The Rookie

5. PRACTICE

AS INSTRUCTED, his room lights flickered on at 6 a.m., one hour before the position meeting. His room filled with the loud sounds of the band Trench Warfare. He stretched as he listened to the seductive but strong vocals of Trench’s lead singer, Somalia Midori. Their music was banned back on Micovi, but Quentin had managed to get his hands on every song they had ever recorded. As a kid, he didn’t know it was even possible to circumvent the laws of the Holy Men. The more games he won, however, the easier it became to obtain contraband items like erotic pictures, recorded GFL broadcasts, or out-of-system books and music.

When he’d entered his sparse room for the first time the night before, he’d asked the computer if it could play any Trench Warfare for his wake-up call. The shocking answer — the computer had access to not only every Trench album, but most of the band’s live performances from the last five years. He could watch holo or just listen to audio. He’d had time for one holo before going to bed, and had watched in amazement at the four musicians performing on stage to a jumping, gyrating crowd of Humans. He’d been shocked to see that Somalia bore the blue skin of a Satirli 6 native. He thought she was beautiful, but just for a second, then asked the computer for sound only.

Discovering an endless library of music had been a surprise pleasure, but nothing compared to the well-nigh religious experience that came when he asked the computer if there were any archived GFL games.

[WHAT TEAM AND WHAT YEAR?] The computer had asked.

“How far back do the games go?”

[TO THE BEGINNING]

“What, the very first GFL games?”

[TO THE BEGINNING OF FOOTBALL]

“What do you mean, to the beginning of football? What’s the oldest game you’ve got?”

[FORDHAM COLLEGE, EARTH, VERSUS WAYNESBURG COLLEGE, EARTH, 1939]

“But, but that’s seven-hundred years ago!”

[SEVEN-HUNDRED AND FORTY-THREE YEARS AGO] the computer corrected. [WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE?]

“Yes!”

Quentin turned to the holotank. A picture flashed in the tank, but it looked very strange. He could make out football players, but they were tiny and far away, without color, and they were… flat, like a printed picture.

“What’s wrong with it? It looks broken.”

[THIS WAS CALLED ‘TELEVISION,’ A TWO-DIMENSIONAL ELECTRONIC REPRESENTATION OF ACTUAL EVENTS.]

“Do you have more of these television broadcasts?”

[GALACTIC FREE ARCHIVE HAS EVERY GAME EVER BROADCAST VIA TELEVISION, RADIO, AND HOLOCAST]

Quentin watched a play, in which the quarterback took the snap, turned almost 360 degrees and followed a wall of blockers into a wall of defenders. His heart raced — to think he was watching the beginnings of his sport, a game played almost 750 years ago! He could watch any game ever recorded, all of the To Pirates games, even games from the archaic NFL.

One of those games played now in his holotank, between teams called the “Kansas City Chiefs” and the “Chicago Bears.” He’d instructed the computer to wake him with not only music, but also a random football broadcast at least 500 years old or older.

As the music’s heavy beat pounded through his small quarters, he dragged himself out of bed and started stretching. He had plans today — he’d show them all just what kind of a player he was.

He walked through the ship’s empty corridors, descended to field level, and entered the central locker room. A circular area, the central locker room was built around a holoboard. Four doors lined the circular room. A small icon hung on each door: a Human, a Ki, a Sklorno and a Quyth Warrior. A huge, realistic mural dominated the other side of the circular room. Quentin stared at the brightly colored, six-tentacled monster rising up from the depths in a spray of deep-red water. Rows of long, backwards-curved teeth lined a cavernous mouth. One large eye glowed an eerie green. He nodded to the picture.

He entered the Human door and found his own space.

Barnes, #10 it read above the locker.

Get used to that number, galaxy. You’re going to be hearing it a lot.

He opened the locker. The first thing he took out was his practice jersey. He stared at the number “10” on the chest. He felt the texture of the black Kevlar fabric. This was only a practice jersey, yet it was of a far higher quality than anything he’d worn in the PNFL.

He set the jersey flat on the ground.

He smiled as he pulled out a Kool Products body-control suit, designed to regulate his temperature on the field. Coolant fluid constantly circulated through microtubules in the suit’s thin, rubbery fabric. He slid into the suit, which automatically adjusted itself to conform perfectly to his body.

