The Rookie

6. ARRIVAL ON IONATH

HE WAS GLAD it was late, because he could be alone in his room and no one would see his sweat, look at his wide eyes, or hear his ragged breathing. The Touchback was about to punch-out.

Just relax just relax everything is fine…

Quentin had often heard that if things were to go wrong with punch drive travel, it would happen either on the punch-in or the punch-out of the space/time hole. Punching out always made him think of that ages-old Purist folk-saying: “It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the landing.”

Don’t panic, breath, breath, it’s almost here…

He felt the shimmer come, felt, not saw, because he couldn’t bear to have his eyes open and see the reality wave lightly caress the ship and everything in it. And once again, nothing happened.

His held breath slipped out of his tense body, the tinge of horror clinging to his soul. He’d come to accept the fact that if he wanted his dream of glory and a GFL championship, he’d just have to ignore his fear of flying.

He felt the slight tug of the Touchback’s main engines kicking in, maneuvering the ship into orbit. Quentin moved to his view port and looked out onto the glowing red sphere that was Ionath, planet of Ionath City, the home of the Ionath Krakens.

He’d learned all about Ionath in school. In 2558, During the Third Galactic War, the Sklorno navy saturation-bombed the planet, rendering it a radioactive wasteland completely devoid of all life. That bombing was proof, the Holy Men liked to say, of the Sklorno’s Satanic nature. It also proved that the Prawatt race, who had inhabited the planet, were also Satanic, and suffered the wrath of the High One for their evil ways. Quentin had been only nine when he noticed a pattern — just about everything bad that happened to other races or cultures was proof of Satanic tendencies. The only people who didn’t suffer Satanic-related incidents were, coincidentally, the people of the Purist Nation.

But despite the bombing (or perhaps despite Satan), Ionath had not remained devoid of life. In 2573, the Quyth shocked the galaxy by establishing a permanent colony on the planet. In the 110 Earth-years that followed, the colony grew to a population of 500 million Quyth. In addition, the Quyth introduced flora and fauna that not only ignored radiation, but often used it in place of sunlight to capture energy. In just over a century, the Quyth transformed Ionath from a lifeless orb into a flourishing, growing, vibrant planet. The Holy Men cited this as proof of the Quyth’s Satanic nature, for only a being from Hell could live on Hell itself.

While the Quyth flourished on Ionath, the radiation hadn’t just gone away, and other sentient races could not survive on the planet’s surface. The Quyth wanted commerce with other species, so Ionath — like the other irradiated planets of Whitok and Chik-chik — had several domed cities free of radiation. The domed areas acted as a downtown, a central hub of the non-protected areas. Ionath City boasted the largest rad-free dome on the planet. About 110,000 sentients lived inside the four-mile diameter dome, while another 4.1 million Quyth lived outside. The football stadium, of course, sat inside the dome.

Ionath Stadium was also known as “The Big Eye.” Quentin had dreamed of playing in such a place. Seating capacity: 185,000. An open-air stadium, but since it existed under the city dome the weather never changed — it was always 85 degrees Farenheit, the galaxy-accepted standard for multi-race environments. Eighty-five seemed hot to most Humans, a bit cool for Ki, borderline cold for Sklorno and Creterakians, and ideal for Quyth. In the past, when the Krakens were a running team, rumor had it that for critical games the temperature system of the Ionath City dome would often “malfunction,” dropping the temp to 75 degrees or below, a level more suited to Human running backs.

His game was improving, but he’d been less than impressive during his four days with the team. He’d never even considered that he’d have such a hard time adjusting. They had two more days of practice, then the season opener against the Woo Wallcrawlers. And the second of those two days was a non-contact practice, a pre-game run through.

That meant he really only had one more day to convince Hokor that he was ready to play Tier Two ball. But was he ready? Pine made everything look so easy, so smooth, and that only magnified Quentin’s constant struggles. But if Pine could do it, Quentin could do it.

Mind games from Hokor. That’s what all this crap was. Learn every opposing player, their stats, their history, run laps… a bunch of busy work designed to show Quentin who was boss. Well, Quentin had broken Coach Graber, and Hokor would be no different. Yet, in the back of his mind, Quentin wondered if Hokor was different from Coach Graber. Hokor acted like he’d be perfectly willing to put Quentin on the next shuttle back to the Purist Nation. Was that just an act?

Quentin wasn’t sure, and that gave him an uneasy feeling he’d never experienced before. He slid out of bed and started stretching. Today’s practice would be very important, and he wanted to be ready.

THE ENTIRE TEAM assembled in the landing bay in a big half-circle around Gredok and Hokor. As usual, players mostly grouped with their own species. Quentin stood with Warburg and Yassoud. Pine, as Quentin had come to expect, stood with one of the alien races, this time the Ki linemen.

