The Rookie

3. THE COMBINE

THE COMBINE WAS much smaller than Emperor Two. A featureless grey orb devoid of any color, the Combine looked the part of a prison station. The shuttle docked and the Creterakian escort led Quentin out. More Creterakians were waiting inside — many more. Quentin tried to count them, but they flew so quickly and were so numerous his eyes couldn’t lock on. It was like being in the middle of a swarming flock of birds. He shuddered as he thought what it must have been like for Manny and the other Human ground forces that tried to fight the Creterakians some forty years ago.

Quentin walked down the hall. It seemed as if the small flying creatures would slam into him at any moment, but they always banked left or right at the last possible second, just missing him. He walked forward, trying to ignore the little creatures that seemed to fill the tight hallway like a gas.

He walked past a row of small pressure doors. His escort stopped in front of an open one. A Creterakian perched on the doorframe, seemingly waiting for them.

“You are Quentin Barnes,” it said, a statement more than a question.

“Yes.”

“You are now number 113. You will answer to that number while you are at the Combine. Inside you will find Human clothes. Wear them. You have five minutes to prepare, then we will begin testing.”

Quentin walked into the room. The door shut behind him. It took him only a second to realize he was in a prison cell. The only furnishing was a Human-length metal shelf that stuck out from the wall at waist level. A metal toilet hung from the back wall. On the floor next to the toilet was a two-foot diameter circle of fine metal mesh. He recognized the mesh as a nannite shower — he’d used them at some of the opposing teams’ locker rooms in stadiums that didn’t have large water supplies like Micovi. On the shelf sat a yellow, form-fitting body suit labeled on the chest with the number “113.”

Quentin looked on the back of the suit, expecting to see “Barnes” written in the typical block letters, but there was no name — just another “113.” The suit seemed heavy. The material felt slightly lumpy, as if it were filled with micro-wires and various tiny electronic devices.

He sighed, wondering what he was in for, and started to strip.

A BUZZER SOUNDED from a hidden loudspeaker, making Quentin jump. The door to his cell opened. He looked out at the rush of Creterakians moving back and forth, so fast they were nothing more than a flash of silver uniforms and black wings.

A Creterakian flew into his cell. “Number 113, exit your room and wait for instructions.”

Dressed in his yellow suit, a bare-footed Quentin stepped out and stood on the hallway’s cold metal grille. There were even more bats now, but there were other Humans as well. In front of each door stood a man dressed in a yellow bodysuit identical to Quentin’s.

It surprised him that he felt infinitely relieved to see other Humans. Three doors down and across the hall, he recognized Alonzo Castro, linebacker from Sigurd. Castro had led the PNFL in tackles and hit like the impact of an asteroid. At least that was the rumor — in the championship game, he hadn’t been able to lay a glove on Quentin.

Alonzo caught his gaze and waved. “Quentin! “What’s up, champ?”

“Just doing my time in prison.”

Alonzo laughed. “Yeah, I heard about this place.”

The hallway filled with light conversation as men recognized each other from their on-field battles, or from holocasts of the hundreds of Tier Three teams. It seemed strange, talking while countless Creterakians flew back and forth, but Quentin was already growing used to their presence.

“Who bought out your contract?” Alonzo asked.

“The Krakens. You?”

“Texas Earthlings. I’ll be living in the Planetary Union, if you can believe that.”

“No offense, but for a linebacker, aren’t you a little… well…”

“Small?” Alonzo said, finishing Quentin’s thought. His smile stayed, but the friendly expression faded from his eyes. “Yeah, well, they seem to think I’ve got what it takes. Hey, if we’z lucky, I’ll see you in the playoffs.”

Quentin thought for a second, then nodded. Alonzo was very fast, and as strong as a Mason seabull. He’d given the Raiders’ offensive line fits trying to block him. If he could overcome his small stature, he might be a real factor for the Earthlings.

“I hear we’re in for a long day,” Alonzo said.

“Why’s that?”

“This testing crap goes on forever, I’m told.”