Next he pulled out his arm-and-shoulder armor. Rawlings Null-Contact™ inertia-dampening system. State of the art. Supposedly the armor could stop a bullet, absorbing the velocity into the hard shell instead of transmitting it to the wearer.

He slid them on. Like the Kool suit, the armor’s micro-sensor circuits automatically adjusted for a tailored fit. The armor was thinner on his left arm, his throwing arm, to allow maximum flexibility.

Next came the matching lower-torso armor, which would protect his ribs, stomach, kidneys and lower back. He wrapped it around his waist — the micro-sensors contracted and expanded, locking it in precisely with the shoulder armor.

Groin and leg armor were more of the same. The knee joints were made of an interstellar-caliber alloy, designed to allow normal flexibility but locking out any possible hyperextension. He slid his feet into the armored boots, which locked in perfectly with the leg armor.

With all this protection, it seemed a wonder that any being got hurt at all. And yet they did get hurt — frequently, and badly. Football players were just too big, too strong, too fast and too violent. Quentin wondered what kind of injuries might occur were it not for this high-tech armor.

He moved around, feeling the armor move with him, a perfect fit that didn’t seem to hinder his range of motion. He pulled on the jersey, then grabbed his helmet. The shiny black Riddell helmet was lighter than anything he’d used before, but probably ten times stronger than what he’d worn on Micovi. A patch of bright orange decorated the front of the helmet, from temple to temple. Six white stripes stretched out from the orange patch, like the arms of a stylized sunrise. There were three white stripes on each side: one curving above the ear hole, one halfway up the curving side, and one higher up on each side of the helmet’s center. The stripes represented the six tentacles of the Quyth creature for which the Krakens were named.

A recessed button sat under the right ear-hole. Quentin pushed it: a holographic test pattern hovered just in front of the facemask. Once again, state of the art — he’d tried to talk Stedmar into springing for the in-helmet holo display, but Stedmar balked at the half-million credit price tag. The display would let a quarterback see the playbook, live statistics, and the coach in case coaches used hand signals, lip-reading or some other secretive play calling method. He pushed the button again and the test pattern disappeared.

Quentin headed for the sim-room, cleats clacking against the metal floor. The lights blinked on as he walked in. As he’d suspected, the place was empty. Everyone else was still sleeping.

“Ship,” Quentin called as he walked to the center of the room. “Do you have a sim for the Krakens’ practice field?”

The dome flickered briefly, then Quentin found himself in a dead-on simulacrum of the practice field.

“Ship, give me first-string defense for the Grontak Hydras.”

The semi translucent players appeared out of nowhere, a combination of Human and other species, all dressed in the red-and-yellow checkerboard Hydra jerseys.

“Ship, call out the names of each defensive player before each play. Give me X-right formation, double-streak left, Y-right.”

Krakens players materialized. The Ki linemen scurried up to the line and lowered themselves for the snap. The computer started calling out the names of the defense as Quentin approached the line. He’d practice and study at the same time, and would show them all what the Purist Nation had to offer.

THE 7 A.M. POSITION MEETING didn’t take more than ten minutes, just enough time for Hokor to outline the day’s practice. They would focus on route passing: no offensive line and no defense. The three quarterbacks walked to the lift.

In the center of the field stood seven Sklorno receivers dressed in orange practice jerseys. Sklorno’s orange leg armor was thin and light so as not to hamper their speed. For the upper body, they wore a black, metal-mesh armor that protected but also allowed for the full range of motion needed by boneless tentacles and the flexible eyestalks. The black helmet with the orange patch and the white stripes looked like a small bowling ball, with four finger-holes on top, one for each armored eyestalk, and a gap in front that let their raspers hang free.

Even before the lift reached the field, the Sklorno looked up at the oncoming Humans and began to visibly tremble.

Their raspers rolled out, almost to the ground, and each of them began to shout various Sklorno words, all of which sounded like gibberish.

“What’s their problem?” Quentin asked. “They afraid of Coach or something?”

Pine shook his head, and Yitzhak laughed.

“Not exactly,” Yitzhak said. “The Righteous Brother Pine here is somewhat of a religious figure in the Sklorno culture.”

“Religious? What, like he’s a preacher or something?”

Yitzhak laughed louder. “No, not exactly.”

