The Rookie

2. QUENTIN

QUENTIN BARNES RAISED his face into the shower’s steaming spray. The water trickled down his body to join the water cascading off of other players before it all slid down the drain. Streaks of brown and green and red diffused in the water rolling off the other players. Brown mud, green grass stains, red blood. Quentin’s water, of course, carried nothing more than white soap — he’d barely even been touched. Tackled twice, no sacks. The only thing he had to wipe off was his own sweat.

Tattoos covered the arms and chests of his teammates, many designs denoting various Church rankings or religious accomplishments. Many were fully confirmed, with the curving infinity symbol inked on their foreheads. Church participation was expected of PNFL players — after all, their talents came courtesy of the High One. And weren’t these men, who dominated Purist Nation pop culture along with soccer players, an example to all Purists? The government strongly encouraged players to be vocal proponents of the faith. There were even well known incidents of players, good players, being blackballed from the league for not participating in the Church.

Quentin had tats as well, one on either side of his sternum. The one on his right, in neat block letters, simply said “SHUCK.” The matching tat on his left said “YOU.”

Ceiling vents greedily sucked up most of the steam, but twenty simultaneous showers still produced a light fog. Quentin walked through the haze as he left the shower, passing by his teammates, every last one of whom threw him a smile and a compliment.

“Way to do it, Quentin.”

“The High One blessed you today, Quentin.”

“Nice work, boss.”

“They know who they played, right Quentin?”

He smiled back at everyone, answered most of the comments with a simple nod of the head.

His teammates were civil enough in the locker room and on the field, but they weren’t his friends. They knew it. They made sure he knew it. Most of the players came from privileged families, Church families. Only Church families sent their kids to school, and only in school could you play organized football.

For the lower classes, time in class or on the field was time away from the mines. They learned the basics: reading, writing, math, religion and how to kill the Satanic races. By seven or eight years old, lower-class kids had all the knowledge they would ever need, or so the logic went. Quentin never forgot how lucky he was that Stedmar happened to drive by that one day, four long years ago.

Every year a few poor players found a way into the PNFL, and they embraced the Church wholeheartedly. Some believed, some didn’t, but for all the Church was their only chance to achieve some kind of station in life. Every government job, the majority of private-sector jobs, anything that involved money, you had to be confirmed or at least well on your way. On Micovi, football was a ticket out of a hard existence of grinding manual labor and a lifespan of forty years. Fifty, if you were lucky.

But Quentin Barnes refused to embrace the Church. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the Church could take a flying leap.

His left tackle, Maynard Achmad, walked by, flashing Quentin a big smile.

“Great game, Q,” he said. “We’re going all the way!”

Quentin smiled and sat. Achmad stopped in front of Pete Oky-mayat’s locker. He leaned and said something to the big linebacker, which made Pete throw his head back with laughter. He waved over Adrian Yellow, the kicker, and repeated Achmad’s comment. Adrian laughed as well, reaching up to slap Pete on the shoulder. The men were happy, they were going to the title game. They were happy, and they were sharing it, together.

Quentin looked around the locker room. Everywhere teammates sat or stood in groups, yelling, laughing and celebrating. There were always groups, groups that never included him. Word might get back to The Elders that the men regularly associated with someone from a known family of criminals. He felt a pang of loneliness, then chased the thought away. Shuck them all. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone.

He turned back to face his locker, and thought about Achmad’s words. We’re going all the way. All the way to what? The Purist Nation Football League championship? Next week the Raiders faced off against the Sigurd City Norsemen, the champs of the Homeworld Division. They’d kill the Norsemen, then stand atop the twelve team PNFL.

The PNFL Championship. Big deal. Champions of a Tier Three league. And an all-Human Tier Three team at that. It was about as far away from the big time as you could get. But the road to galactic exposure had to start somewhere. The Tier Two teams couldn’t ignore stats like his three-touchdown, 24-for-30, 310-yard passing performance against the Corsairs (with another 82 on the ground including a sweet 52-yard TD run, thank you very much). He was the best player in the PNFL, bar none, possibly the best Tier Three player in the galaxy.