“We will now be taking shuttles down to our facility on Ionath City,” Gredok said. “Most of you know the drill. The shuttle will make four runs, veterans go down in the first two runs, then free agents new to the team, and finally rookies.”

“After practice, my workers will show you to your apartments, which have already been assigned. All apartments are close to the stadium. The dome is a reasonably safe area, and as Krakens players you will usually be awarded respect. However, Ionath City is not a vacation resort, so be careful. You are responsible for your body, and care for any injuries sustained while not on the practice or playing field will be docked from your pay. Especially you, Yassoud.”

Yassoud looked as if his best friend had insulted his mother. “Me? Why would you say that?”

Gredok’s pedipalps twitched once. “I’ve read your record, Yassoud. More tavern-fight arrests than some of my low-level enforcers. If you insist on causing problems, you should pray that the police put you in jail instead of bringing you back to me. Understand?”

For once, Yassoud said nothing, simply nodded instead.

“And as for you, Mum-O-Killowe,” Gredok said, “I will be more than happy to send you home in a body bag if you act as you have when you played in the Sklorno leagues.”

Shizzle appeared as if from nowhere, swooped over to Mum-O-Killowe and provided a quick translation. Mum-O-Killowe started saying something in his loud, harsh way, but before he managed a couple of syllables another Ki lineman reached out with a long arm and flicked him in the vocal tubes. Quentin recognized the flick-er as Mai-An-Ihkole, the veteran defensive tackle. Mum-O-Killowe looked offended, as near as Quentin could read Ki emotion. The rookie lineman fell silent.

“That is all,” Gredok said. “The veterans will now board for the first run to Ionath City.”

Veterans, including Pine, entered the shuttle as the rest of the team dispersed.

“What was that all about?” Quentin asked Yassoud. “You a trouble maker or something?”

Yassoud shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never caused a problem in my life.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Warburg said, looking down at the smaller Yassoud. “Just don’t hang out with him in the city, Quentin. We don’t need his influence to lead us astray.”

Yassoud put a hand to his chest. “You offend me, sir. I would never think to corrupt a pious member of the Church.” He walked off, shaking his head in disbelief as if he’d been greatly misjudged.

Two Sklorno — Denver and Milford — approached. Warburg’s demeanor instantly changed from doubt to intimidation, if not outright hostility. Denver’s raspers dragged along the floor, actually leaving a thin trail of saliva on the flight deck. Her transparent carapace was so disconcerting — Quentin could actually see blood coursing through her veins, X-ray gray blurred by the clear chitin’s X-Ray white. Quentin felt a small shiver of disgust ripple down his spine.

Warburg stared. “What do you want?”

“Perhaps we are worthy to catch passes while running at full speed?” Denver said in her chirping voice.

Quentin and Warburg looked at each other in confusion, then back at Denver.

“What are you talking about, you stupid cricket?” Warburg said. His racial slur stopped all conversation — the players remaining on the flight deck turned to watch.

“Holy Pine said perhaps we could assist in Holy Quentin’s passing. We run full speed, he blesses us with direct passes.”

Quentin’s face turned red, while Warburg started laughing.

Pine, Quentin thought. How could he embarrass me like this?

“Can we help?” Denver asked again.

“I don’t need help!” Quentin spat. “Especially not from the likes of you!”

Denver’s raspers rolled back up behind the chin plate. She leaned back a bit, her posture changing, but Quentin didn’t know what that meant and he was too furious to care.

“Oh, Pine really knows how to rub it in,” Warburg said.

“Holy Quentin is angry?” Denver said. “But we are here to help.”

It was too much to bear. Quentin turned and stormed away, heading out of the landing bay and back to his room. Help? From a damned unholy Sklorno? As if Quentin were some bush league quarterback who needed to work on his route passing? Pine. He’d show that jerk, one way or another, he’d show him!

QUENTIN HADN’T calmed down much by the time the shuttle, loaded up with the rookies, eased out of the landing bay and into space. It didn’t help that Denver and Milford, the perpetrators of Pine’s little practical joke, sat only a few feet away. At least this time they kept their distance.

The wasted red landscape of Ionath filled the front view screens. Plants colored orange, red, and yellow seemed to flourish, but there was no plant large enough to hide the planet’s war scars. Just over an Earth century had passed since Sklorno’s 25,000-megaton bombs exterminated all life on the planet. The ten-mile-wide bomb craters remained clearly visible. Ionath City, in fact, was built inside one of those craters.