“Oh give it a rest,” Pine said, his blue-skinned face turning a strange shade of purple.

Yitzhak put his hand to his chest, his expression that of mock pain. “Oh, forgive me, Great One. Don’t strike me down with your Godly quarterback powers.”

Quentin looked back to the Sklorno receivers — the closer the Humans got, the more the Sklorno shook. It reminded him of the truly devout back home during noonday prayers, how they would shudder and shake, their blue robes rustling with sudden movements, often times speaking in tongues, their eyes rolling back into their heads. As a child, such behavior had scared the crap out of him. When he grew older, he learned that those people were supposedly in deep communion with the High One.

The similarities clicked home.

“They worship Pine? You mean like a god or something?”

Yitzhak nodded. “Something like that. As a Human it’s kind of difficult to understand, but from what we hear there are at least thirty-two confirmed houses of worship dedicated to The Great Pine spread throughout Sklorno space.”

“Cut it out,” Pine said. “It’s not like I encourage this.”

“There’s actually a statue of The Great and Glorious Pine on the Sklorno’s capitol planet. How tall is it again, Pine, 100 feet or so?”

“Get lost, Yitzhak.”

“Why do they worship him?” Quentin asked.

Yitzhak shrugged. “Something about the quarterback position, that and great coaches, strikes a chord with their culture. Sklorno aren’t as independent as Humans, they tend to blindly follow their leaders. Coaches and quarterbacks get the most media attention in football, and the Sklorno are insane football fans. The nature of the game and their culture just kind of combine. Who knows, Quentin — you put together a couple of good seasons, and there might be a church or two in your name.”

Quentin felt his own face turning red. The idea of someone worshiping him, not as a fan-to-player, but as a subject-to-God, made him deeply uncomfortable. He felt sacrilegious just thinking about it.

They reached midfield. Quentin heard the burble of a small anti-grav engine, and he looked up to see Hokor flying towards them in a hovercart, the kind people used to move around on a golf course.

“What the hell is that? Coach can’t walk all of a sudden?”

Pine laughed. “Hokor likes to watch from above, get a full view of the field, but he wants to come down to offer his own special brand of encouragement.”

The hovercart slowed and floated about ten feet off the field.

“I hate that damn golf cart,” Yitzhak said quietly. “Just wait, you’ll see — he’s got a loudspeaker in it and everything.”

As if on cue, Hokor’s amplified voice bellowed across the field.

“Okay, that’s enough of that crap,” the yellow-furred coach said. “You will cease this shivering thing immediately!”

As a unit, the Sklorno instantly stopped shaking, raspers quickly rolling back up under their chin plates. They stood as still as they could, but kept twitching, little chirps escaping them every few seconds.

“That’s better,” Hokor said. “Pine, line them up and run hook routes.”

They all stood on the 50-yard line, the eight Sklorno fifteen yards to the right of the Human quarterbacks. It surprised Quentin that he immediately recognized Denver and Milford — he’d always thought all Sklorno looked alike, but Denver had more red in her eyestalks, and Milford’s oily head of hair seemed to be thicker and longer than any of the others. If it weren’t for jersey names and numbers, however, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between Scarborough, Hawick, Richfield, Mezquitic and the other Kraken receivers.

Pine grabbed a ball from the rack and squatted, just as he’d done in the VR practice field. The first Sklorno bent down into their strange starting stance — legs folded up like a grasshopper, tail sticking straight back to balance the forward-leaning body. The back of her jersey read “Hawick.”

“Hut-hut!”

Pine took a three-step drop, planted, and fired — far too high. In the millisecond after the ball left Pine’s hand, Quentin figured it would sail forty yards downfield. But Hawick was already fifteen yards down field and turning. She didn’t just stop and turn, like a Human receiver would do on a hook route, she stopped, turned and jumped. Quentin’s jaw dropped as Hawick sprang ten feet into the air, like a 280-pound flea — the ball hit her square in the numbers. She landed and turned in the same motion, sprinting all the way to the end zone before stopping.

Quentin stared, barely able to believe what he’d seen. Such speed. Pine and Yitzhak hadn’t been screwing with him in the VR room, Sklorno really were that fast. And that leap. It was one thing to see it on the net, quite another to see it in person.

Yitzhak took the next ball. The next Sklorno’s jersey read “Mezquitic.”