He toweled off, rubbing dry his chest, then his face and hair. When he removed the towel, he saw the big tight end Shua Mullikin walking towards him. Quentin stood there, naked and fearless, calmly smiling and staring straight up into Shua’s flaring eyes.

“I was open all day and you know it,” Shua said.

“The guy throwing the ball might disagree with you, big fella.”

Shua’s eyes narrowed with rage. “That was the semifinals. Everyone in the Nation was watching that game, and I didn’t catch a single pass.”

Quentin shrugged, then sat on the bench in front of his locker and started dressing.

“This is because I argued with you in practice, isn’t it,” Shua said, a statement rather then a question. “I dared to contradict you in front of everyone else and you had to punish me.”

Quentin didn’t bother to look up as he answered. “It’s my show, Shu. You know this. It’s not like this is new information.”

Quentin felt Shua’s stare. Shua wanted to hit him, wanted it bad, but everyone knew that Quentin could kick the tar out of just about anyone on the team.

“You think you’re so high and mighty,” Shua said, his voice rising. “Someday you won’t be playing football, and you’ll go back to being the little orphan piece of garbage that you were before Stedmar found you.”

A hush fell over the locker room. On some planets, calling someone a “retard” was a major insult. On Micovi, in the Nation, that major insult was “orphan.” Even if it was true, it wasn’t something you tossed about casually.

Quentin turned and looked into Shua’s eyes. “I’m getting the impression you don’t want to catch any passes in the championship game, either.”

Shua’s nostrils flared, his expression a combination of anger and anxiety. Sure, Shua hated him, but he also wanted his share of the limelight. Any hero of the PNFL Championship game was guaranteed to move high in the Church.

“Is that right, Shua?” Quentin said quietly. “You don’t want to see the rock next week?”

Shua swallowed. “Of course I want to.”

Quentin nodded. “Okay, then apologize.”

The big tight end’s face screwed into a furious mask. “Apologize? You underclass piece of — ”

Quentin turned away, facing back into his locker. The move stopped Shua in mid-sentence. Shua looked around the locker room, looking for support, but he found none. No one was going to back him up. Not now, not with the championship just one week away.

Quentin started to whistle as he put on his socks.

Shua’s fists clenched and unclenched. “I’m… sorry.”

Quentin cupped his hand to his ear and looked up from the corner of his eye. “What? Sorry man, I couldn’t hear you.”

This time it was loud enough for everyone to hear. “I said I’m sorry.”

Quentin smiled graciously. “No problem, Shu. Apology accepted.”

Shua turned and stormed away, his face red from rage and humiliation. The teammates looked at Quentin for a few more seconds, then turned back to their various groups and quietly resumed their conversations.

They hated the fact that he held so much power. Most of them treated underclass people like they were slaves. But on the field, in the locker room, they couldn’t do that to Quentin Barnes. If they hated him because he wasn’t like them, he made sure they at least respected his role as the team leader.

Quentin reached into the bottom of his locker and pulled out a can of Shokess Beer. He twisted the top, smiling in anticipation as the can instantly frosted up. He flipped the lid and took a long drink. It was the best beer the Purist Nation had to offer, which wasn’t saying much — he’d had a can of Miller Lager once when playing at Buddha City Stadium. Now that was real beer. You could get almost anything you wanted in Buddha City. Beer, contraband, music, women… he’d even heard some of his holier-than-thou teammates had slept with blue-skinned women from Satirli 6. Talk about a sin. It didn’t get much worse than that, unless you debased yourself by sleeping with one of the Satanic species. Quentin had ignored sinful behavior, with the notable exception of beer.

Alcohol, of course, was basically forbidden in public places. Other players would have been severely punished for drinking in the locker room, but Stedmar had taught him that when you had something other people wanted, something they needed, the rules don’t necessarily apply to you.

