by Scott Sigler
Yassoud, surprised and wide-eyed, nodded once.
Quentin let him go.
“Line up like we’re showing a QB kneel. As soon as we get to the line, Denver and Milford sprint to X-flash. Go on first sound, ready?”
“Break!” the players called in unison.
Quentin and the others jogged to the line. Denver and Milford lined up outside the left and right tight ends, respectively, then just as the defense settled in for the predictable situation, the Sklorno receivers sprinted out along the line of scrimmage.
Quentin saw Hokor’s fur ruffle once more. The coach said something into his mouthpiece, but Quentin didn’t hear it. Just as Hokor started to signal for a timeout, Quentin shouted “hut!” and the ball hit his hands. He dropped back five steps and planted, looking downfield. The crowd roared as Denver sprinted down the sideline, then angled towards the center of the field. Jacobina, the ‘Crawler’s cornerback, matched Denver step-for-step with blanket coverage.
He suddenly realized that Mitchell Fayed had been right: this was nothing like practice. The Ki defensive tackles drove hard against the offensive linemen, roaring and punching and tearing. The offensive linemen gave as good as they got, backing up as they did, throwing punches and tearing at half-shredded jerseys. Huge bodies smashed against one another, flesh shuddering in concussive waves with each impact. Droplets of black blood flew in all directions as the pocket formed around Quentin — he stood at the eye of a storm of predatorial violence, where he was the prey.
Yag-Ah-Latis, his white jersey streaked with black, tried a spin move — it was amazing to see something so big move so fast, show such agility. Kill-O-Yowet managed to counter the spin move and stayed in front of the attacking lineman. The left defensive end had dropped into pass coverage, but the right end came with all his heavy-G force. The 535-pound monstrous Human drove forward, powered by thighs that looked like beer kegs, his thick arms pushing and pulling at Vu-Ko-Will, the Kraken’s right tackle. As big as Vu-Ko-Will was, it was all he could do to stay in front of the attacking beast in a football uniform.
They didn’t just want to tackle him, they wanted to kill him. For the first time since his rookie season in the PNFL, Quentin Barnes felt small.
Quentin waited, feeling the defensive pressure coming for him. His mind operated like a multi-processing machine, simultaneously measuring a hundred different inputs.
He let the ball fly and it arced through the air. At first he thought he’d thrown a bit too far, and a bit too high, but Denver and Jacobina turned on the jets and burned downfield. Fifty yards downfield, Denver and her defender sprang high into the air — but Denver jumped higher. Fifteen feet up, Denver reached out and snagged the perfectly thrown ball. Her momentum carried her into the end zone — she landed for a touchdown.
The crowd volume reached deafening levels. Quentin knelt and picked up a few blades of Iomatt, torn up by the constant churning cleats. He held the circular blades to his nose and sniffed — smelled like cinnamon. He stood, then pointed straight at Yag-Ah-Latis.
“That touchdown was for you, baby!” Quentin shouted. “Now go translate this!” He grabbed his crotch and shook it three times. Yag-Ah-Latis’ black eyespots shrunk to tiny pinholes, and he started to charge forward. This time the Harrah officials were ready. Flags flew again as four of them blocked Yag-Ah-Latis from coming after Quentin. The massive lineman could have effortlessly knocked the Harrah aside, but Yag-Ah-Latis wanted to sit out the season no more than Quentin did.
The offense ran off the field as the kicking team came on. Hokor’s fur stood on end. “What was that? I told you to take a knee!”
Quentin shrugged. “Transmitter was broken, so I called a play.”
Hokor’s one eye stared hard at Quentin. “After the game I’ll see you in my office, Barnes. Now go get that cut fixed.”
Quentin nodded, then smiled and walked to the bench.
Teammates thumped him on the helmet and shoulder pads. Pine approached and extended a hand. Quentin shook it before he realized what he was doing.
“Great pass,” Pine said. Amazingly, he sounded genuinely happy, but Quentin knew the veteran was mocking him. Pine still had that grin on his face. “Perfectly timed for Denver’s leaping ability.”
“Thanks,” Quentin said.
“How’d you know to throw it high and deep against Jacobina?”