“Hut-hut!” Yitzhak dropped back three steps and fired — again seemingly far too high. Mezquitic sprang high, caught the ball, landed, and streaked down the field. Quentin was still staring at the streaking Sklorno receiver when Pine poked him in the rib pads.

“You’re up, boy.”

Quentin grabbed the next ball from the rack and squatted down just behind the fifty. He looked to his right — “Scarborough” looked back at him, awaiting his signal.

“Hut-hut!” Quentin drove backwards three steps and planted. He started to throw, but hesitated a half second because Scarborough was still a good eight yards from hooking up the route. In less time than it took to blink, Scarborough was there, turning, leaping and looking for the ball. Quentin threw as quickly as he could, but it was too late. Scarborough had hit the ground by the time the throw reached her — it sailed far over her head.

“Barnes!” Hokor barked. “What the hell was that?”

Quentin blushed.

“Get used to the timing, Barnes. With Sklorno receivers, passing is a three-dimensional game. You’re not in the bush leagues anymore.”

Practice continued for another hour. Quentin struggled with the Sklornos’ blinding speed and leaping ability, but made significant progress pass after pass. He had some trouble with Mezquitic, who dropped two of his passes, but he clicked well with the other receivers, particularly Denver. Only in the final five minutes did Hokor open it up for long patterns. Pine dropped back seven steps and fired a 55-yard strike to Hawick. The Sklorno receivers let out a series of rapid clicking noises.

“What is that sound they’re making?” Quentin asked Yitzhak.

“Sklorno equivalent to ooh and ahh,” Yitzhak said. “The ladies love the long ball.”

Yitzhak threw next, hitting a 45-yard streak to Mezquitic. The receivers let out clicks, but they weren’t as loud as they had been for Pine’s pass.

Quentin smiled as he grabbed the ball and squatted down for his rep. Neither of these guys could match his arm strength, not even the once-great Donald Pine. Scarborough lined up to his right. Quentin barked out a “hut-hut.” He dropped back the prescribed seven steps, and kept going, finally setting up a good fifteen yards from where he’d “snapped” the ball. He watched Scarborough the whole way, his mind now somewhat accustomed to the receiver’s 3.2 speed. Quentin unleashed the ball — the Sklorno’s clicks started immediately as the ball arced through the air like a laser-guided bomb. Scarborough angled under it, and caught it in stride at the back edge of the end zone.

The Sklornos not only clicked and chirped louder than ever, they started jumping up-and-down and hugging each other. Raspers lolled and spit flew everywhere.

“Damn,” Pine said, shaking his head.

“That was seventy-five yards in the air,” Yitzhak said. “And right on the money.”

Quentin smiled, his hands patting out a quick ba-da-bap on his stomach as he waited for accolades from his new coach.

“Silence!” Hokor shouted at the Sklorno. The anger in his voice seemed to terrify them. They huddled together, shaking and twitching in a mass of fear.

Hokor turned to Quentin. “What was that?”

“A touchdown,” Quentin said.

“I know that, what was that drop?”

Quentin shrugged. “I just wanted to show you what I can do.”

“And what you can do is drop back fifteen yards? What are you, a punter?”

Quentin felt his face flushing red once again. “Well, no, Coach… I just wanted to show you how deep I could throw it.”

“Well if you like to show off so much, how about showing me how far you can run? Take ten laps around the field, we’ll finish up reps without you.”

Quentin blinked, his mind suddenly registering the coach’s words. “Finish up… without me?”

“I said take ten laps!” Hokor said. “Now move!”

Pine grabbed a ball and squatted down for the next rep while Denver crouched in readiness for her turn. Pine dropped back, Denver sprinted, and everyone seemed to ignore Quentin.

Coach Graber had never singled him out like that. Quentin’s face felt hot. Anger swirled in his chest as he trotted to the edge of the field and started his first lap.

QUENTIN’S ROOM WAS EMPTY save for a bed, a table with two round stools, a large vertical equipment locker, and a wide couch that sat in front of the holotank. He sat on the couch, staring at the life-sized image projected by the holotank.

The current image was a Human football player, his jersey a series of horizontal light blue and grey stripes. The computer droned away with stats.

