by Scott Sigler
“Down here, Barnes!”
Quentin knelt. Hokor put a pedipalp on his shoulder. “Great call,” Hokor said. “If we can get some more punishment on their safety and free safety, slow them down, I think Halawa can keep getting open. You agree?”
Quentin nodded. “She can as long as Luxembourg is in woman-to-woman coverage. If they want to cover Halawa, they’ll have to switch to zone coverage. They do that, and I will carve them up.”
“Good, we’ll run more passes to Starcher, try to use his big, crazy body to wear them down.”
“No, Coach, it should be me. A couple of naked boots, I can get to them and put them down.”
Hokor waited while the crowd roared for the kickoff. Quentin didn’t have to look, he could tell by the level of the cheering that the Jacks had returned the ball to their own twenty, maybe their thirty.
“Barnes, that hit worked, but you’ve been hurt several times this year. You go head-hunting for a top-level safety and free safety, you’re asking for a major injury. You understand that?”
“We lose, we’re out,” Quentin said. “I’m willing to take that chance.”
Hokor stared, then nodded. “Well, then I guess we are going medieval on their posteriors. We’ll do it your way, Quentin.”
Hokor walked away. Quentin watched him go, marveling at the exchange — it was the first time, ever, that the coach had called him Quentin.
Quentin stood and watched the game. He’d missed a play. Second and three on Jupiter’s twenty-six. The Jacks broke the huddle. Quentin watched as Denver ran toward him, taking up her position at wide receiver not even five yards away from his spot on the sidelines. So strange to see her in copper, silver, and gold instead of the orange and the black. Stockbridge lined up to cover her woman-to-woman.
Denver’s eyestalks bent toward the Krakens sidelines, and she saw him. Her eyestalks quivered. “Quentin Barnes Quentin Barnes!”
“Hey, Denver, how you doing?”
“I love Jupiter!” she said. “Love lovelove! Thank you for trading me!”
Quentin hadn’t known how much guilt he’d been carrying until that moment, until those genuine words set him free.
Jacks quarterback Shriaz Zia started calling the signals.
“I’m glad, Denver.”
“Quentin Barnes QuentinBarnes!” she said, screaming now, her raspers dangling, her body shaking with excitement. “I play like you watch me watch me watchme!”
Zia took the snap as the two teams ripped into each other. Denver shot off the line like a bullet. The young receiver did a right-left-right step-cut that was so fast Quentin almost couldn’t track it, so fast that Stockbridge stumbled — and Denver was off to the races. The ball was in the air before she’d cleared fifteen yards. She caught it in full, blazing, stride at the fifty. Davenport and Perth, the Krakens strong safety and free safety, respectively, closed on her immediately. The home Jacks crowd roared like the sound of High One. Denver did her right-left-right cut a second time — Perth stumbled, and Denver was by her. Davenport reached out for the tackle. At that moment, Denver turned toward Davenport, lowering her copper helmet and smashing forward. Davenport stumbled backward, grabbing with tentacles, raspers, even her tail, but Denver had all the momentum and would not be stopped.
Denver regained her balance and sprinted into the end zone for a 74-yard touchdown.
“Damn,” Quentin said, wishing he had her back.
• • •
IT TURNED INTO a shoot-out. Quentin managed two more sneaky runs that let him go head-to-head on the defensive backs, once with Luxembourg and once with Xuchang. That second hit on Luxembourg had felt great. He’d leveled her, put her out for two series. The tangle with Xuchang didn’t go as well. Quentin had hit her so hard it cracked her helmet, but when he tried to get up he felt a stabbing pain in his hip.
Doc Patah needled in to see if he could fix it, numbed it up some, but Quentin couldn’t run for crap. He spent the rest of the game handing off and doing what he was supposed to do, which was drop back in the pocket and look for receivers.
He found them.
He picked up another touchdown to Halawa against Luxembourg’s backup, then finally hit Hawick for a long strike when the Jacks switched to zone coverage.
Halawa wasn’t the only young Sklorno to have a big game.
Denver burned the Krakens for another long score, this one a 44-yard pass. No wonder she loved-loved-loved Jupiter. The Krakens just couldn’t cover her, not with Zia’s laser-accurate arm. Denver finished as the game’s MVP: 8 catches for 156 yards and two touchdowns.