“Well, I… she can’t do her maximum vertical when she’s running full…” Quentin’s voice trailed off, a recent practice memory jumping into his head.
“Who’s the starting cornerback for the Wallcrawlers?” Hokor had asked him.
“Jacobina. Great vertical leap, but not very strong and easily blocked. Two-year vet.”
“What’s her weakness?”
“Trouble reaching maximum vertical leap during a full sprint.”
“How do you beat her?”
“Throw deep and high, make the receiver have to really sprint and jump to make the catch. Jacobina usually can’t match the jump if the ball is thrown correctly.”
Pine’s grin widened, just a bit more, as recognition washed across Quentin’s face.
“Maybe Hokor’s instructions aren’t ‘busy work’ after all, eh rookie?”
Quentin looked away. Pine was right, and he didn’t want to deal with the veteran’s smugness.
A smiling Yitzhak came up and pounded Quentin on the shoulder pad. “Great throw! That’s showing them!”
Doc floated over, his vocal processor kicking out more volume than usual to compensate for the crowd’s incessant noise.
“That’s a nasty cut, Quentin,” Doc said. “Let’s get to work on it.”
Doc grabbed Quentin’s arm and pulled him into one of the med-bays behind the bench. Quentin’s cleats clacked as he moved from the soft field to the bay’s metal-grate floor. Doc reached into a drawer and pulled out a spray can and something wrapped in a sealed plastic wrap. “First let’s clean that up. Ki claws can produce a nasty infection in Humans. Now hold your breath. This will sting just a bit.”
Quentin took in a deep breath and held it as Doc sprayed the can’s contents on his cheek. The mist felt cool on his skin.
“That didn’t sting at all, Doc.”
“I wasn’t talking about the antiseptic,” Doc said, and with one smooth motion ripped open the plastic pouch and put a blue, wet, rectangular cloth on Quentin’s cheek. Pain leapt up immediately, as if someone had placed a branding iron on the cut. He stood up with a start and pushed Doc away.
“High One, what the hell is that?” Quentin reached up to tear off the cloth, but Doc’s ribbon-like tentacle slapped his hand.
“Don’t be a baby,” Doc said. “That’s nano-knit. It burns because nanocytes are ripping open a few cells to read your DNA.”
The burning intensified. Quentin felt tears welling up in his eyes. “Couldn’t you just stitch the damn thing?”
Doc shuddered, a ripple that coursed through his boneless body. “Don’t insult me, Quentin. You’re not in the barbarian lands anymore.”
Quentin danced in place, fighting to keep his hands off the cloth, but already the pain was subsiding.
“Has the burning ceased?”
Quentin nodded. A tingling sensation replaced the burning.
“The nanocytes have read your DNA to see exactly how your skin is supposed to be. They are rebuilding the cut right now.”
“How many of them are in there?”
“The patch contains roughly five hundred thousand.”
“A half-million?”
“A trivial amount, I assure you. You would need ten times that amount for muscle or ligament damage.”
Quentin had never heard of such medical technology. And he was receiving it on the sidelines of a football game. He could only wonder just how advanced things were in an actual hospital. The Holy Men preached about the Nation’s technical advancements, but most people knew the truth — that the Nation was decades behind rival systems like the Planetary Union and the League of Pl
anets. Of course, he was in the GFL now, in the land of the big money, where no expense would be spared to keep oft-damaged players on the field. Still, he thought of the boy back on Micovi, the one he’d given his jersey to after the PNFL championship. Would this kind of treatment have helped that boy? Would it have saved his leg?
Doc reached out and removed the cloth. It was bloody and limp. He tossed it towards the bench, where it lay with other sideline debris like grass-stained tape, broken straps and broken buckles, torn jerseys and magni-cup rings.
“So what happens to the nanocytes now?”
“They’ll run around, looking for more damaged skin, until they run out of energy.”
“And then?”
“And then what? They stop working.”
“But when do you take them out?”
“We don’t do anything with them, Quentin. Your body will process them out like any other waste. Kidneys will filter them.”
“So I’ll pee them out?”
“That is correct. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must see what other injuries require my attention.”