The man to Quentin’s right spoke up. “I was here last year. Today will be pure hell.”

He was big, almost as big as a PNFL guard or tackle, yet he had that lean look of a man who could move — obviously a tight end. His pale blue skin marked his probable origin as the League of Planets, and his hair was electric blonde.

“Why are you here again?” Quentin asked. “I thought you only had to do the Combine once, then you get individual testing after that.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, if you make the team. My contract was picked up by the Parasites last year, but I didn’t make the cut, so it was back to another season of Tier Three.”

“How’s the play there?”

“Tougher every year,” the man said with a grimace. He offered his hand. “I’m Olaf Raunio.”

Quentin looked at the blue-skinned hand for a second. To not shake it was an instant insult. To touch a blue-skin, however, was to touch people who had been kicked off of Earth for consorting with Satan. The hand hung there awkwardly, for almost a second, before Quentin shook it, not quite able to hide his revulsion.

“I’m Quentin Barnes.”

Olaf looked surprised. “The PNFL guy? Yeah, I watched that game on the ‘net. You made Sigurd look like a bunch of pansys.”

“Pansys?” Alonzo said from across the hall. His light-hearted tone had vanished, now there was nothing but malice in his deep voice. “Keep it up, blue-boy, and I’ll show you a pansy.”

Olaf bristled at the racial insult so frequently levied against people from the League of Planets.

“Never mind him,” Quentin said. “He’s still chapped from the spanking I gave him in the championship game.”

The two men kept staring at each other for a few seconds, then Olaf laughed dismissively and turned back to Quentin. “I figured you’d go Tier One.”

Quentin shrugged. “Me too, but I’ll get there soon enough.”

Olaf smiled. “Hope so. You might find it’s not as easy as you think.”

“So you’ve been here before, where’s all the aliens?”

“Each race has it’s own wing. This used to be a prison, and they kept the races separate to cut down on the violence.”

“What’s so tough about today?” Quentin asked. “What kind of tests?”

Olaf shrugged. “Can’t tell you that. They tell you that any mention of what goes on here gets you kicked out of the league, but I suspect that if you talk about the inner workings of the Combine you disappear for good.”

A sudden, blaring buzzer sounded again, ending all conversation. A Creterakian in a blue uniform hovered at the end of the hall, his black wings nothing but a blur.

“This is the Combine,” the little creature said, his voice amplified by the ship’s speakers. “You will refer to me and any other you see in a blue suit as Boss. I am Boss One. If you do not follow instructions, you will be removed before you can complete the testing. If you do not complete the testing, you can not play Upper Tier football.”

The hallway fell deathly silent. Every man here would rather be dragged behind an Earth horse than go back for another season of Tier Three.

“The Combine tests purity,” Boss One said. “Creterakian law makes it illegal for Humans or any other race to have biological modifications, cybernetic implants, strength- or performance-enhancing chemicals, mental accelerator chips or any other non-natural augmentation. The Galactic Football League is a showcase of cooperation amongst the races, and therefore you must be pure to ensure fair competition.”

The men nodded in agreement and understanding, but everyone knew the real reason for “purity.” The Creterakians ruled by military strength. They did not allow any biological modifications that might make the subject races more effective warriors. Their post-war pogrom killed millions of soldiers: biotech enhanced Human warriors, the cyborg Ki commandos, the Sklorno with carbon-titanium chitin genes for impermeable shells, Quyth Warriors with their hordes of implanted bio-repair nanocytes — all wiped out in a two-year-long purge designed to eliminate potential guerilla fighters. Since that time, discovery of any bio-modification resulted in a prison sentence if it could be removed, or a death sentence if it could not.

“The yellow lines on the floor will lead you through the stations,” Boss One said. “Follow the lines and follow all instructions. Failure to comply with a Boss’s orders results in immediate dismissal. There is no talking. The testing begins immediately.”

QUENTIN SHUFFLED ALONG on the yellow line, waiting for the 112 players ahead of him to enter the first station. Each man went in, the door closed and stayed closed for a few minutes, then the door opened for the next in line.

