The Starter

by Scott Sigler

  He forced his attention back to the game, saw that the Dreadnaughts were again in a three-four. That gave them more speed. Would the play still work?

  It would work. He smiled, his hands tapping out a quick ba-da-bap on Bud-O-Shwek’s rear. Quentin settled in under center.

  “Blue, twenty-two,” he called. “Bluuuue, twenty-two... hut-hut!”

  The lines clashed. Quentin pushed to his right. Everything seemed to slow to a crawl.

  BLINK

  Quentin’s brain soaked up every last detail as he ran right. The defense seemed to be moving in slow motion. The left inside linebacker blitzed forward, but Tom Pareless threw a waist-high block that sent both Pareless and the linebacker to the turf. Quentin watched Starcher block down, then spin with a ballerina’s grace and run toward the sidelines, just like the last play. Quentin tucked the ball and started to cut upfield, to run for the touchdown, when he saw that Starcher had a step, just a step on the Quyth Warrior linebacker covering him. Still running forward, Quentin raised the ball and fired it as hard as he could.

  The linebacker reached out a pedipalp to knock the ball away. The stadium was too loud to hear the snap, but Quentin saw it, saw the pedipalp hand bend back the wrong way. The ball kept going, deflected downward by the impact. Quentin watched, amazed, as George Starcher reacted instantly, diving down, big hands strangling the ball just before it hit the ground. George landed on his back in the orange end zone... touchdown.

  BLINK

  Everything snapped back to normal speed, the crowd’s roar deafening this close to the end zone. What a catch! George started to get up, but Quentin ran at him and tackled him out of pure joy. Hawick jumped on the pile and squealed, as did Scarborough and a few other teammates, hundreds of pounds of sentients weighing down on Quentin.

  “Nice catch!” he screamed into George’s face. “That was really something!”

  “I told you to throw hard,” George said. “The fates that be let not the straight arrows of fortune go awry.”

  “Starcher, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about most of the time, but you make catches like that and you can keep on babbling whatever you like!”

  Hands and tentacles pulled Quentin to his feet. He knelt and reached down to the turf. He picked up a few torn, orange-painted circular leaves. Some of the paint had flaked off due to cleats or crashing bodies, revealing the translucent-blue plant material beneath. Quentin held the ripped leaves to his nose and inhaled deeply.

  The smell always reminded him of cinnamon.

  He ran to the sidelines as the field goal team came on. Arioch Morningstar kicked in the extra point, and the Krakens led 7-0.

  • • •

  “MY FATHER-MOTHER, CHICK, did you see that throw?”

  “Barnes was on a full-out sprint to the right, Masara, and he fired that ball in at terminal velocity. There wasn’t a passing window, so Barnes made one by brute force alone.”

  “I’m stunned, Chick! I think Barnes threw the ball so hard he broke the pedipalp-hand of Tibi the Unkempt.”

  “Masara, I haven’t seen anything hurled with that kind of velocity since I drank those two bottles of Junkie Gin after an all-you-can-eat Quyth barbecue. I was projectile-spewing legs and thoraxes all over the place.”

  “Chick! That’s not something we—”

  “Sorry, Masara, sorry folks at home. Let’s get back to the action on the field.”

  • • •

  THE TWO TEAMS BATTLED for the rest of the half. Quentin hit Starcher three more times, as well as completing passes to Denver, Hawick, Scarborough, Milford, and even one to Rebecca Montagne when she came in to spell Tom Pareless. Despite all the completions, he couldn’t get the Krakens into the end zone again. Arioch Morningstar hit two field goals, and the defense gave up a long run. At the end of the half, it was Ionath 13, Themala 7.

  • • •

  FIVE MINUTES TO PLAY in the third quarter, fourth and inches on the Themala 35-yard line. Too far out for a field goal attempt from Arioch Morningstar, maybe too close in to punt. At any rate, a punt would give the Dreadnaughts the ball back. Up 13-7, if the Krakens could pick up another five or six yards, Morningstar could kick a field goal and make it a two-score game. Better to be aggressive and go for the first down rather than give up the ball.

  Hokor called an off-tackle run up the middle. Coach held an old-school philosophy that if you couldn’t convert a fourth-and-inches, you didn’t deserve to be on the field. Quentin walked up behind center, saw all the linebackers cheating up. With the three-four defense, that meant seven players packed in tight at the line of scrimmage. Quentin wanted to audible to a pass play, because aside from Yassoud’s big first run the guy hadn’t done anything all day.

  Run the plays that are called.

  Quentin lined up under Bud-O-Shwek. He ignored his instincts. The linebackers cheated up even farther.

  “Green, thirty-two! Hut-hut... hut!”

  He took the snap and turned left. Tom Pareless ran past, trailing a thin stream of blood that poured from a fresh cut on his left forearm. Quentin extended the ball. Yassoud took it, but without the snapping intensity he’d shown in the first quarter. Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit drove forward. The Themala defensive tackle fought back hard as the Dreadnaught linebackers crashed in. The pile of sentients met at the line of scrimmage with a clattering smash of armor, yells of aggression, and grunts of pain. Yassoud went down. Bodies stood, clearing the area. When the zebe flew in, picked up the ball and spotted it, Quentin could clearly see the Krakens were short by half a yard.

  The Krakens hadn’t converted on fourth down. The Dreadnaughts had the ball on their own 35, with a chance to drive the field and take the lead.

  The Krakens had needed one damn inch, and Yassoud had actually lost ground. The offense ran off the field. Yassoud ran off slower than the others, limping, head down, arms hanging loosely. His jersey was torn in three places and blood sheeted down his left hand.

  Quentin waved to Doc Patah, then pointed to Yassoud. The Harrah doctor flew onto the field, already examining Yassoud’s arm as they came off the field together and moved to the bench. Quentin looked at the other Krakens players, at how they watched Yassoud. These weren’t looks of admiration and support. They were looks of annoyance, perhaps a few of slight betrayal. Any tailback in the league should be able to pick up one inch, especially at such a critical juncture in the game. The fact that Yassoud had not picked up those yards?

  Maybe he didn’t have it after all.

  An angry roar from the crowd drew Quentin’s attention back to the field. Just as he looked, he saw Don Dennis, the crimson-helmeted Dreadnaughts running back, running up the sidelines right in front of the Krakens bench. Dennis was already past most of the Krakens defenders — only Berea and Perth had a shot at him. Berea closed for a tackle, but Dennis spun just as she jumped. She hit empty air, then the ground. She scrambled up, but even with her blazing speed it was already too late.

  Perth had an excellent angle of pursuit. She closed in as Dennis passed the 15-yard line. He ducked his shoulders in, out, then in again. The rapid-fire movement threw Perth off-balance a little. Instead of hitting him hard and clean, she awkwardly wrapped one tentacle around his chest, her other tangling in the back of his white jersey. Dennis was spun around but he kept moving downfield, backpedaling now, his feet barely landing in just the right places to keep the stumbling body aloft. Perth fell but held on, her tentacles stretching as Dennis tried to pull away. She dragged along the ground behind him, sliding across the blue Iomatt. Dennis finally fell, but broke the plane of the goal line just before he did.

  Touchdown Dreadnaughts.

  The extra point was good. Themala took the lead, 14-13.

  • • •

  QUENTIN’S FACEMASK PLOWED into the Iomatt, sending a spraying wave of moisture and dirt and blue bits of plant material into his face. He skidded along with a white-jerseyed Ki lineman and a white-jerseyed Quyth Warrior on his back.


  After the touchdown that gave them the lead, the Dreadnaughts reversed their defensive strategy. They focused on pass coverage and blitzing, almost daring the Krakens to run. The few times Hokor took that dare, Yassoud couldn’t move the ball.

  Themala pinned their ears back and came after Quentin, blitzing on every play — sometimes with the inside linebackers, sometimes the outside, sometimes the corners, sometimes the safeties. They were also playing the short passing routes very tight, taking away the five- to ten-yard hook patterns, the inside slants and the out-patterns. That would have opened them up to the long ball if Quentin had had time to throw, but thanks to the weakness at right guard and the constant blitzing, time was something he did not have. He’d gone the first half with no sacks — the Dreadnaughts snagged him three times in the third quarter, and now twice in the fourth.

  He picked himself up off the ground and pulled a chunk of turf out of his facemask. He brushed the blue, circular leaves off his chest, his right hand smearing a long curve of blood across the “1” of his orange “10.” Somewhere during the sack he’d lost most of the skin on the base of his thumb. Blood poured out of the wound, splattering on the blue turf and white yard markers at his feet.

  That sack had come on a third-and-15. Fourth down. Quentin ran off the field, trailing blood as he went, looking up at the clock that read 4:23 left in the fourth quarter.

  • • •

  IT COULD HAVE BEEN a dramatic, come-from-behind victory... if, that is, the Krakens defense had made a stop and got the ball back.

  They didn’t.

  The Dreadnaughts put together a 55 yard drive that burned through the Krakens three timeouts and the final 4:23 of the game. For the last two plays, Quentin had to stand on the sidelines and watch as the Dreadnaughts lined up with seven players on the line of scrimmage and three running backs packed tight next to and behind the quarterback — the “victory formation.” For those two plays, quarterback Gavin Warren took the snap and immediately knelt down. The zebes blew each play dead, but the clock kept ticking away. After the last kneel-down, the clock ticked to zero.

  The 1-and-1 Dreadnaughts jogged onto the field, elated at their win. The Krakens sideline emptied more slowly, players filtering onto the field to greet their victorious foes.

  Quentin walked out as well, first seeking out Gavin Warren, his counterpart on the Dreadnaughts. A slow, burning rage roiled in Quentin’s soul. They’d had this game, had it, but it had slipped away.

  The orange and the black was 0-and-2, and tied for last place.

  From the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan, Akbar, & Tarat the Smasher”

  DAN: To me there’s no question which team is the biggest surprise. Gotta be the Bord Brigands. They went five-and-seven last year and now they start the season with two wins?

  AKBAR: Dan, you’re ignorant. I’m not surprised by that at all. Last year was a rebuilding year for the Brigands. They went out and got Athens, the biggest free-agent receiver out there, and now they are coming on strong.

  TARAT: And they did finish last season with three straight wins, Dan, so I agree with Akbar that this is no surprise.

  DAN: Idiots. I tell you, I’m saddled with idiots on this show. Fine, Akbar, who are your big surprises after the first two weeks?

  AKBAR: The Yall Criminals, no question. They went eleven-and-one last year, they were the top seed going into the playoffs, favored to win it all. They lost that first-round playoff game to the Lu Juggernauts. Okay, that was a shocker, but it happens, then they start this season with two straight losses?

  DAN: Okay, I can agree with you there. Quite a surprise. Tarat?

  TARAT: It’s too early to focus on just win-loss records, but the team that surprises me is the Jupiter Jacks. They are one-and-one, which is nothing to worry about, but they just can’t seem to throw the ball. They lost their top receiver on that game-winning catch in the Galaxy Bowl last year, and this season their second and third receivers just aren’t stepping up.

  DAN: I agree. Right now the Jacks can’t beat teams with a strong pass defense, but what can they do about it?

  AKBAR: They have to make a trade.

  DAN: Oh really? And who is going to trade with the defending league champs? Tell me a team that wants to make them better.

  TARAT: There are seven winless teams, Dan. I think any of them would make a trade. The Spider-Bears and Krakens are both winless; they would probably do anything to improve their game.

  DAN: Hmmm, an intriguing conjecture, my Hall-of-Fame friend. The Krakens seem to have a lot of depth at receiver, and Quentin Barnes is getting his butt kicked. Maybe they trade for offensive line help?

  AKBAR: I wouldn’t be surprised to see that. Barnes has already been sacked nine times in two games, the most in the league.

  TARAT: And that Human can move. If it was someone slower, there would be even more sacks, so that offensive line is really a shambles.

  DAN: We’ll see soon enough. The trade deadline is the Friday of Week Five. Come kickoff of Week Five, if the Krakens haven’t made a trade they are stuck with their horrible offensive line for the rest of the season. Let’s see what the callers think. Line two, from Neptune, you’re on the Space, go.

  • • •

  MESSAL THE EFFICIENT LED QUENTIN into the media room of Ionath City Stadium. There had been post-game press conferences in Tier Two, but they hadn’t been mandatory. And, if you missed one, nobody fined you for it.

  Quentin had seen the media room once, during a tour of the stadium, but it had been empty. It wasn’t empty now. Messal led Quentin to a chair that sat behind a table. The tabletop was black. Orange skirting surrounded it, showing the Krakens logo in graceful folds. Behind the chair, a smart-paper wall faded logos in and out: the Krakens logo, of course, also the logos of Junkie Gin, Farouk Outdoor Wear, Ford Hovercar and some action movie starring Patuth the Muscular and Gloriana Wanganeen.

  The table, chair, and wall held little interest, however, because Quentin’s attention focused on the bulletproof crysteel glass and the mass of sentients beyond it.

  Reporters, packed so tightly you couldn’t see the floor.

  In that moment, Quentin knew what it was like to be an animal in a zoo.

  As soon as he sat they all started shouting at once, a single body made of fifty heads from a half-dozen species.

  Quentin! Quentin!

  He leaned back, not sure what to do. Then Messal was next to him, pointing to a reporter.

  “Jonathan,” Messal said. “Go ahead.”

  The fifty-headed monster quieted as a single Human stood.

  “Jonathan Sandoval, Net Colony News Syndicate. Quentin, how does it feel to lose this close game?”

  “Uh... bad?”

  Quentin! Quentin! Quentin!

  “Kelp Bringer,” Messal said, “go ahead with your question.”

  The monster quieted again. Quentin recognized the black-striped, blue Leekee he’d met during Media Day on the Touchback.

  “Kelp Bringer, Leekee Galaxy Times. Quentin, you are in last place in the Planet Division. When you started the season, is that where you wanted to be?”

  “I... uh, no,” Quentin said, trying to find the meaning of Kelp Bringer’s question. Of course the Krakens didn’t want to be 0-and-2... the question couldn’t actually be that stupid, could it?

  “Quick follow-up question?” Kelp bringer said. Quentin nodded, trying not to stare at a spindly, insectish symbiote using its tiny claws to pluck away at a yellow growth above Kelp Bringer’s left eye. Kelp Bringer didn’t even seem to notice.

  “You lost by one point,” Kelp Bringer said. “Would you have rather been blown out, like you were against the Isis Ice Storm? I mean, what’s worse, the close loss or the blowout loss?”

  Quentin felt himself shaking his head in annoyance, then stopped. This is part of the game, Don Pine had said, this is part of the game.

  “Uh... I guess a loss is a loss, you know? I... um... don’t know that ther
e’s a difference. Next question?”

  Quentin! Quentin! Quentin!

  “Yolanda,” Messal said.

  Quentin’s eyes snapped in her direction. Just like before, her beauty made everything else fade away. He hadn’t seen her in the mass of sentients. She must have been blocked by the other reporters.

  “Quentin, Yolanda Davenport, Galaxy Sports Magazine. You’ve gone two games in Tier One without throwing an interception. You’re giving up an average of four-and-a-half sacks per game, but despite the pressure your decision-making seems to have improved from last year. To what do you attribute this?”

  Finally, a real question. It was like a breath of planet-side air after a week in the Touchback.

  “Well, I’m getting to know my receivers and they’re getting to know me. We practice route-throwing a lot, and I think I’m just getting used to the speed of the upper-tier game.”

  “Denver and Scarborough,” she said. “Are they getting used to you?”

  Quentin nodded. “Uh-huh. Next question?”

  The fifty-headed monster started shouting again, but Yolanda’s voice erupted, a roar that shouldn’t have fit inside such a tiny body.

  “Quick follow up,” she said. The monster’s shout quickly faded to a surprised murmur.

  “Uh, okay, go ahead.”

  Yolanda smiled and nodded a polite thanks. “Speaking of Scarborough and Denver, do you care to comment on the rumor that Ionath is going to trade them?”

  Quentin froze. How did she know about that?

  The fifty-headed monster paused only a second, then forty-nine heads shouted all at once, far louder than before, demanding an answer. Quentin leaned back. It almost felt like being under attack. Quentin didn’t know what to do. He looked at Messal.