Theron Akbar, the team manager, walked up to Quentin, a big smile on his little face. His smile faded when he saw the beer.

“That’s a sin, Quentin.”

“It’s also tasty,” Quentin said, then chugged the remainder. He liked Akbar, who oddly enough was the only member of the organization with the balls to say something right to Quentin’s face.

“Coach wants to see you, Quentin,” Akbar said. “Right away.”

Quentin set down the empty can and continued toweling off. “What’s up?”

“Rumor is you’ve been bought.”

The toweling stopped.

“Stedmar had some off-worlder in the luxury box. Right after the game he talked to the coach, now the coach wants to see you. You do the math. And the High One really blessed you tonight. Great game.”

Akbar walked away. Quentin practically dove into his clothes. This was it — he was finally escaping the shucking rock he’d called home his entire life.

The universe awaited.

FULLY DRESSED, Quentin stepped through the open door into his coach’s office.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

Coach Ezekiel Graber sat behind his desk. He wore a skullcap in Raider colors, black with a silver “R.” The Raider logo wasn’t much to look at, just a plain block letter, the same style used for all the PNFL teams. Graber wore a sweatshirt, a piece of clothing that had endured for centuries as fashion and style fluctuated across a dozen Human planets.

“Sit down, Barnes,” Coach Graber said. He was smiling, but he didn’t look happy. “You’ve got a decision to make.”

The infinity symbol tattooed on Graber’s forehead had faded in the twenty or so years since his confirmation at the age of thirty — what had once been a detailed, deep black was now a slightly fuzzy gray.

“Barnes, you’ve had one hell of a season.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Best I’ve ever coached, I’ll tell you that. High One as my witness.” Coach Graber paused. Quentin nodded once, smiled, and the coach continued.

“Quentin, there comes a time in every young man’s life when he has to decide his path. Your time is now. Stedmar sold your contract.”

Quentin’s stomach dropped to nothingness, replaced by a tingly swarm of butterflies. This was it. He was going. “Who?” he said with a dry mouth.

“Ionath Krakens.”

Quentin frowned. The Krakens… a Tier Two team. He’d hoped for a Tier One franchise, like the up-and-coming Alimum Armada, or even his boyhood dream of the To Pirates.

“The Krakens? You’re sure?”

Coach Graber nodded. “I’ve got the contract right here.” He handed Quentin a messageboard. Quentin looked at the readout — it was a done deal, all right. All he had to do was put his thumbprint on it to make it official.

The Ionath Krakens. If that was his ticket out of the Purist Nation, that was good enough for him. And it was a team based in the Quyth system, where millions of Nationalites had fled during Butcher Smith’s cleansings. He’d often prayed his parents weren’t dead, but had actually fled to the Quyth system and couldn’t return or contact him in any way. Maybe now he’d find out. Tier Two teams still enjoyed galactic broadcast coverage — even if his parents weren’t in the Quyth system, there was a chance they’d see him play, see him and join him. He’d have a real family.

“Now Quentin, you know full well that’s going to take you out of the system. You’ve still got the option of religious refusal.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said dryly. “I have that option.”

“There’s a lot of people in the Purist Nation, including me, my son, who hope that you stay in-system until your thirtieth birthday so you can be confirmed. A person with your fame could go far in the Church. You could be a Bishop, or even a Mullah, if you applied yourself.”

Quentin nodded, only half listening. He loved it when people used the words ‘my son.’ Someday, someone would use those words and it would mean something, something real. Right now, it meant jack.

He could take religious refusal, which would negate the contract. If he did that, a different Tier Two or Tier One team could pick him up — but only after the next PNFL season. League rules specified his contract could only be sold once per season, and if he refused that contract, that meant another year with the Raiders.

Another year of Tier Three ball. Another year of dirt and mud and the never ending drone of the atmosphere processors.

“Coach, I’ve always wanted to play Upper Tier ball. To tell you the truth, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Then stop ignoring your religious calling. Get confirmed, see the galaxy as a missionary spreading the faith.”

Quentin hated the Church with all his soul. He loved the High One, believed deeply in the High One, but he knew in his heart that the Church was rife with flaws, half-truths and outright lies, all designed to keep certain families in power and keep the majority of the population from questioning their lowly place in the Purist Nation. He would always believe, but would never preach the Gospel of Stewart.

“I’m no missionary, Coach. You know that.”

“Someday you’ll feel the calling. But you have to be careful about going out-system before your soul is prepared! Satan lives out there. We can see him on the news every day, he takes the shape of the Whitok, Ki, the Sklorno, the Quyth, and disguises himself in Human form in the Planetary Union, the League of Planets, the Tower — ”

“Yeah, Coach, I got it. I’ve heard this speech before. In fact, I’ve heard it all my life, a few too many times from a few too many people.”

Coach Graber’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a speech you need to listen to, son, not just hear.”

“I’m not your son,” Quentin said. “And I’m not part of your Church.”

“Do you dare blaspheme against the High One?”

“I believe in the teachings of the High One,” Quentin said. “I just don’t believe in the Church. There’s a big difference. The best football players are aliens, and I want to play against the best.”

“Satan takes many forms, Quentin. Are you going to consort with crickets and salamanders and Satan’s other minions?”

“I’m not going to consort with anyone, Coach. I don’t have to associate with them, just win ballgames with them. If Satan himself can run a post pattern, I’ll hit him in stride for six.”

Graber’s breath shot out in a huff. “That’s blasphemous! And besides, you’re not ready to play Tier Two. You couldn’t handle the speed.”

“Shuck that. I’m going to rip Tier Two apart.”

“Quentin, I think you just need another season or two to prepare yourself. You’ve only been playing the game for four years, my son. Imagine how much you can learn with just one more season!”

“One second I shouldn’t go because it’s sacrilegious, the next I shouldn’t go because I’m not good enough yet? Maybe you just want me to stick around and win you a couple more PNFL championships, is that it?”

Graber leaned back, his eyes wide with hurt. “Quentin, you can’t think that I have anything but your best interests at heart. I don’t want Satan to swallow your soul, boy, and that’s what will happen if you go out-system and mingle with the sub races.”

“I’m not a boy.”

“You are until you’re thirty! You know the Scriptures!”

Quentin stood up. “You can toss your Scriptures into the Void. No one here gave a crap about me before I threw a football. You all talk of the glory of the Purist Nation and the purity of Humans, but all I see is a galaxy ruled by off-worlders. If the Purist Nation is so great, if we’re the chosen ones, then why are we ruled by the bats? I’ll win the PNFL championship for you next week, but then I’m out of here.”

“You’re not ready.”

“Is that right, Coach?” Quentin held the message board inches from Graber’s face, then slowly brought his left thumb towards the imprint spot. He stared into Graber’s angry eyes as his thumb punched home his destiny. The board let out a small confirming beep.

“I’ll be here for practice this week, and I’ll win your stupid PNFL championship for you,” Quentin said. “And as soon as that game is over, you can kiss my butt goodbye.”

Coach Graber’s shoulders sagged. “Your decision is made. May the High One have mercy on your soul.”

Quentin laughed. “My soul? Coach, without me, you’d better be worried if the High One will have mercy on the Raiders.”

Quentin walked out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

SEVEN DAYS AFTER SIGNING the Krakens’ contract, Quentin Barnes walked out of the Raiders locker room for what he hoped was the last time. He’d left them with a 35–14 win over the Sigurd Norsemen, and another PNFL championship.

In his left hand he carried his duffel bag. In his right he carried the PNFL Championship MVP trophy. High One knew he’d earned it, with a record-setting 24-for-28, 363-yard performance. That and four TD passes. Not a bad day’s work.

He walked outside, where the constant sound of the atmosphere processor greeted him. He hated that noise, and he hated this place. A hundred people waited for him, many of them wearing the blue tunics of the Church. Most of the others, and even some of the tunic-wearers, wore some kind of Raider gear — shirts, hats or banners. He looked out at a throng of silver and black, most of it from Raiders’ jerseys marked with the number “10” — Quentin’s number.

Once again his eyes searched for a certain face that he did not yet know. For a pair of eyes that looked like his. For a smile that only a parent could have for a child.

Once again, he saw nothing but strangers.

The crowd surrounded him. At seven feet tall, he towered over everyone. Kids thrust messageboards at him, begging for his thumbprint and maybe a few words.

“Oh Elder Barnes you’re the greatest!”

“What a great game! Can you sign this ‘To Anna?’”

“Elder Quentin, sign my pad, please!”

They called him “Elder,” a term of respect, even though he was no more a part of the Church than the Creterakian occupiers. He didn’t bother to correct them.

Stedmar Osborne was waiting for him, leaning against a jet-black limo, Sammy and Frankie and Dean his ever-present bodyguards.

Quentin signed quickly, but he signed every messageboard thrust his way. He didn’t have time for personalized messages, so he pressed down thumbprints as fast as he could. The satisfied kids and their parents started to drift away as he kept signing. At the end, the weak children finally found their way to him. His heart sank as he looked at some of them — more than a few had Hiropt’s Disease, all of them assuredly from Micovi’s slums, where the roundbugs grew to the size of housecats. One of the boys, dressed in the blue tunic of a Church ward, was missing an arm.

“What happened to you?” Quentin asked the smiling boy.

“My family lived on an ore hauler over on the North Coast,” the boy said, his eyes wide with hero worship. “One of the engines blew and I got hurt.”

“You here with your family?”

“High One took them, Mr. Barnes,” the boy said, a smile still on his face as if his family’s tragedy was the most pleasant of conversations. “Died in the explosion. The Holy Men have told me it was part of the High One’s plan. I’m in the Church now, someday I’ll be confirmed.”

Quentin smiled sadly at the boy. An orphan. Without a family sponsor, he had little or no chance of being confirmed. Not unless he could run a forty in 3.8 seconds and haul in passes with his one arm. This boy would spend the rest of his life in the mines. But at least the boy’s parents hadn’t abandoned him.

Quentin shook away the thought. Who was he to question his own parents? Maybe they were out there, somewhere. Millions fled the planet during the cleansings, fled or died. Maybe they just couldn’t find him… right, couldn’t find the most famous athlete in all of the Purist Nation.

He pressed his thumbprint to the boy’s messageboard. Quentin opened his duffel bag and handed the boy his sweaty game jersey. The boy’s eyes widened to white marbles dotted with flecks of blue.

“Take it,” Quentin said. The boy dropped his messageboard as he grabbed the jersey with his one arm. He clutched the jersey to his chest, his face the very picture of joy.

“Let’s go Quentin,” Stedmar called.

Quentin nodded at him and knelt to pick up his bag. He paused there, looking at the bag, then reached in and started passing out the contents. To each of the remaining kids he gave something: shoes, game pants, a T-shirt, even the bag itself. When he had nothing left to give, he stood and walked past the clamoring children to the waiting limo.

Stedmar was laughing at him. “Traveling light, kid?”

Quentin shrugged. “Don’t need that stuff anymore, sir.” He had to look down to talk to Stedmar, who at six-foot-four was a full eight inches shorter than Quentin.

One of the bodyguards held the door. Quentin and Stedmar got in the back. The bodyguard drove the limo towards the spaceport, a mere five minutes away from the stadium.

“I’m surprised you didn’t give away the trophy,” Stedmar said with a smile.

Quentin held it out. “I saved that for you, Mr. Osborne.”

The smile vanished from Stedmar’s face. “Don’t you mess with me, kid.”

“No sir,” Quentin said. “Four years ago you found me and gave me a chance. I’m off this planet because of you.”

Stedmar slowly took the trophy. He looked at it, a strange expression on his face, then looked back at Quentin.

“I made a pretty penny on you, Quentin. I won’t lie to you about that. I was already underpaying you, and I sold that same contract to Tier Two, where it’s not even close to what you’re worth.”

Quentin shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be able to renegotiate next year.”

“Sure, unless by some crazy fluke the Krakens make it to Tier One. Then you’re a protected player for two years, and they can keep paying you what you’re making now.”

“I’ll make the money back eventually, Mr. Osborne.”

Stedmar nodded. “Somehow I know you will. But listen, kid, you’re in for a lot of changes. Some people like the big time, some don’t. I’ve seen a lot of Nationalites go out-system with big dreams, and most of them come running back. They can’t handle being in the same cities with the aliens, being on the same busses, shuttles and transport tubes. I mean, have you ever seen a Sklorno up close?” Stedmar’s face wrinkled with disgust. “You can see right through their skin. And they drool. It’s a big adjustment.”

“I’m not leaving to make friends,” Quentin said. “I’m going to win a Tier One championship.”

“And I hope you do, kid. Just remember that if you don’t like the galaxy, you’ve always got a home here with the Raiders.”

“And how do you think your Raiders will do next season?”

Stedmar looked out the window. “I don’t think we’ll be worth a dead roundbug. But you’ve still got something to learn, Quentin.”

“You’re not going to give me the Holy Man speech, are you? I got that from Coach Graber.”

Stedmar laughed. “You know me better than that. I don’t buy into the Church any more than you do. But what you’ve got to learn, Quentin, is that time always wins, and there’s always someone to take your place. I won’t be able to replace you next year, or the year after that, but you know what? Someone will line up at quarterback for the Raiders. The team won’t shut down because you’re gone. We won’t win another championship next season, but eventually, we will. And when that happens, there will be some other quarterback coming out of that locker room, mobbed by kids wanting autographs.”

Quentin smiled politely. Stedmar was the owner, after all, and deserved respect. He also had the power to have Quentin whacked anytime he saw fit, and that definitely deserved respect. But Stedmar clearly didn’t understand football.

“Yes sir, Mr. Osborne.”

Stedmar grinned, as if he’d just passed on some great pearl of wisdom and now felt better of himself for the charity. “We’ll have your things shipped to the Krakens’ team bus. The league wants you to go straight to the Combine.”

“Don’t I get a chance to meet the team? The coaches?”

Stedmar shook his head. “That’s not the way it works, kid. You’ve got to go to the Combine to make sure you’re not using any disguising technology to hide gene modification, cybernetic implants or anything like that.”

“But I haven’t got any of that bush league garbage.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid, every rookie has to go through it. Besides, it’s a chance for you to see the home planet of our beneficial rulers.” Stedmar spat the last word out like it was a poisonous spider crawling around in his mouth.

“Creterak,” Quentin said distantly. “What’s the Combine like? I’ve heard a lot of stories.”

“You mean the stories like how it used to be a prison station, how they take samples from all over your body, how they jack your brain into an A.I. mainframe to test your analytical powers, how they throw you in a cage with a live Grinkas mudsucker to test your reflexes in a life and death situation?”

Quentin looked out the window. “Yeah, stuff like that.”

“I don’t know, kid. It’s probably all bull. The League doesn’t want the merchandise damaged, if you get what I’m saying.”

The red and yellow buildings of the city gave way to the wide open spaces of the spaceport tarmac. Disabled anti-orbital batteries dotted the landscape, rusted and pitted with forty years of neglect. The huge relics were once capable of taking out a dreadnought as far away as a light-year, or so the story went.

Quentin’s stomach quivered. A chill filtered through his body. The anti-orbital batteries marked the edge of the spaceport — he’d soon be on the shuttle, and after that, the ship that would carry him to the Combine.

Quentin clasped his hands together to stop their shaking, but he couldn’t hide his fear from Stedmar.

“Pre-flight jitters, kid?”

Quentin looked out the window, and nodded. On the tarmac, a shuttle shot straight up, probably headed for the same ship he’d soon be on himself.