Finally it was his turn. The door closed behind him as he entered a room with racks of yellow jumpsuits. A large black machine with a grey, man-sized “X” dominated the back wall, complete with shackles at each end; two for hands and two for feet.

“Sit down, 113.”

The voice came from the other end of the room, where a blue-suited boss perched on a table. A rail, hanging just two feet from the ceiling, ran the circumference of the room. Every last inch of that rail was packed with fidgeting, black-suited Creterakians.

“Sit down, 113,” the boss repeated. A small metal stool sat in front of the table. Quentin walked to it and sat. The stool was just high enough that his feet didn’t quite hit the floor. The stool’s edges pushed the suit’s mini-wires into the backs of his thighs.

“I am Boss Two. I am an official magistrate of the Creterakian Empire. To lie to me in any way is punishable by imprisonment.” It was typical Creterakian communication — a statement without questions. They never said things that Human authority figures said, like “do you understand?” or “do I make myself clear?” A Creterakian spoke once and only once, if you didn’t listen, or just plain didn’t hear him, too bad for you.

Boss Two fluttered up from his perch and landed on Quentin’s head. Quentin felt its sharp little claws and soft fleshy fingers on his scalp, and he instantly wondered if Boss Two carried an entropic pistol. His body prickled with heat, but he fought back the urge to swat Boss Two away like one might do to a pesky fly or one of those flying tarantulas from the planet To.

Is this part of the test? Quentin though. Just relax, be cool in the pocket.

“I will now ask you questions. Get into the device at the end of this room.”

Quentin looked suspiciously at the big X. He’d seen such devices in movies before — an interrogation table. The Purist Nation used such machines on prisoners, heretics and on the rare occasions someone actually prosecuted an organized crime figure.

“And if I don’t get in it?”

“You will be dismissed.”

Quentin walked to the X as Boss Two fluttered up to the perch rail. Quentin backed into it, putting his feet on the little platforms at the bottom. He gripped the hand holds at the top. He had time for one, deep, ragged breath, then a dozen Creterakians flew down from their ceiling perches. They fluttered around him, working the controls. Restraining locks snapped in place around his wrists, legs and waist. The tight locks dug into his arms and shins.

Be calm, be calm, it’s just like a linebacker blitz. Be calm and make the right decision.

“Recruit 113, have you ever had any kind of cybernetic implant?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had any biotech modifications to your body?”

“No.”

A pair of small mechanical arms dropped down from either side of his head. Each arm had a small screen — tiny, but when right in front of his eyes they filled up his entire range of vision. Multi-colored static played on the screen. Quentin felt his heart rate increase.

“Have you ever taken performance-enhancing drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you ever stolen?”

Quentin started to automatically say “no,” then stopped himself. He’d stolen plenty of times as a kid. Could the Creterakians know about that? Did they have access to Purist Nation criminal files?

“Have you ever stolen, 113?”

The GFL demanded poster boy types from all races. If he admitted to stealing, would they kick him out? Would he be sent back to the PNFL to live out his career in the most backwater of football leagues?

“You will answer now or you will be dismissed. Have you ever stolen?”

“Yes.”

A stabbing, needle-like pain erupted from the small of his back.

“What’s going on? What are you doing to me?”

“Have you ever taken the stimulants cocaine, esatrex, heroin, mesh or Kermiac bacterial extract?”

Another needle like pain, this one from his shoulder. He grunted in pain and pulled at the restraints, but they held him fast. He tried to turn his head and look, but little screens moved with him, and he could see nothing but multi-colored static.

“Candidate 113 you will answer the question or be dismissed.”

“I took bacterial extract once, but not the others. And when I get out of this thing I’m going to twist your little shucking head right off your body.”

Two more needle stings, one in each buttock.

“Do not threaten violence, 113, or you will be dismissed. You will now be asked five questions and if you answer incorrectly you will receive a shock.”

A fifth needle-like sting, this time from his thigh, and much worse than the others. This one dug deep. Through the piercing agony, Quentin thought he felt the point punch into his femur.

“Is your name Quentin Barnes?”

“Yes.”

“What is four times fifteen?”

“Sixty.”

“What is the square root of 249?”

“What?”

A short, one second blast of electricity ripped through his body. His back arched involuntarily, pushing his stomach hard against the waist restraint.

“What is the square root of 249?”

“How should I know?”

Another blast of electricity hit him, this one two seconds long and stronger than the first.

“The Void take you, let me out of this thing!”

“Do you wish to quit the test?”

Quentin fell silent. Quitting now meant he failed and would never reach Tier Two, let alone Tier One. He took a fast, deep breath, tried to block out the needle pain.

“No. I will continue.”

“Who do you know in the Zoroastrian Guild?”

“The what?”

A third shock wave hit him, much harder than the last.

“Who do you know in the Zoroastrian Guild?”

“I don’t know anyone in any guild!”

“If a shuttle leaves Buddha City at a speed of three light-years per day, and it is heading for the Planetary Union consulate on New Earth, which is at a distance of twelve light-years but moving away at a rate of two light-years per day, how long will it take the shuttle to reach the consulate?”

“A story problem? What does this have to do with football?”

A five-second blast of electricity ripped into him. His body shook and convulsed of its own accord. Primal urges took over and Quentin pulled at his restraints with all his might. The restraints rattled with his efforts, but did not give way.

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t know!”

Another five-second blast hit him, although it seemed as if it lasted for hours. He tasted blood in his mouth, hot and coppery and salty.

“Answer the question!”

Quentin took a breath and tried to think. He had to answer the question or they’d keep hitting him with shocks. “Give me a second, okay? You said… what, three light-years per day?”

Suddenly the static screens went blank and the lights died, casting the room into blackness. Sparks erupted from the X-table, illuminating the room in brief strobe-light bursts. The smell of smoke filled the air, as did the high-pitched screeches of the two dozen Creterakians.

[MALFUNCTION, MALFUNCTION] droned a robotic voice. [SUSPECT IN DANGER OF ELECTRICAL OVERLOAD. SHUT DOWN INTERROGATION TABLE IMMEDIATELY]

The lights flickered back on at half strength, just in time for Quentin to see the Creterakians abandon the room, flying out through holes in the ceiling. In only two seconds he was alone, trapped on the X-Table. His heart whacked away inside his chest, the strongest muscle in his body pumping panic through his limbs.

[WARNING, SUSPECT IN DANGER OF ELECTROCUTION]

Quentin pulled forward with all the strength in his arms. He strained with effort, a small grunt escaping his lips. The smell of sparks and smoke filled his nose. He pulled and pulled, muscles bulging beneath his yellow body suit.

[WARNING, SUSPECT WILL RECEIVE FATAL SHOCK IN FIVE SECONDS]

What in High One’s name is happening?

Quentin pulled harder, and the restraints started to give. He threw the last of his strength — strength he didn’t even know he possessed — into the effort, and the arm restraints snapped free with a metallic complaint. He reached down and ripped the restraints from first his left leg, then his right, then dove to the floor just as the chair crackled and hummed with a huge burst of electricity.

A shudder ripped through the station, so strong Quentin grabbed at the stool to keep his balance.

[WARNING, STATION DECOMPRESSION IMMINENT, EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY]

The door opposite the one he had entered slid open with a hiss. He fought down panic — somehow he’d gone from a simple test to a sudden run for his life. Quentin looked above the door. The orange circle — the universal symbol for a path to an escape pod — emitted a welcoming glow. If he just followed doors marked with that circle, the path would lead him to a way out.

He sprinted through the door, which led into a long hall. At the end of the hall he saw another orange circle. Strong legs pumped beneath him and he ate up the distance in seconds. At the end of the second hall, the door slid open for him and he jumped through. This room looked like a medical bay, full of tables and cabinets.

The floor shifted below him, tilting to the left.