Scarborough also produced a big play for the Jacks. The former Krakens standout receiver caught just two passes on the night — one for twelve yards, the other for a seventeen-yard touchdown.
Yes, it was a shootout, but the Krakens had more bullets. Quentin had time to throw. He found his rhythm, using his short-pattern passing to hit Starcher, Mezquitic, Kobayasho, Richfield, and Rebecca Montagne. By the time the game ended, Quentin had thrown for 312 yards, four touchdowns, and completed passes to nine receivers. Yassoud was one of those receivers — he seemed thrilled with his one catch for eight yards, and was happy to tell everyone on the sidelines about it in intricate, repetitive detail.
The Jacks finished the game with the ball, but were unable to score on their last drive. The Krakens “D” held until the clock ticked zero and the final score blazed bright for all to see.
Ionath Krakens 38, Jupiter Jacks 35.
After the game, Quentin limped out to the 50-yard line to shake hands. As he did, he looked up at the end zone’s holographic scoreboard, which was flashing results from around the league.
What he saw was almost as thrilling as his four touchdown passes — the Mars Planets had held the Hittoni Hullwalkers to just ten points... but had scored only nine themselves.
The Planets had lost. That loss made them 4-and-7.
The Krakens were 3-and-8.
If the Krakens beat the Planets in Week Thirteen, both teams would be 4-and-8, but the Krakens would win the tiebreaker.
It all came down to the final game of the season. The loser would be relegated, while the winner would get to stay at least one more season in Tier One.
GFL WEEK TWELVE ROUNDUP
(Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network)
At least in the Solar Division, the playoff contenders are set. New Rodina (10-1) continues to roll, locking up a Solar Division title thanks to a 34-22 win over the Sala Intrigue (3-8). Neptune (9-2) finished off the playoff hopes of D’Kow, beating the War Dogs in a 24-21 thriller. That result finalizes Bord as the fourth seed in the Solar playoff, despite the Brigands losing 27-23 to the Alimum Armada (6-5). The only question in the Solar playoff picture is where will the Scarlet Fliers and the Jupiter Jacks play? Following a stunning 38-35 upset loss to Ionath (3-8), Jupiter (8-3) is a game behind Neptune but can still play the first round of the playoffs at home. Because the Jacks beat the Scarlet Fliers head-to-head, if both teams finish with the same record the Jacks will have the second seed and host the game. If the Jacks lose their final game against the Shorah Warlords (4-7) or if Neptune wins its final game against the Astronauts, the Scarlet Fliers will claim the second seed and host their arch rivals.
In the Planet Division things are not so clear. Isis (8-3) and Themala (8-3) both won to wrap up playoff berths. Isis pummeled the Dreadnaughts 31-0 in Week Four, meaning that the Ice Storm wins the division if it defeats the Hittoni Hullwalkers (6-5) next week. Themala faces the Yall Criminals (6-5). If Wabash (7-4) wins next week against the Lu Juggernauts (6-5), the Wolfpack is in. As we head into the final game, Lu, Coranadillana, Hittoni, Alimum, To and Yall all have a mathematical shot at the playoffs.
Chillich’s 24-13 loss to Shorah means that the Spider-Bears (1-10) will be relegated at season’s end.
Ionath (3-8) stayed alive thanks to their upset win over the Jacks, and thanks to Mars’ 10-9 loss to Hittoni. The Krakens and the Planets square off in the seaso
n’s final regular season game, with the loser heading back to Tier Two.
Deaths
Kin-Ja-Tan, offensive right tackle for the Yall Criminals, on a clean hit by Ryan Nossek.
Offensive Player of the Week
Armada tight end Brandon Rowe, who caught seven passes for 112 yards and two touchdowns.
Defensive Player of the Week
Ryan Nossek, defensive end for the Isis Ice Storm, who set a GFL record with five sacks in one game. Nossek also recorded a fatality.