The clear dome gave off brilliant reflections from Ionath’s sun. The sprawling city looked like a reddish egg, sunny-side up, with the dome being the yolk. As the shuttle approached the city, Quentin could see how Ionath Stadium got it’s nickname — the round stadium sat right under the dome’s center, and from this far up looked like an iris to the dome’s cornea. The Big Eye. His new home, at least for this season.

Circular streets surrounded the dome in ever-widening bands, like flash-frozen ripples from a pebble dropped in a pond. Straight streets also radiated outward from the dome. Or more accurately, Quentin noticed, all streets led into the city center — straight to the stadium.

“I hear they really know how to party in Ionath City,” Yassoud said, a wide smile on his face. “I can’t wait to get out on the town.”

“Isn’t it a bit radioactive out there?”

Yassoud rolled his eyes. “Come on, hick — I’m not going into the outer city, I’m talking about nightlife under the dome. There’s hundreds of bars and restaurants. And women. Lots of women.”

Yassoud cast a glance back at the staring Sklorno receivers. “Human women,” he said, giving Quentin a friendly elbow. “Unless you’re committed to your harem over there.”

Quentin’s face turned red again, a feeling to which he was unfortunately becoming accustomed.

Red was also the predominant color of Ionath City. From outside the dome, buildings looked rugged and somewhat organic, more like they’d been grown than built. The tallest ones topped out at around thirty stories.

The shuttle dove straight for the dome. The clear surface seemed to open like a living thing, and the shuttle passed through without slowing. Once inside the dome, the buildings looked more like what he’d seen in the Purist Nation’s largest cities: towering, hexagonal structures with sides of smooth crystametal. The tallest buildings, thirty to forty stories high, seemed to surround Ionath Stadium as if they wanted to peer down and watch the games. Only buildings at the dome center could hit such heights — the buildings farther out grew progressively smaller as the dome sloped down to meet the ground.

Quentin saw a huge holo ad running down the side of the city’s tallest building — a quarterback dropping back for a pass, some words in Quyth. At first he thought it was Pine, but the player wore number seven — Yitzhak’s number.

“Is that who I think it is?”

Yassoud nodded. “Yes indeed.”

“What is that ad for?”

Yassoud stared for a moment, his lips moving slightly as he sounded out the Quyth writing. “Oh yep, now I remember, it’s an ad for Junkie Gin.”

“Junkie Gin? But it’s the biggest ad in the city, and it’s Yitzhak.

Why not Pine?”

“Because Yitzhak was born here, my friend. The Quyth Workers just love him, and they’re the biggest market in any Quyth culture because there’s so many of them. He doesn’t see much playing time, but he makes more endorsement money than anyone else on the team. Pine included.”

The shuttle dove towards the roof of a hexagonal, ten-story building attached to the stadium. Closer into the city, Quentin saw holo ads everywhere — on buildings, on sidewalks, floating above the streets. The innumerable ads gave the city a garish, carnival feel. At least half of those ads featured Krakens’ players.

Even before the shuttle fully touched down, a pack of Quyth Workers swarmed out, ready to unload the players’ baggage. Quentin and the other rookies stepped off the shuttle into the heat and high humidity of Ionath City.

Hokor was waiting for them, already sitting in his stupid flying cart. Next to the cart stood a Quyth worker wearing a neat blue jacket. Quentin thought the Worker looked rather like a bellboy or a doorman at some of the fancier Purist Nation hotels.

“This is Messal the Efficient,” Hokor said to the rookies. “He will lead you to the locker room. Suit up and get your worthless asses to the field. Our scrimmage starts in thirty minutes. Remember, in two days at noon we kick off against the Woo Wallcrawlers. We must win this game. Tomorrow’s practice will be a no-contact walk-through, so today is your last chance to show me what you’ve got.”

With that, Hokor’s cart lifted up from the roof and flew off the edge, gently descending to the field. Quentin saw the veterans and the other players, just specks from this far, already on the field. He knew Pine would be down there, probably planning his next humiliating joke.

We’ll see, Quentin thought. We’ll just see.

QUENTIN SUITED UP quickly and ran out of the arching gate in the orange end zone. The seats, all 185,000 of them, sat empty. The quiet, massive structure reminded him of the Deliverance Temple in Landing City, built where Mason Stewart’s scout craft had first touched down on new, holy soil. That historic moment marked the end of the Exodus from Earth, where Stewart and his four million surviving followers founded the Purist Church colony that would grow into to the four-planet Purist Nation. Quentin didn’t have to be a convert to appreciate the powerful feeling of awe inspired by Deliverance Temple, just as he suspected someone didn’t need to be a football fan to admire Ionath Stadium.