The game finished with the Krakens defense on the field. Surprisingly, the crowd counted down the last ten seconds in English, and that grand football tradition sounded little different than it had back in the PNFL. Orange and black banners flew, colored streamers sailed, and fireworks blasted over the open stadium.
The Krakens, victorious, drifted in small groups off the field and into the tunnel. He saw Warburg and Seth Hanisek, the Wallcrawlers’ stocky fullback and another Nationalite, praying at the 50-yard line. Quentin ignored them — he had always felt the High One had more important things to do that concern himself with football, and probably didn’t listen to victory thanks.
He left the field, basking in the glow of his first GFL game. He hadn’t played much, but he’d made the most of it: 2-of-2 for 80 yards and a TD. Hokor really had no choice now but to give him more playing time. Pine was great, but Quentin was the future, and now everybody knew it — the Krakens, their fans, and especially Coach Hokor.
HE LOOKED AT his face in the mirror a dozen times in a dozen different ways, but he couldn’t find any sign of that nasty cut. There was redness, like mild sunburn on the area where the bandage had been, but nothing else. Quentin tilted his head this way and that, pulled at his skin, amazed at what he didn’t see.
John Tweedy walked by, dressed only in a towel. “Cut all gone, farm boy?”
Quentin looked at the bigger man, and just nodded. YOU’RE A DUMB BACKWOODS CRACKER scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.
“You won’t find the cut, you stupid hick, it’s fixed,” Tweedy said. He then put on a sarcastic, wide-eyed expression of wonder. “Oh, this here some big magic, Quentin! Here in the big city we fix people right up, like by magic! Big magic here!”
Quentin stared for a moment before he spoke. “What’s your home planet, Tweedy?”
Tweedy pounded his chest three times. “Glory be to Thomas 3.”
“Well, at least the Nation has something in common with Thomas 3.”
“Oh? And what’s that, rookie?”
“Based on your intelligence level, I gather Thomas 3 also has a major inbreeding problem.”
Tweedy’s sarcastic expression evaporated, replaced by a tooth-bared sneer. “You better watch your tongue, boy, or your butt is mine.”
“Sorry, afraid I like women. I’m not your type.”
Tweedy’s right first reared back, his taut muscles rippling under his skin. Quentin watched the hand and simultaneously watched Tweedy’s eyes. The big man stepped forward and threw his ham-sized fist, but Quentin moved so fast the punch might as well have been in slow motion. He stepped to the side and the fist hit only empty air. Tweedy’s momentum carried him forward a few awkward steps. In one smooth motion, Quentin reached out and snatched the towel from Tweedy’s waist, holding one end in each hand: he pulled it tight then snapped his left hand forward. The towel shot out like a striking snake and snapped Tweedy’s rear end — all of this before the big linebacker could even recover from his missed punch.
Tweedy stood straight up as he turned, his hands reaching back to cover his butt. His eyes grew wide with fury and his lips curled back in a primitive snarl. Fists clenched, he took a step forward, but stopped when Quentin held the towel tight once again, poised for another snap.
Tweedy pointed his finger at Quentin. “Put down that towel, you Purist piece of garbage, and we’ll settle this right now.”
“Sure thing, Johnny-boy,” Quentin said. “Maybe this time I can snap Little Johnny right off your body.” He twitched his shoulders as if to snap again, and the naked Tweedy took a hurried step back. Someone in the locker room started laughing.
“Barnes! Put that towel down!”
Quentin turned to see Hokor standing there, fur fluffed, his pedipalps trembling.
“Put it down.”
Without looking, Quentin tossed the towel behind him. Tweedy caught it and wrapped it once again around his waist.
“In my office, now.” Hokor stomped away, and Quentin followed.
Here we go, Quentin thought. He saw how I play in a real game, and now I’ll get the talk about how he thinks I’m ready for more.
Hokor’s office was just off the central meeting room. Holoframes lined the wall, showing Hokor with Krakens players as well as action shots of him on the sidelines of the D’Kow War Dogs, the Jupiter Jacks and the Chillich Spider-Bears. There were several pictures, the old-fashioned flat kind, showing Humans that Quentin didn’t recognize. One had a brimmed, houndstooth-patterned hat pulled down almost over his eyes. He wore an antique suit and had Human players around him in crimson helmets with a white stripe and crimson jerseys with block white letters and numbers. Another showed a squat, smiling man in a long coat with thick black glasses and a buzz-cut. He was riding on the shoulders of two dirty, happy men in green uniforms with yellow helmets.
A football holo played in the center of the room: the Glory Warpigs playing host to the Krakens’ next foe, the Grontak Hydras.
“How are the Hydras looking, Coach?” Quentin asked.
“They are my nightmare,” Hokor said as he sat behind his desk. The desk was curved like half a circle, made of some hard plant material Quentin had never seen before. Yet despite the alien wood in the alien city with the alien coach, Quentin couldn’t help but think of Coach Graber, sitting behind his desk back on Micovi.
“They have great speed at receiver,” Hokor said. “Their outside linebackers, Lokos the Bruised and Bilis the Destroyer, were All-GFL last year, and Wichita is without a doubt the best corner-back in Tier Two. She’ll probably be able to shut Hawick down completely.”
As the camera changed angles, a score flashed: Warpigs 22, Hydras 12.
“If they’re so good, how come they’re losing?”
Hokor stared for a moment before answering. “Barnes, the Hydras’ score against the Warpigs doesn’t matter. Nor does their record. Nor does it matter if the Hydras lose all their games. The only thing that matters is how they match up against us, and they match up very well indeed. Not that it matters to you.”
“Of course it matters to me, Coach. Why wouldn’t it?”
“Because you’re benched next week.”
“Benched? Are you kidding me? For snapping John Tweedy on the butt?”
“I do not care about the silly bonding games you Human males play,” Hokor said, his big eye flooding clear black. “You’re benched for that pass you threw.”
Quentin’s jaw dropped. “What the hell are you talking about? I threw a 55-yard touchdown, for High One’s sake!”
“A pass that I did not tell you to throw,” Hokor said as he slapped the desktop with his pedipalps. “I told you to take a knee. And don’t think I’m fooled by your trick of turning off your helmet receiver.”
“Is this some kind of a rookie joke?”
“I do not joke.”
“So how long am I out?”
“On
e game,” Hokor said. “You will dress to lessen your shame, but you will not see any playing time. It is important that the team sees you as a competent backup to Pine, so we will keep this to ourselves. You are going to learn who is in charge here, Barnes.”
Quentin stared at the diminutive coach. He wanted to come across the desk and punch out that one big eye.
“This is all to protect Pine, isn’t it,” Quentin said. “You know damn well I should be starting.”
“Right now you’re not fit to start a grav-cab, let alone start for a Tier Two team,” Hokor said. “The sooner you see that, the sooner we can start working to make you good enough to play in this league.”
“I looked pretty flippin’ good today.”
“You were playing garbage time against the worst team in the division,” Hokor said. “Hardly an impressive outing. Now leave, I must prepare for next week’s game.”
Quentin stood and stormed out of the office, making sure to accidentally bump his shoulder against one of the holoframes as he left. He heard the heavy thing crash into the floor, and heard Hokor’s angry yell, but ignored both and walked back to the Human dressing room.
Pine was there, dressed in a sharp blue suit that complimented his blue skin. “Hell of a game today,” he said with a wide smile. “And hell of a shot you put on Tweedy. The guy’s left cheek is already black and blue. Where did you learn to do that?”
“In the mines,” Quentin said as he sulked to his locker. “Roundbugs down there. Every kid carries a weighted rope. You learn early on how to snap the rope to kill any roundbugs you see — you don’t learn how to do it right, you die.”
Pine’s face wrinkled in disbelief. “What, are you kidding me? How old were you when they taught you that?”
“Five,” Quentin said. “That’s when you start working in the mines.”
“At five? Five years old? Working a mine with poisonous… bugs, or whatever? Good God, Quentin, what kind of a place did you grow up in?”
“A chosen place,” called the deep voice of Rick Warburg. “Where only the blessed can live.”
Pine laughed. “Doesn’t sound that blessed to me, champ.”