[DECOMPRESSION IMMINENT. MOVE TO THE NEAREST EVACUATION STATION]

The lights started to flicker. Quentin had seen enough newscasts to know decompression wasn’t a pretty sight. He scanned the three doors in the room — the one at the far end showed the welcome orange circle. Just as he ran forward, the room tilted steeply to the right. He kept his balance and kept moving forward, but the tables rolled into his path. He hopped backwards as one rolled just in front of him and slammed against the wall. He took three steps forward before the room shifted again, this time hard to the left.

The tables rolled back across his path. He hurdled the first and kept moving forward, but the second table caught him on the hip. The solid metal surface dug into him and tossed him into the far wall. Quentin barely managed to stay on his feet. The floor shifted yet again, but this time he was ready for it, angling his body to the left to compensate.

[DECOMPRESSION IN FIFTEEN SECONDS]

The door opened and he again looked down a hall, this one much shorter — and at the end sat an open airlock door leading into an escape pod. Inside the pod he saw the welcome sight of shock-webbing designed to hold him in place during the rough ejection process.

Quentin sprinted down the hall and launched himself through the door, slapping the “close” button in mid-air. The door hissed shut behind him as he flew into the shock-webbing. The webbing bent elastically under his weight, absorbing his momentum even as free strands of the pliable biomechanical material wrapped around his body, ready to hold him securely against the wild and unpredictable G-forces that accompanied any emergency escape.

He breathed hard from exertion and from stress, from fear. He waited for the sudden, jarring impact of jettison.

But none came.

Instead, one wall of the rounded pod smoothly lifted up. Quentin gasped in disbelief. The other side of that wall should have been nothing but the deepness of space. Instead, he looked into a large room filled with flying and fidgeting Creterakians, two blue-skinned Humans, a Quyth Leader, and three huge Humans wearing silver security uniforms and holding shock-wands. They weren’t moving towards him, but their stance made quite clear what they would do if Quentin tried to get past them to the Quyth Leader beyond. More than a dozen holotanks hung on the walls. It only took a second to realize that the small three-dimensional images were of him during various stages of his frantic evacuation.

“Candidate 113, please rise,” said one of the blue-boys. The shock webbing slithered off him like a thing alive, gently lowering him to the ground, then returning to its dormant, hanging state. Quentin stood up, adrenaline still racing through his body, his muscles on fire with exertion. Sweat soaked his yellow body suit. His eyebrows knitted together in deep anger.

“This was all a test?”

The blue-boy nodded. “Yes, that is the first test of the Combine. While it is not the last, it is the most important, because it tests to see if you’re pure. If you’re not pure, there is no point in the other tests. If you’ll step to the staging area,” the man said, gesturing to a yellow circle painted on the floor in the middle of the room, “we’ll review your performance.”

Quentin shook his head in amazement. He’d been fighting for his life, awash in near heart-attack panic, only to find it was all part of the Combine. Well la-de-da. Someday he’d kick someone’s rear for this. He didn’t know who, and he didn’t know when, but someday.

He walked to the circle. As he did, the hinged “escape pod” hissed shut behind him.

“You tested very high for your position.”

“What did you test?”

“The stings you felt were bio-samples: skin, blood, muscle, bone. You have been tested for biomechanics, cybernetics, biotech, drugs and stimulants. You passed all those tests.”

“Of course I passed,” Quentin spat, the fury flowing through him like molten magma. “You think I would have come here if I had any mods?”

The man simply nodded. “You are the 113th candidate. You’d be interested to know that twenty-seven of the candidates before you have already been dismissed.”

“Twenty-seven…” Quentin said in a surprised whisper. “That many?”

The man nodded again. “Yes. It is a statistically common amount. Some were eliminated immediately from the instant testing of the bio samples. Others were eliminated because of unnatural strength.”

Quentin nodded slowly. “The restraints?”

“Yes, the restraints are sophisticated strength-measurement devices. Historically we find that only conditions of severe stress induce full-strength exertions.”

“What about the run to the escape pod?”

“Again, severe stress tests the Human body to the utmost of its potential, be it natural or augmented. The computers recorded your strength, your speed, your mental acuity, your stress levels and your resistance to pain. The rolling tables, for example, let us test your reflexes and acceleration from a complete stop.”

Quentin thought back to the long hallway. “Let me guess, the hallway is exactly 40-yards long?”

“Yes. And you set a position record for the Combine — a 3.6 second 40-yard dash.”

Quentin’s jaw dropped. He’d been timed at 4.0 before, but his fastest speed was a 3.8. A 3.6? That was fast for a running back, but he’d never even heard of a quarterback with such speed.

“Does everyone go through this?”

“The tests are different based on position,” the man said. “With your record-setting performances in the PNFL, you were assigned the most demanding tests we have to offer.”

Quentin swallowed, knowing his next question held the key to his fate. “But I passed, right? I qualified for Tier Two?”

The man nodded. “Yes, you qualified. You are finished for the day. Please exit out the blue door and follow the blue path back to your room. There will be more tests tomorrow, but rest assured nothing as stressful as today.”

Quentin let out a long breath. He still wanted to kick someone’s butt, and the blue-skinned League of Planets native would have done just as well as the next guy. The three giant men with the shock-sticks, however, stood between him and any of the test monitoring staff.

The escape pod hissed open. Before Quentin left the room, he saw a new man — his suit numbered 114 — tangled in the shock webbing. Quentin shook his head and walked out, following the blue path.

The civilized galaxy consists of sixty-two populated planets, hundreds of colonies and thousands of intergalactic vessels with populations the size of small cities. With such diverse habitations, each with its own length of day, measurements of “weeks” and “months” or their cultural equivalents, and completely different “seasons,” deciding on a calendar-based GFL season seemed fraught with difficulty.

Demarkus Johanson, the League of Planets cultural scientist who invented the GFL in 2658, tried to adapt the “season” concept created by the National Football League of ancient Earth, just as he adapted the majority of rules, strategy and league organization. Based on Earth seasons, which were as random a choice as any other planet’s orbital cycles, the GFL’s first seventeen seasons involved a fixed 16-game schedule that began at the same time every year.

In 2665 Purist Nation officials seized the team bus for the New Rodina Astronauts and executed all non-Human players. Following that event, the Creterakians shut down the GFL. That shutdown created what League of Planets sociologist Clarissa Cho dubbed an “entertainment vacuum.” Ki businessman Huichy-O-Wyl filled that vacuum with the creation of the Universal Football League.

While the caliber of UFL teams was far below that of the GFL, the new league had two distinct advantages. First, it had very few regulations regarding new franchises. Anyone with the money to afford a payroll, equipment, and an interstellar-capable team bus could bring a new team into the league. Second, the UFL embraced the Creterakian calendar, a year of which is 241.25 Earth days. The UFL played a 12-game season with a two round playoff, allowing two “seasons” each Creterakian year.

This resulted in many new teams and a constant football presence. By 2668, the UFL boasted 32 teams and had crowned six champions. The “never-ending season” format worked so well and created so much fan interest, the Creterakians modified it when they forcibly disbanded the UFL and reinstated the GFL. The first half of the year is the Tier Two season. The second half is for Tier One. Tier Three runs constantly, with two seasons a year. Roughly half of the Tier Three leagues run simultaneously with the Tier Two season, and the other half run simultaneously with Tier One.

The result of this “back-to-back” scheduling is that some rookies moving up from Tier Three to an Upper Tier team have only two weeks before the season’s first game. Rookies must be cleared through the Combine, and can only be brought in for the roughly one week that remains of the preseason. After the preseason, teams can fill roster gaps only by grabbing free agents who have already played on a GFL roster.

THE SECOND DAY, the computer woke Quentin and told him to dress. He followed directions, and didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and something started to come through, to float through. Quentin jumped away from the door, his back hitting the small cell’s wall.

It floated at chest height, a white, tapered, flattish creature about four feet across and six feet long. At the outer edges of the body, thick skin moved in undulating waves, like the long wings of a stingray or a skate. A row of six deep, black sensory pits lined the creature’s curved front.