[KITIARA LOMAX. THIRD-YEAR LINEBACKER FOR THE BIGG DIGGERS, NAMED ALL-PRO LAST YEAR. SIX-FOOT-TEN, FOUR-HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE POUNDS. LAST YEAR ACCUMULATED FIFTY-TWO TACKLES AND TWELVE SACKS. LAST CLOCKED TIME IN THE FORTY-YARD-DASH, 4.1]

Quentin clicked his remote, and the image shifted to a Sklorno player, also dressed in a light blue-and-grey striped jersey.

[ARKHAM. FIFTH-YEAR CORNERBACK FOR THE BIGG DIGGERS…]

The computer continued to rattle off statistics, but Quentin looked away from the image and stared at his blank wall. His legs gave off a subdued but ever-present burning feeling, the result of one hundred laps ran for a variety of transgressions, each one as unexpected as the last. His face also burned, but that wasn’t from physical exertion. It was a new feeling, and he found it quite unacceptable.

A buzzer sounded, signaling a visitor at his door. The computer stopped the statistical litany.

[DONALD PINE AT YOUR DOOR]

“Enter,” Quentin said in a toneless voice. He heard the swish of the door, but didn’t bother to get up. He hit the button on the remote. Arkham disappeared, replaced by a huge Ki lineman named Pret-Ah-Karat.

“Better watch out for him,” Pine said quietly. “Last year he hit me so hard he knocked me out of the game.”

Quentin said nothing.

Pine crossed in front of Quentin and sat down on the couch. “We missed you at team dinner, kid. What’s up?”

“Gotta study,” Quentin said sullenly. “Hokor wants me to know all these damn players.”

Pine nodded. “Yeah, you’ve got to know this stuff. But hey, you’ve got to eat, right?”

“Not hungry now, I’ll have something later.” The truth was he was famished, but he had no intention of hitting the mess hall when the rest of the team was present — they’d all watched him run the endless laps, heard Hokor scream at him for various mistakes.

“It’s no big deal, Hokor rips on all the rookies,” Pine said, as if he read Quentin’s thoughts. “He’s got to shake out the weak ones. He’s going to spend most of his time busting on you, because you’re a quarterback. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Tomorrow we do route passing, but this time against the defensive backs. And the next day’s practice is full-contact. So watch out for the Ki defensive linemen.”

Quentin shrugged. “I’m not worried about some damn salamander, I just have to get these stupid players memorized.”

Pine’s eyebrows rose up in surprise. “Salamander, eh? Don’t let them hear you say that, they’ll tear your head off. Not worried about them? Our nose tackle, Mai-An-Ihkole, weighs 650 pounds and can bench-press 1,200 pounds, for crying out loud, and you’re not worried? I’ve been on this team for two years, they’re under strict orders not to hit me, and I’m worried.”

Quentin turned and looked at Pine. He’d seen Pine run; the man had good reason to be worried. Quentin was faster, more agile, stronger and just plain tougher than Donald Pine.

“Thanks for the advice. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got studying to do.”

Pine shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you need any help, let me know. Hey, maybe I can talk to Scarborough, get you some after-practice reps to get used to the speed of the game.”

“I don’t need help from a cricket.”

Pine stared, then shook his head. “Yeah, you seem so normal on the outside, I forget where you come from. Just remember, kid, those salamanders and crickets are your teammates — you may have won games single-handedly back in the PNFL, but it doesn’t work that way here.”

“Thanks, pops, I’ll remember that,” Quentin said as he clicked the remote control to bring up the next player.

Pine stood, shook his head one more time, and walked to the door he stopped just as the door swished open, and looked back at Quentin.

“Listen, kid, I’m not much for giving advice where it’s not asked, but I feel you deserve to hear something. To play this game, you’ve got to know your history. Until the Creterakians took over, all the races were more likely to slaughter each other than talk, let alone work together. There’s hatred here that goes way beyond anything related to sports. I’m not the greatest quarterback to ever play the game, but I figured out something a long time ago — for these warring races to play together as a team, someone has to step up and lead. Leading in the GFL means you forget your bigotry and get along with everyone. And it’s a hard job. Damn near impossible. I expect everyone to get along and play as a unit. Warburg is one thing, but you’re a quarterback, and as such people tend to follow your lead. Your racism will cause problems, and I won’t tolerate that. When you play for my team, you will respect your teammates.”