WEEK THIRTEEN: MARS PLANETS at IONATH KRAKENS
PLANET DIVISION
8-3 x-Isis Ice Storm
8-3 x-Themala Dreadnaughts
7-4 Wabash Wolfpack
6-5 Alimum Armada
6-5 Coranadillana Cloud Killers
6-5 Hittoni Hullwalkers
6-5 Lu Juggernauts
6-5 To Pirates
6-5 Yall Criminals
4-7 Mars Planets
3-8 Ionath Krakens
SOLAR DIVISION
10-1 x-New Rodina Astronauts
9-2 x-Neptune Scarlet Fliers
8-3 x-Jupiter Jacks
6-5 Bord Brigands
5-6 D’Kow War Dogs
4-7 Bartel Water Bugs
4-7 Shorah Warlords
3-8 Jang Atom Smashers
3-8 Sala Intrigue
2-9 Vik Vanguard
1-10 Chillich Spider-Bears
(x = playoff berth clinched, y = division clinched)
TO AN OUTSIDE OBSERVER, to someone ignorant of the culture of sports, the sight might have looked comical. A teenager — huge and strong, but a teenager nonetheless — surrounded by sentients from five races.
This teenager wore black armor, a black helmet with a bright orange splash at the forehead. A black jersey covered this armor, white-trimmed orange letters spelling out “KRAKENS” on the chest above a white-trimmed orange number “10.” The shoulders of this jersey proudly displayed the six-tentacled team logo.
The sentients surrounding him wore matching black armor, helmets, and black jerseys, their gear custom-fitted for different body styles. Some of these sentients were twice his age, a few even three times his age, yet they all hung on his every word. They followed him, believed in him, believed that he would lead them to victory. Or if victory could not be attained, he would leave his lifeless body on the field of failure.
Age did not matter. What mattered was that this teenager, this general, worked harder than anyone else, played harder than anyone else, would risk anything and everything to win.
On the sidelines of Ionath Stadium, they packed in around him, a team jumping as one, chanting as one. Beyond the team, the stadium itself, the sun blazing down on 185,000 crazed fans, a living reef of orange and black that screamed, that jumped, that waited and watched. The crowd’s roar was the roar of a warship firing all guns, the blast of a star being born, the shuddering power of continents colliding and mountain ranges rising into the sky for the first time.
So loud was the crowd’s thunder that they could not hear him, could not hear their idolized teenage superstar-in-the-making, but his voice reached the players packed around him. His voice reached them, and it carried tangible power, the timbre of a soul that would not be denied.
“This is it,” Quentin Barnes said, his voice full of gravel and rage and the intensity of an exponential chain reaction. “This... is... it.”
His eyes, wide and alert, piercing, sought out the eye or eyes of each of his teammates in turn. When eyes met, those teammates felt a connection, felt spiritually attached to this general. He asked nothing more than what he was willing to give himself — his life, his soul.
“Last week, we beat the defending Galaxy Bowl Champions,” he said. “The defending champs. Why did we beat them? Because we are that good. We are champions in the making. We are the future greatness of this league. Each and every one of you, believe this, believe that next season we are going to tear this league apart and that everyone will know... your... name.”
The team packed closer, hands and tentacles reaching out to him, to each other. Petty differences and deep hatreds fell away. They were one.
“That is next season. But to reach that goal, we must first destroy our enemy. It’s all or nothing today, Krakens. All or nothing. The winner takes the glory, the loser is gone. Today we manifest our true destiny as champions. The Mars Planets don’t think you are champions. The Mars Planets think you are nothing. But they made a mistake, didn’t they?”
“Yes!” Screamed John Tweedy, who had already all but forgotten that same teenager had sucker-punched him two weeks earlier. All is fair in love and war. “Yes, they came into our house!”
“That’s right,” the teenager said. “Our house, a temple built with the sweat and blood and bodies of those who came before us, built with our sweat and blood. From this moment on, Ionath Stadium is sacred ground. How do we defend sacred ground?”
“With our lives!” barked Virak the mean, his cornea swirling with yellow and black. “We destroy transgressors!”
“Our stadium,” Quentin said, his voice lowering. “Our sacred ground. Our home. Our house.”
He raised his right fist high. The teammates did the same, reaching for his, limbs slanting up to make a pyramid of unity. The Krakens players joined him in a guttural cheer.
“Where are we?” Quentin said. “Whose house?”
“Our house!”
“Whose house?”
“Our house!”
“What law?”
“Our law!”
“Who wins?”
“Krakens!”
“Who wins?”
“Krakens!”
“This is our championship game. Now let’s go play like champions!”
• • •
THE KRAKENS WON THE TOSS and chose to receive.