A Harrah.

“My goodness,” the creature said. “Are you all right?”

The creature hadn’t said it, because Quentin didn’t see movement from anything that might be a mouth. He realized that the words came from a small metal machine strapped to the creature’s back.

He recognized the creature as resident of one of the five gas giant planets that made up the Harrah Tribal Accord. He’d never seen one in person, just on holos as GFL refs. He’d also studied them in the classes that taught every Purist Nation child how to kill the sub-races. The common nursery rhyme jumped unbidden into his head:

A punch in the pit, any of them will do

Grab the wings and pull down, so blessed are you

Bring up your knee, oh so so so high

Let this enemy of High One die

He remembered that kind of move put sudden compression on the Harrah’s heart, causing it to rupture.

The Harrah’s sensory pits combined to produce a kind of sonar that let them “see” everything via sound waves. A curled tentacle sat outside the leftmost and rightmost black pit — the Harrah equivalent of hands. It wore a pack of some kind on its back, an orange-and-black pack with many compartments and pockets.

Quentin stared for a second before he realized his hands were balled up into tight fists. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the Krakens’ team doctor. You may call me Doc. Please relax, my good man. I’m here for your physical.”

“I don’t get a Human doctor?”

“Harrah make excellent doctors, I assure you. I’ve been studying multi-species sports medicine for fifty years. I realize that my appearance may be a bit startling to you, Quentin, but I pose no danger. Now please, sit and relax.”

Doc reached a tentacle into his backpack and came out with a bracelet done in a bluish metal.

“Please disrobe and hold out your wrist.”

“I want a Human doctor.”

“That’s fine. But I’m the team doctor for the Ionath Krakens. If you want to play for the Krakens, I have to examine you. If you want to go back to the PNFL for another year so you can find a team with a Human doctor, that is your prerogative.”

Quentin gritted his teeth. He wasn’t waiting another year. He stripped out of his bodysuit and held out his hand.

Doc’s tentacles shot to the long scar on Quentin’s right arm. Quentin managed not to flinch as the alien examined the old wound.

“How did this happen?”

“Grinder accident when I was a kid, working in the mines. I almost lost my arm.”

“But that scar… did they use stitches? With a needle and thread?”

“It was a pretty bad injury, I think they did a great job. They grafted the bone together, repaired the muscle connections and stitched the whole thing up.”

“Stitches and bone grafts,” Doc said quietly. “Sheer barbarism.”

Doc fastened the bracelet around his wrist.

“This device will check all of your vital signs. I already have a great deal of physical information on you from yesterday’s test, so this is somewhat of a formality. Now I’m going to check your joints — machines can’t always find what can be found by touch.”

Quentin’s lip curled involuntarily at the thought of that thing touching him. But he’d have to get used to aliens, so he might as well start now.

Doc’s tentacles gripped his arm. They were warm and soft, not cold and clammy as he’d expected. Doc bent his arm at the elbow, then straightened it, pushing against the joint.

“Does it hurt when I do this?”

“No,” Quentin said. Doc continued his examination, moving from joint to joint.

“PNFL doesn’t give out medical records. What sports-related injuries have you sustained?”

“None.”

Doc paused. “There’s no use in lying, my good man, I’m going to find any injuries you’ve had.”

“Search all you want,” Quentin said.

The Harrah doctor continued looking. After five minutes of gentle poking, prodding, and bending, he stopped. He pulled the device off Quentin’s wrist, looked at it for a moment, then returned it to his backpack.

“How is it,” Doc said, “that you played football for four years yet you have no injuries?”

Quentin shrugged. “I don’t get hit very much.”

“Yes, well I suppose you don’t. Now we have just one more test, Quentin. We must check you for a hernia.”

Quentin’s heart sank. He’d forgotten about that most invasive part of the sports physical.

“I don’t have one.”

“I need to check. Please stand.”

Quentin sighed.

Tentacles on my testicles, he thought. I’m really moving up in the world.