Quentin felt his anger rising. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

“Your team?” Quentin said coldly. “Keep on living in that fantasy world, Pine, and you’ll be a happy man in the retirement home. It’s not going to be your team much longer.”

Pine stared back hard, then sneered. “Whatever you say, rookie. It will be your team, all right. It will be your team when I decide to hang it up. Until then, you haven’t got what it takes to be a starter, and you certainly don’t have what it takes to beat me.”

He walked out, the door swishing shut behind him.

Quentin turned off the holotank and stared at the blank wall. He hated salamanders, he hated crickets, and he hated blue-boy Donald Pine. But they would all learn. The Krakens were Quentin Barnes’ team now, and sooner or later everyone would play by his rules.

THE SECOND DAY of practice saw Quentin, Pine and Yitzhak once again descend the lift into the orange end zone. The Sklorno receivers were there, this time in full pads, but so were Humans and Quyth Warriors — the linebackers — and eight new Sklorno — the defensive backs. All the defensive players wore black jerseys, while the offense wore orange.

“Do they worship Pine, too?” Quentin asked Yitzhak while pointing to the Sklorno defensive backs.

“They do, but in a different way. He leads the team, unifies us, and that makes him greater than a normal being. The receivers view catching a pass as a blessing, almost a gift from God. The defenders see a pass as a challenge given to them by God, a test of their will and physical abilities. To continuously fail to stop the passing game means they are unworthy, or something like that.”

The three quarterbacks reached the end zone and started to warm up. Three orange-jerseyed Humans jogged from the center of the field to greet them. Warburg and the other two tight ends he had not yet met. Warburg gave Quentin a warm handshake.

Warburg introduced the other two men. “This is Yotaro Kobayasho and Poncho Saulsgiver.” Quentin shook their hands. Yotaro was the biggest at 7-foot-1 and 380 pounds. He had a shaved head and three short, parallel scars on each cheek. Saulsgiver had pure white skin, like Yitzhak, with ice-blue eyes and white hair. At 6-foot-10 and about 355, he was the smallest of the three. Quentin shook both of their hands.

Hokor’s hovercart floated down and everyone pulled on their helmets.

“Let’s get started,” Hokor shouted before his hovercart even reached ground level. “Starting ‘O’ get on the goal line, we’ll work the tight package.”

Quentin started to move towards the goal line when he heard the words Starting O, then remembered he was not the starter.

Pine lined up on the goal line, back facing the end zone. Kobayasho lined up as the left tight end, and Warburg as the right. Scarborough lined up wide right, with Hawick two steps inside of Warburg and two steps behind him. The defensive backs showed bump-and-run coverage, playing directly in front of Scarborough and Hawick. Three linebackers spread out in their normal positions for a 3–4 defense. The outside linebackers were Quyth, one of whom wore number 58 — he was the guard that had stun-sticked Mum-O-Killowe into submission on the landing dock at the Combine. The middle linebacker, number 50, was Human. He radiated lethality in a way Quentin had never seen or felt.

Pine barked out the signals, dropped back five steps, planted and bounced half-step forward. The receivers sprinted out on their patterns: Scarborough on an in-route, Hawick on a post, Kobayasho on a ten-yard in-hook, Warburg in the flat.

The defense dropped into coverage. Sklorno defensive backs drifted into a zone, and the Human middle linebacker backped-aled straight back five yards. But it was the movement of the Quyth outside linebackers that shocked Quentin. They didn’t run, they rolled to their positions, tucking up into a ball and rolling out — literally — to cover the flats before they popped up like some jumping spider, arms and pedipalps out and waiting.

Kobayasho was open on the hook, but Pine didn’t throw. He checked through his reads, one-two-three-four, then turned and gunned the ball to Warburg, who had hooked up at four yards and drifted into the flat. Warburg caught the pass and turned upfield before Hokor blew the whistle. The players lined up again.

“Why didn’t he hit Kobayasho?” Quentin asked Yitzhak.

“See number fifty there? That’s John Tweedy, starting middle linebacker. All-Tier-Two last year. He’s got phenomenal quickness. Kobayasho looked open, but even on a ten-yard bullet Tweedy can get to the ball. He also pretends to be slower than he is. He’ll do it for most of the game if he has to, to lull the quarterback into a pattern. When the ball is finally thrown to Tweedy’s zone it’s because the QB thinks he can’t get to it. He had six interceptions last year.”