Mars lined up, white uniforms blazing in the afternoon sunlight. Blue numbers trimmed in gold decorated their chests and backs. The jerseys had blue sleeves, striped in white-trimmed gold, with their bold blue-and-gold “M” logo splayed large on the shoulder pads. That same logo decorated the sides of their blue helmets and the front of their blue thigh armor.
The crowd reveled in the opportunity of the day. This wasn’t the Galaxy Bowl, but it might as well have been for the intensity that roiled through the stadium. The crowd began making a unified sound as the Planets kicker raised his hand.
Ohhhhhhhh...
The zebe blew his whistle, and the kicker dropped his hand.
OHHHHHHHH...
The kicker ran forward, the crowd’s roar culminating as his foot connected.
OHHHHHAAAAHHHHH!
The ball sailed through the air and the game was on. Richfield returned the opening kickoff to the Ionath thirty-five. The crowd roared so loudly Quentin felt the skin on his face tingling.
Quentin ran onto the field with his offense. He looked over his huddle. This wasn’t the same team he’d had to start the season, not even close. So many familiar faces gone from the starting lineup; faces like Aka-Na-Tak, Shun-On-Won, Scarborough, Denver, Yassoud Murphy, Tom Pareless, Yotaro Kobayasho. New players had taken their places: Michael Kimberlin, Ju Tweedy, Rebecca Montagne, Crazy George Starcher, his face painted green. And another new face, Halawa, the number-three receiver waiting on the sidelines until she was needed.
Quentin also saw the starters who had been there since the season began, yet these starters looked somehow... different. Hawick, now the team’s number-one receiver and she knew it, thirteen years old and just entering her athletic prime. Milford, last year’s rookie receiver now with two full seasons under her belt, still giddy and jumpy like the nine-year-old that she was, but growing more confident on every play. And the four living roadblocks that made up the rest of his offensive line: left tackle Kill-O-Yowet, left guard Sho-Do-Thikit, center Bud-O-Shwek, right tackle Vu-Ko-Will. Something about their black eyes, their body language, said that they no longer viewed Quentin as a fragile Human. T
o them, he was a Ki soldier in all but name.
There were many more players that would help in the years to come, but these ten, these were his brothers and sisters in arms, the sentients that would fight and bleed with him, the sentients that he would lead to the promised land.
“No more pep talks,” Quentin said. “Time to sing for our supper. Everyone ready?”
Two Human and two HeavyG heads nodded, two Sklorno hopped and chittered, four Ki clacked arms against their chest armor.
“Here we go,” Quentin said. “Right in their teeth, smash-mouth. Off-tackle left on three, on three, ready? Break!”
The team ran or scuttled to their positions. I-formation, Rebecca right behind him, Ju behind her, Crazy George Starcher lined up as a left tight end. Hawick wide left, Milford wide right. Quentin took a long look as he walked up behind Bud-O-Shwek. The Krakens had begun the year horribly, but had grown stronger as the season progressed. The Mars Planets, on the other hand, had started out the season 4-and-2, but had lost five straight to find themselves in this do-or-die situation. Injuries had riddled them, particularly season-ending damage to their starting inside linebackers.
Quentin stared down the replacement linebackers, Scott Pond and Morow the Devastator. The over-named Devastator was once an All-Pro, but that had been years ago. His physical skills were failing him — he now played with brains far more than brawn. Pond was 6-foot-4, 265 pounds, with good speed but had a bad rep for not wanting to tackle big running backs head-on. Neither of those middle linebackers were suited to stopping a big, strong, angry running back, which was the exact description of The Mad Ju.
“Red, twenty-two! Red, twenty-two! Hut-hut... hut!”
Quentin pivoted to the right. Rebecca shot by and he handed the ball to Ju. Ju clamped down so hard Quentin winced, imagined he could hear Ju’s forearms clacking together like the jaws of a bear trap. Michael Kimberlin knocked the opposing Ki defensive tackle backward, opening up a huge hole. Becca ran through that hole and put her shoulder into the Devastator’s midsection. She wasn’t as big as he was, wasn’t as powerful, but brute strength wasn’t Becca the Wrecka’s game — she simply put a helmet and a shoulder on defenders — then nudged them a few feet or just got in their way to make space for her running back. Ju was behind her, waiting for her block, and when she pushed the Devastator just a smidgen to the right, he stepped left, directly into the path of Scott Pond. Pond attacked, but flinched at the last second, pulling back ever so slightly.