“I’ll never get that,” Stedmar said. “You go out on the field and those animals are trying to rip your head off, doesn’t bother you at all, but you act like an old lady when it comes to simple space travel.”

Quentin shrugged and kept looking out the window. Tier Two meant more flying, a lot more flying than his four or five yearly trips with the Raiders. He didn’t have a choice.

The car slowed to a stop. One of Stedmar’s body guards opened Quentin’s door. Stedmar handed Quentin a mini-messageboard. “Your passport is in there. So is the Krakens’ playbook. You need your thumbprint to access either file, but don’t get careless with it — thumbprints can be faked, and plenty of people would love to get their hands on a GFL passport. Just mind your manners, Quentin, you’ve got no experience dealing with these other races, and sometimes they can find just about anything offensive. Watch more, talk less.”

Quentin took the messageboard and slid out of the car. He leaned in to look at Stedmar. “As soon as they put a football in my hands, everything will be just fine, Mr. Osborne.”

Stedmar smiled and nodded, an expression on his face that seemed both proud and slightly condescending. “Tear ‘em up, kid.”

Quentin turned and walked through the doors. He didn’t bother looking back — there was nothing he wanted to see on this planet, and nothing he ever planned on seeing again.

The GFL’s three-tier system is often a source of confusion to neophyte fans. While most understand the concept of “Tier Three” as feeder teams, or what the Old Earth NFL used to call “minor leagues,” the interaction between Tier Two and Tier One is a little more complicated.

Currently there are 280 registered Tier Three teams spread throughout the galaxy. These are official Galactic Football League franchises, registered with the Creterakian Empire, and controlled by the Empire Bureau of Species Interaction (EBSI). In truth, the EBSI does little to control Tier Three other than to provide the same rules of play that govern the Upper Tiers, and to provide licensed referees from the Referees Guild.

There are twenty-four Tier Three conferences. Most Tier Three conferences operate on a single planet. Some, like the Purist Nation Football League, feature inter-planetary play. Conferences have around ten teams, and on average play a nine game season, plus any conference playoffs or tournaments. The season culminates in the 32-team Tier Three Tournament. Each conference champ is invited, as are eight at-large teams (note: due to religious preferences, the PNFL does not participate in the tournament). In this grueling tournament, a team plays every three days until a champion is crowned. The tournament is affectionately known as “The Two Weeks of Hell.”

Tier Three is a individual entity, separate from the other two Tiers. Tier Two and Tier One, commonly called the “Upper Tiers,” are actually two divisions of the same league. If Tier Three is considered “minor leagues,” the seventy-six Upper Tier teams constitute the “major leagues” of professional football.

Most fan attention, naturally, focuses on the twenty-two Tier One teams. Tier One teams are evenly divided into the Planet Division and the Solar Division. The top three teams from each division make the six-team Tier One playoff. The two teams with the best record have a bye, while the remaining four teams compete in the opening round. The winners of the opening-round games play the top teams, and the winners of those games meet in the GFL Championship.

But where there are winners, there are always losers, and that’s where Tier Two comes into play. While the top Tier One teams compete for fortune and glory, the worst two teams are dropped from Tier One, and must compete in Tier Two the following season.

There are six Tier Two conferences: the Human, the Tower, the Ki, the Harrah, the Sklorno and the Quyth Irradiated. The winners of each conference compete in the Tier Two Playoffs. The two teams that make it to the final game move up to Tier One the following year to replace the two demoted Tier One teams. This is the goal of every Tier Two team at the beginning of the season, and is such a dramatic accomplishment that the actual Tier Two Championship game is almost an afterthought. The Tier Two Championship is more like a scrimmage, as neither team wants to incur injuries.

Why don’t the teams want to risk injuries? Because the Tier One season begins two weeks after the Tier Two Championship game. Tier Two teams have only a brief respite from battle before they are thrust into the meat grinder that is Tier One.

This system successfully produces intense play all year long, particularly among the Tier One teams near the bottom of the standings. To drop into Tier Two costs a team untold billions in revenue from network coverage and merchandising.