He knelt and rubbed his hands over the field’s blue surface. At first he thought it was painted, but up close he saw that playing surface was made up of densely packed, circular blue leaves, each smaller than his pinky nail. He pushed his hand down, feeling the blue plant give, then lifted his hand and watched it spring back.

Yassoud knelt next to him. “Getting in a quick prayer, Q?”

Quentin smiled. “No, just checking out the field. Never stood on this stuff before.”

“Nice, isn’t it? I heard it’s actually a plant that’s native to Ionath. Called Iomatt. When they took over the planet, they got some from a plant museum, or something like that.”

Quentin stood and ran a few steps, taking an experimental cut.

“Good resistance. Not quite as firm as the Carsengi Grass I’m used to, but not bad.”

The other rookies filed past them, drawing their attention back to the task at hand. Hokor sat on the 50-yard line, in his cart, of course, surrounded by Krakens players. Humans, Quyth Warriors, Sklorno, and — for the first time since he’d arrived — the huge and nightmarish Ki. The Ki were packed into two tight balls, each a mass of legs, tubular bodies and black eyes, like pictures of multi-headed demons Quentin had seen back on Micovi. One of the piles of Ki players wore black jerseys, for the defense, while the other pile wore orange, for the offense. Pine, Yitzhak and Quentin wore bright red jerseys — the standard football color for designating a “do not hit” player.

“In two days, we face off against the Woo Wallcrawlers,” Hokor said. “It’s a good start for us, as we know they have trouble with our offensive speed. They also went 2–7 last year, but don’t let that fool you into thinking this is an easy victory. It’s the opening game of the season, and we have to win it if we’re going to reach Tier One this year.”

The players gave signs of agreement — nods from the Humans, Quyth Warriors rubbing their pedipalps together, unintelligible chirps and lolling tongues from the Sklorno, and the Ki clacking their arms against their chest. Quentin didn’t know how to read the other races, but he could see the commitment in the eyes of the Human players. They wanted to win, they wanted to reach Tier One.

“First offense,” Hokor called out over his cart’s loudspeaker. “Opening series.”

Quentin jogged to the sidelines. Pine, the arrogant idiot, ran to the huddle with a confident stride. That was Quentin’s huddle. He’d get it back, that was for sure. The ancient quarterback would have to make room for new blood.

Quentin stopped when he reached the sidelines, and looked at the medical bays behind the bench. Five full bays, like a military field hospital. Re-juv tanks, cabinets that held bandages, surgical equipment and other things to help Doc and his staff repair damaged players and get them back on the field. Quentin could see just by looking that the med-bays were more advanced than anything he’d seen in the Purist Nation, even in a hospital. The bays were a reminder of the speed and strength and violence of the GFL — that and the money involved, because a hurt player was a wasted investment. Patch ‘em up and put ‘em back in.

Pine broke the huddle and the orange-jersey offense started on its own 20-yard line. The black-jersey defense lined up in a 4–3 set, showing woman-to-woman coverage. Quentin had never seen real GFL football in person, and it was an awesome sight to behold: the Ki linemen were thick, wide, six-foot-tall obstacles, like little buildings with legs, their spider-like, chitinous arms clacking against their chests as they talked to each other in their rhythmic combat language. The Quyth Warrior linebackers bounced in place, one-eyed creatures clad in thick Riddell padding. Sklorno receivers and defensive backs, with thin pads to allow for pure speed, gracefully flowed from one place to the next, almost as if they had no bones at all.

The first play was an off-tackle run by Mitchell Fayed, who even at three-quarter speed hit the hole harder than any PNFL running back Quentin had ever seen. Fayed came through the line, only to be met head-on by Choto the Bright, the right outside linebacker. With a loud “clack” of pads the two players hit hard — Fayed managed two more short steps before Choto dragged him to the ground.

A shiver ran through Quentin’s body. Drills were one thing, an important thing, but football is about hitting, and with that first clash of starting offense against starting defense the season was actually on. The veterans had been practicing for months, but for the rookies, this was their first Upper Tier contact experience.

Pine guided the offense through the first series, mostly running plays. When he did drop back, he threw short, accurate passes. In his first twenty plays, he threw downfield only twice for one completion. Twice the defense got to Pine, but both times they slowed up before hitting him and just put a hand (or the applicable appendage) on his shoulder.

Yitzhak came in next and, by his mistakes, highlighted Pine’s effectiveness. Hokor started subbing people on both sides of the ball. Yassoud Murphy came in for his first full-contact reps. When he carried the ball, he ran like a tank. His ever-present smile vanished, replaced by an expression that might have been more at home in a hand-to-hand ground war. The Sklorno rookie receivers, Denver and Milford, rotated in for several plays. Quentin waited and watched, trying to analyze the defensive weaknesses, and trying — unsuccessfully — to be patient.