Quentin looked at the bulky linebacker. Something seemed to be on his face… scrolling letters, hard to see but still legible under the facemask.

“What’s up with his face? Does that say ‘You rookies smell like nasty diarrhea?’“

Yitzhak laughed. “Yeah, probably. Tweedy has a full body tattoo.”

“A tattoo? But it’s moving.”

“Sure, it’s an image implant. Lots of guys in the league have tats. You’ve never seen one before?”

Quentin shook his head. “Not like that.”

“They imbed little light emitters in the skin. They can make changing patterns, words, whatever. Tweedy went for the full package, complete skin coverage with a cyberlink. He can think of words and they play on his face, his forehead, chest, wherever.”

Tweedy stood and pointed at Pine. “How’s that arthritis, old man?” he said in a gravelly bellow.

Pine rose up from center. “A little rough, Johnny. You going to give me another rub-down like you did last night?”

The entire team laughed, including Tweedy, who flipped Pine off with both hands.

“Stop this Human bonding nonsense,” Hokor called out. “Run the play.”

Pine settled in under center and got back to business. Quentin watched carefully as the offense he’d studied on holos and on his messageboard came to life. Each play had several patterns for each receiver, depending on how the defense lined up. Were they in woman-to-woman? Were they in a prevent defense? Were they in a zone underneath with two-deep coverage over the top? At the snap of the ball, the receiver had to read the coverage and make route adjustments. These adjustments were just as planned as the original play itself — if the linebacker blitzed, the tight end changed his route from an out to a short hook; if the linebacker faded to a middle zone, the tight end kept his short hook; if the linebacker bit the run fake and came forward, then dropped back, the tight end changed from the short hook to a 15-yard streak.

The quarterback had to know the patterns for every receiver, for every play, and the variations on every pattern based on the defensive alignment. On top of that, the quarterback had to know every pattern adjustment, for every route, based on the reaction of the defensive players after the snap of the ball. Each receiver had at least three pattern options. For a four-receiver play, that meant four patterns, multiplied by around six defensive sets, multiplied by three pattern options, resulting in seventy-two possible routes for every play. The quarterback had to read the defensive coverage while dropping back, know where his receivers were supposed to be, and usually make the decision to throw within four seconds of the snap. That was just the beginning — defenses did everything they could to disguise coverages, so the quarterback would think he saw one thing when in fact the defense was setting a trap. The quarterback had to be able to see through this ruse within his four seconds. The most complicated aspect of the whole thing was that the quarterback often had to read the defense and throw the ball before the receiver made his cut, so the ball would be there as soon as the receiver turned. For this to work, both the quarterback and the receiver had to make the same read at the same time, or the ball might sail long as the receiver turned up short for a hook pattern.

And then there was the obvious factor that most football fans forgot — the quarterback had to do all of this while 600-pound Ki lineman and 300-pound blitzing Human and Quyth Warrior linebackers and the occasional fast-as-lightning blitzing Sklorno safety were trying to get to him and forcibly remove his head from his shoulders.

And yet the stereotype of the “stupid jock” had persisted for centuries. It never ceased to amaze Quentin when people thought football players were just muscle-bound morons. He’d like to see a physics professor do algorithmic calculations while being chased around by a 600-pound monster that was known for eating its enemies alive.

Pine ran through all the plays, effortlessly reading every defensive adjustment. His skill clearly frustrated the defense, but at the same time Pine usually completed passes for only a five or ten-yard gain. He ran through thirty plays with no interceptions, completing twenty-two passes — but only three for fifteen yards or more.

“Yitzhak,” Hokor called out on his loudspeaker. “Take over.”

Quentin bit his lip in anger. This second-rate benchwarmer was taking reps before he was. Quentin calmed himself — this early in the season, each quarterback would get the same amount of reps. Once the first game was out of the way, practice time would become so precious that very little of it could be used for the second- and third-string quarterbacks. But for now, he had to bite his tongue and wait.

If Pine made the offense look easy, Yitzhak illustrated how difficult it really was. He seemed to read the defense fairly well, but he did not possess Pine’s pinpoint accuracy. Yitzhak finished his thirty plays with two interceptions, eighteen completions and only two passes for that went for more than fifteen yards.

“Barnes!” