hard to catch Jupiter in the standings and get a home playoff game.”
Lampkin’s hope is now a possibility thanks to Jupiter’s 21-10 loss to the Bord Brigands (4-6). The Jacks (8-2) are currently the second seed in the Solar Division playoffs, but could be overtaken by the Vanguard. The Jacks still have to face the Neptune Scarlet Fliers (9-1) and the Jang Atom Smashers (4-6).
The Bartel Water Bugs (5-5) currently hold the fourth seed in the Solar, thanks to a 20-14 win over the Sala Intrigue (1-9). Bord, Jang and the Texas Earthlings (4-6) all won, keeping their playoff hopes mathematically alive.
The Earthlings’ shocking 17-14 cross-divisional upset over the To Pirates (8-2) shook things up in the Planet Division. Texans linebacker Alonzo Castro was the hero of the game, causing a fourth-quarter fumble on a Frank Zimmer sack that Castro also recovered and ran back for the winning touchdown.
The Pirates’ loss leaves Wabash (9-1) all alone in first place in the Planet. The Wolfpack locked up a playoff berth with a 28-24 win over Isis (7-3). Even if Wabash loses its final two games and finishes 9-3, it holds head-to-head tiebreakers over Isis, Yall (7-3) and Themala (7-3).
The Ionath Krakens (7-3) are also finally in the playoff hunt. Ionath’s 35-30 win over the D’Kow War Dogs moves the Krakens back into a four-way tie for third place. This week Ionath travels to Themala. The winner of that game is almost guaranteed a playoff berth.
Deaths
No deaths reported this week.
Offensive Player of the Week
Ionath Krakens tight end Rick Warburg, who caught eight passes for 112 yards and two touchdowns in a win over the D’Kow War Dogs.
Defensive Player of the Week
Bord defensive end Paul “Bandit” Preston, who picked up three sacks and four solo tackles in the Brigands’ upset win over the Jupiter Jacks.
22
WEEK TWELVE:
IONATH KRAKENS
at THEMALA DREADNAUGHTS
PLANET DIVISION
9-1 x - Wabash Wolfpack
8-2 To Pirates
7-3 Isis Ice Storm
7-3 Yall Criminals
7-3 Ionath Krakens
7-3 Themala Dreadnaughts
4-6 Hittoni Hullwalkers
4-6 OS1 Orbiting Death
3-7 Coranadillana Cloud Killers
2-8 Alimum Armada
1-9 Lu Juggernauts
SOLAR DIVISION
9-1 x - Neptune Scarlet Fliers
8-2 x - Jupiter Jacks
7-3 x - Vik Vanguard
5-5 Bartel Water Bugs
4-6 Bord Brigands
4-6 Jang Atom Smashers
4-6 Texas Earthlings
3-7 D’Kow War Dogs
3-7 New Rodina Astronauts
3-7 Shorah Warlords
1-9 Sala Intrigue
x = playoffs, y = division title, * = team has been relegated
QUENTIN AND JOHN TWEEDY WALKED down an 18th-deck corridor toward Hokor’s office aboard the Touchback. He’d summoned the two of them, his team captains, to come up after Thursday practice. Themala was only a one-day trip — short by the season’s standards. Hokor wanted to arrive Friday morning, letting the team get a full practice in on Themala’s field and get the feel of the place.
“Q, brother, can I be honest with you?
“Of course,” Quentin said.
“You’re doing super-mega better in practice this week than you were in Week Ten against the Pirates,” John said. “That was enough to beat D’Kow, but Themala is way better than the War Dogs. We need you at the top of your game to beat Themala. You’re still a little distracted. I know your fake-pops is scrambling the noodley goodness that is your brains, but you gotta let it go.”
Like mother, like son. Until they’d left for Themala, Ma Tweedy had been telling Quentin the same thing — every night when she left, every morning when she showed up at his door to make sure he was
ready for practice. The woman didn’t seem to require sleep. But her efforts were working. Quentin’s concentration had improved. He would never forget what Gredok had done, but there was time to worry about that later — Ma Tweedy helped Quentin focus on the task at hand.
The task of making the playoffs.
“I’m trying,” Quentin said. “I really am, Uncle Johnny, but it’s easier said than done. That Vinje guy ... I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I still say you should have let me kill him,” John said. “You can hire Fred for that, you know.”
“Fred’s killed people?”
“Yes, but they were all bad,” John said. “Fred is very selective about his jobs.”
Quentin had buried his pain in hard work, pushed the team to match his intensity. Two games left in the season. Sunday’s contest against Themala was critically important — both teams were 7-and-3 and tied for third. That meant the winner would not only move to 8-and-3 but have a head-to-head tiebreaker important for determining playoff berths. The winner was all but in, the loser more than likely out.
Ionath’s team goal of making the playoffs hung intoxicatingly close, maybe just one win away.
“You gotta get over it, Q,” John said. “I know it sucks, brother. I do, but the entire franchise rides on your shoulders.”
John was right. Quentin’s problem was just that — Quentin’s problem. He had to find a way to put Sarge Vinje behind him, at least until the season was over. “I’ll work on it, John.”
John smiled. THERE IS NO DO, THERE IS ONLY TO TRY OR NOT TO BE scrolled across his face.
They walked into Hokor’s office. Quentin half-expected to see Gredok there, but that was stupid — since the dinner at Torba’s, the black-furred owner had made himself scarce. Gredok got what he’d wanted. Now he stayed out of the way, letting Quentin do what Quentin was paid to do.
Coach Hokor was sitting at his desk, Doc Patah floating near his right shoulder. Hokor stared into a holotank on his desktop. The tank displayed a small football field swarming with half-inch-high players — action from last week’s game between the Themala Dreadnaughts and the Alimum Armada. The Dreads had won 24-21.