“Barnes!” Hokor finally called after an agonizing hour. Quentin practically sprinted out to the huddle — this is where he’d show Hokor, and the whole team for that matter, why he deserved to start. The offense was now a hodge-podge of first-stringers, second-stringers and rookies. Denver and Mezquitic stared at him reverently. Yassoud smiled. Warburg nodded.

“Okay, boys, let’s take it to them. Pro-40 right flash, on two, on two, break.”

The players moved quickly from the huddle to the line, and Quentin felt in control for the first time since leaving Micovi. The VR sim was an amazing tool, but this was real, this was his chance to show everyone. He lined up behind Bud-O-Shwek, the center — and suddenly realized he had no idea how to take a snap from a Ki.

Quentin stared at the long tubular body. This close up, Bud-O’s body looked like a snake-skinned caterpillar with thick, multi-jointed spider legs. Pine and Yitzhak had made the snap look so natural Quentin hadn’t even thought about it. Where the hell was he supposed to put his hands?

“Barnes!” Hokor shouted. “What is your difficulty?”

Quentin looked up at the coach in his little hovercart. “Well, I… I’m not sure…”

“Oh rub me raw!” John Tweedy shouted. “The hick doesn’t know how to take snap from a Ki!”

Laughter erupted on the field. Quentin flushed red. Everyone was laughing, laughing at him. Even Warburg was laughing, dammit.

Pine calmly stepped forward.

“Just like this, kid,” Pine said, not a trace of laughter in his voice. Pine squatted down and slid his hands under Bud-O-Shwek’s posterior. Quentin now saw that Pine squatted down deeper and reached in farther than he would with a Human center, and had to stagger his feet a little bit in order to keep his balance.

“See?” Pine said. “It’s not so different. Just keep your left foot back a step or so, so you can reach in without falling over. Hut-HUT!”

Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball and shot forward, his body expanding quickly and violently. Pine tossed Bud the ball, then turned to Quentin.

“Got it, kid?”

Quentin nodded. Pine smiled, slapped him once on the shoulder pad, then jogged back behind the line to stand with Yhitzak.

“Let’s go,” Hokor called. “Run the play.”

The offensive line formed up again. Quentin staggered his feet as Pine had done, and reached far under Bud-O-Shwek. The Ki’s rear felt cold and hard. He felt the pebbly skin against the back of his hands. A wave of revulsion tinged with a hint of fear swept through him. He was touching one of them. Bud-O-Shwek seemed indifferent: his front right leg curled around the ball, waiting for the snap-count.

Quentin looked over his center and surveyed the defense.

It was like looking straight out into a nightmare.

Mai-An-Ihkole and Per-Ah-Yet, the starting Ki defensive tackles, eyed him with obvious hunger, their black eyes glistening. Ki helmets consisted of a clear, circular visor that ran all the way around the head, accommodating for their 360-degree vision. Above the visor, the black helmet pointed back like a dog’s claw, protecting the delicate vocal tubes.

The two Ki tackles were flanked by defensive ends Aleksandar Michnik and Ibrahim Khomeni, both amongst the biggest Humans Quentin had ever seen. They both hailed from Vosor-3, a world with gravity three times that of Earth.

Once, in school, he’d seen pictures of an extinct creature called a “gorilla.” The class had been on creation, how all creatures were created as-is by the High One. In the Planetary Union and the League of Planets, apparently, they believe that Humans had evolved from these gorillas. Quentin had agreed that the idea was absurd, that it was ridiculous to think gorillas had given birth to Human babies. But now, looking at the 525-pound Michnik, with arms bigger than Quentin’s thighs and legs bigger than Quentin’s chest, he suddenly had to wonder what a gorilla looked like if you shaved off all its fur and dressed it in football pads.

From the middle linebacker’s spot, John Tweedy’s evil laugh rang through the air. “Well, looks like we’ve got it easy now. The rookie is here to answer Sklorno prayers again.”

EAT CRAP LOSER scrolled across Tweedy’s face.

At left and right outside linebacker, respectively, Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright bounced in place: fast, vicious, powerful, one-eyed Quyth Warriors. Sometimes they moved on legs and arms, low to the ground and leaning forward, waiting to attack, and sometimes just on their legs, standing tall and surveying the field. If they blitzed, Quentin knew he’d have to react instantly to avoid them.

The Sklorno defensive backs added yet another horrific element to the defense, their translucent bodies and black skeletons showing clearly where the black jerseys and pads did not cover. Their armored eyestalks quivered with excitement.

He felt a flutter in his stomach, a queasy feeling he’d never experienced before on a football field. He knew the feeling, but vaguely, a distant echo of something he didn’t have time to think about.

“Blue twenty-one,” Quentin called. “Blue… twenty-one.”

Tweedy moved forward, his huge frame standing right at the line of scrimmage, in between Mai-An-Ihkole and Per-Ah-Yet.

“Here it comes, rookie!” Tweedy screamed, his face a contorted mask of psychotic rage. The strange feeling in Quentin’s stomach grew in intensity. Was Tweedy just showing blitz, or was he coming for real?

“Flash, flash!” Quentin called out, audibling to a short-pattern pass. If Tweedy blitzed, Warburg would likely be open on a crossing route. “Hut-hut!”

The line erupted like nothing Quentin had ever seen or heard — so loud! The clatter of chitin and Ki battle screeches and Human grunts and smashing body armor filled the air like some medieval battle holo. Quentin pushed away from the line and reached the ball back for Yassoud to carry, then pulled it away at the last instant as a play-action fake. Quentin moved back four steps then turned and stood tall, looking for an open receiver.

Per-Ah-Yet ripped through the line and moved forward like a 560-pound, four-armed assassin. Quentin stepped up in the pocket and scrambled to the left to easily avoid the rush — or so he thought. A Human defensive tackle would have slipped by, momentum carrying him past as Quentin bounced forward towards the line. But Per-Ah-Yet wasn’t Human. The Ki stopped on a dime and turned as his body contracted like an accordion. He expanded suddenly and violently, driving towards Quentin, long body trailing behind like a snake. Per’s arms reached out much faster — and longer — than Quentin could have expected in his split-second decision to scramble. The long, thick, spider-like arms flashed out and hauled him in, lifting him off the ground, then driving him to the turf under all of Per-Ah-Yet’s weight and momentum. Quentin hit the ground hard. His body armor protected him from cuts and joint injuries, but couldn’t do much to guard him from the concussive force of a 560-pound defensive lineman slamming him to the ground.

He suffered a second or two of confused blackness. He didn’t know where he was. His brain couldn’t process the situation — he’d scrambled like that hundreds of times in his short career, moving past defensive tackles as if they were statues, leaving them in awe of his speed and athleticism. No one caught him from behind. No one. He’d been almost ten yards from this Ki, a huge cushion, and the lineman knocked the living tar out of him.

Suddenly, Quentin recognized that feeling in his stomach — fear. The same feeling that ran through his mind and body for every punch-in and punch-out. The same fear he’d felt as a small boy, when the Holy Women that ran the orphanage had told stories about the nightmarish Ki, how they ate Humans, how they came in the night to snatch away bad little boys. He hadn’t recognized it because he’d never before felt that emotion on a football field. Now the twelve-foot-long, multi-armed boogey-creature from his childhood nightmares wasn’t just real, it was on him, smothering him.

“Get off me!” Quentin shouted as he tried to scramble out from under Per-Ah-Yet. The Ki’s four-jointed arms grabbed Quentin’s helmet and held it tight, his face close enough to push against Quentin’s facemask. Two of the five black eyespots stared into Quentin’s eyes. Per-Ah-Yet’s hexagonal mouth opened to expose the triangular black teeth.

“Grissach hadillit ai ai,” it hissed, the sound from his wormlike vocal tubes muffled by the curving black helmet.

Quentin didn’t understand the alien’s words. Per-Ah-Yet pushed off him, heavily, and moved back to the defensive huddle.

Yassoud reached down to help Quentin up.

“He doesn’t like you very much,” Yassoud said.

“What did he say?”

“He said something to the effect that you’d look good roasting on a spit at his family picnic.”

Quentin stood, his body emitting a dull throb of complaint. Defensive players weren’t supposed to hit quarterbacks, not in practice. He’d just been leveled and nobody seemed to care. Hokor, for one, wasn’t saying anything. Quentin nodded. Now he understood. Oh yeah, he finally got it. This wasn’t just a mind-game, he really wasn’t going to start. No coach let the defense hit a starting QB.

He was just a rookie, and that meant he was fair game.

It was going to be a long day.

AT THE END of practice, Hokor gathered the team in the orange end zone. They circled around their little coach in his little cart, fifty tired and bruised players that looked like they’d just been through a battle.

“Good practice today,” Hokor said. “We have only one more practice before we open the season. I know that is hard on you rookies, but most of you won’t see much playing time. That is the nature of the league’s schedule, and there is nothing we can do about it. Tomorrow’s practice is a non-contact run through.”

Quentin thought the term “run through” was a funny concept, because he’d been hit so many times he could hardly walk, let alone run. The first-string defense had had a field day with him, blitzing every down, throwing stunts and overloads and everything else they could think of. The second-string defenders hadn’t been any easier, especially Mum-O-Killowe, who attacked every play like he was seeking vengeance on someone who’d killed his family. The rookie Ki lineman had also delivered the biggest hit of the day — a cheap shot, a full two seconds after Quentin had thrown the ball.

He wasn’t going to be the starter, his battered body told him that as clearly as if Hokor had spelled it out on paper. He’d played poorly — again — throwing three interceptions on thirty plays. He’d also thrown two touchdowns, and gone 5-of-13 overall. But three interceptions! It was the freakin’ speed of the game, he just couldn’t get used to it. The defense came at him so much faster than he’d ever seen, and when he threw the ball, the Sklorno defensive backs broke on it like they’d been reading his mind.

He was third-string. And right now, that’s where he belonged.

“Prepare well for tomorrow’s practice,” Hokor said. “You are dismissed.”

As the players walked off the field, Hokor’s cart descended and landed in front of Quentin.

“Barnes, you are throwing behind your receivers. You’ve got to adjust your throws, and you’ve got to start getting the ball higher in the air when throwing to Sklorno. Do you forget that they can jump to catch the ball?”

“No, Coach… well, yeah, I do forget that sometimes.”

“Well stop forgetting. If Pine goes down against the Wallcrawlers you’re not ready to come in.”

“Coach, I’m ready.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it, but they rang hollow even to his own ears. “All I need is more reps, I’m getting the hang of things.”

“Are you? Fine, then tell me who is the primary cornerback for the Wallcrawlers.”

“Bangkok,” Quentin said. He was exhausted, and didn’t want to play this ridiculous trivia game, but would answer the questions asked of him. “Three-year veteran, Wallcrawlers MVP last year, started for last two years, eleven interceptions last year.”

“So with eleven interceptions, do we throw to her side of the field?”

“Not if we can help it,” Quentin said.

“So if we don’t throw at her, who is the strong safety?”

“Marlette. Five-year starter. Has lost an estimated five inches on her vertical leap since leg surgery at the end of last season. Throw high and deep on post patterns.”

Hokor’s pedipalps quivered lightly. “Good. Say it’s third-and-seventeen. The nickel back comes in — who are you facing?”

Quentin started to answer, then had to stop and think. Nickel back for the Wallcrawlers… who did they bring in for passing situations?

“Oshkosh!” Quentin said quickly when the name jumped into his head.

“And what’s her weakness?”

“She… she…” Quentin tried to remember the one obscure fact about Oshkosh that could impact a game, but his tired mind came up with nothing.

“She has fused chitin plates near her hips,” Hokor said. “They’re too near her nervous center for anyone to operate safely. The fused plates greatly limit her ability to turn in mid-air, so if you throw to her area you throw behind her, where she can’t turn to get the ball. Your receivers know this already, and so should you. Now think about that while you start running.”

Quentin’s head dropped. He was exhausted. And he had to run again?

“Hold on, Barnes,” Hokor said. The diminutive alien turned and called through the cart’s loudspeakers.

“Mum-O-Killowe!” Hokor shouted a few more syllables, all of which were pure gibberish to Quentin. The giant rookie lineman turned and scuttled over. He stopped three feet from Quentin. The Ki’s black eyes burned into him in an expression of pure hatred (at least Quentin wanted to think it was hatred, and not the emotion he suspected it might actually be, which was hunger). Hokor barked a few more syllables. Mum-O-Killowe suddenly roared and reared up on his last set of legs, briefly making him a ten-foot-tall, arm waving monster.

Hokor, obviously unimpressed, simply pointed to the ground. Mum-O-Killowe dropped back down to six legs, and fell quiet.

“I have told Mum-O-Killowe he is to be punished for his late hit. Such undisciplined play could have injured you, and someday you could be a valuable component of this team. Therefore, he will run with you until I am tired of thinking about it.”

Quentin stared, dumbfounded, at his tiny coach. This thing wanted to kill him, and Hokor wanted the two of them to run laps like workout buddies?

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Coach,” Quentin said. “This guy will come after me as soon as we’re alone. He’s already tried twice.”

“Then you’d better learn to communicate with him, and fast. He is, after all, your teammate.”

Hokor flew off, leaving Quentin and Mum-O-Killowe staring at each other. Quentin shook his head and started to run, but was careful to keep an eye on the young Ki. Mum-O-Killowe followed suit and ran alongside, staring at Quentin with his unblinking black spider eyes.

FIFTY-THREE LAPS later, Hokor apparently got tired of thinking about it. He called over the stadium’s sound system, sending the two rookies to their respective locker rooms. They’d managed to run laps without an incident, to Quentin’s surprise.

He pulled off his drenched uniform, each motion an exercise in ache. He was so soaked he wondered if even the plastic parts of his pads were sweat-logged. Quentin walked to a mirror and stared at himself — he already had discoloring bruises covering most of his right shoulder and chest, as well as darkening spots on both legs. Bruises. He hadn’t had any bruises since his rookie season in the PNFL. That was the last time anyone laid a solid hit on him.

The locker room, of course, was empty except for Messal the Efficient, who busily gathered up Quentin’s clothes and pads.

“Which way is the shower?” Quentin asked. Messal scrambled to open the first of a row of doors built into the wall.

Quentin sighed heavily — another nannite shower. It just wasn’t what he needed.

“Don’t you guys have a water-shower here?”

Messal nodded immediately. “Yes, sir, we do.”

Quentin felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Well, show me where it is.”

Messal nodded again and started walking, Quentin followed as quickly as his exhausted and battered body would allow.

“If you’ll follow me to the Ki locker room, sir,” Messal said. “I will be happy to take you there.”

Quentin stopped dead in his tracks. “The Ki locker room? Are you kidding me?”

Messal nodded. “Oh no, sir. The Ki prefer running water to nannite cleansing.”

“Well so do some Humans!”

Messal nodded again. “No, sir, Humans prefer nannite cleansing.”

“Not this Human, pal.”

The nod, Quentin realized, was a gesture of subservience, not agreement. “Yes, sir, of course. I will take you to the water shower.”

“Isn’t there one in this locker room?”

Nod. “No, sir. It is in the Ki locker room. I will happily take you there so that you are satisfied with my service.”

Quentin hung his head. He was bruised, beaten and exhausted, but he wasn’t that tired. He waved Messal away and dragged himself to the nannite shower.

HE SAT IN HIS ROOM, marveling at how much a body could hurt after just one practice. It wasn’t enough to stop him from playing. Nothing hurt that much. But it sure wasn’t a walk in the park either. Quentin’s fingers deftly worked game controls as he guided his players around the holo tank. Games were a good way to get his mind off of practice — he didn’t know who “Madden” was, but “Madden 2683” was the best football sim he’d ever played. His To Pirates were up 22–16 over the Jupiter Jacks in a re-match of Galaxy Bowl XXIV.

His door-buzzer rang.

[MITCHELL FAYED IS AT YOUR DOOR]

Quentin hit pause and limped to the door. Fayed stood there, all 6-foot-9-inch, 350 granite-block pounds of him.

“Good evening, Quentin.”

Quentin just nodded.

“Why are you not at second meal?”

Quentin shrugged. “Just wanted to relax after practice.”

“You do not make friends easily with the rest of the team.”

Quentin didn’t know what to say. It was a statement, not a question.

“It does not matter,” Fayed said. “I came to say something to you.”

Fayed paused, as if waiting for permission.

“Well go ahead,” Quentin said.

“I have been in Tier Two for seven years now. Three with the Citadel Aquanauts, and four with the Krakens. I have worked all my life to reach Tier One. That is all I want.”

Quentin nodded.

“I came here to tell you that,” Fayed said. “I hope reaching Tier One is as important to you as it is to me. If you should take over the quarterback position, I will support you. I think you have talent. I want you to be strong in these first few weeks. I suspect you have not been hit like this before?”

Quentin shrugged. “There were some big hits in the PNFL.”

“And none of them reached you,” Fayed said. “I have watched holos of your games. You are new to this level of hitting. And it will get worse during the games. Far worse.”

Quentin tried to imagine how he could be hit any harder. Maybe if he crashed a hoversled into a brick wall at 180 miles per hour. Maybe.

“You get used to it,” Fayed said. “You have a big, strong body, like me. I have watched you. You can take the hits. You may not know it yet, but you can take the hits. Be strong. Keep working hard and good things will come.”

Fayed then nodded once, turned, and walked away.

Quentin stared out the door for a few seconds, then returned to his game. Did Fayed want something from him? Why was be being so nice? He didn’t know what to make of the guy. Hell, he didn’t know what to make of any of his teammates. But… did Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed believe in him? Quentin shook his head. This had to be something else. Fayed had to have some kind of motive for this. Couldn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust anyone on this team. A voice in the back of his head reminded him he hadn’t trusted anyone on the Raiders, either. Hadn’t trusted anyone in a long, long time.

He picked up the controller, trying to ignore the pangs of loneliness as he focused on making his To Pirates win Galaxy Bowl XXIV.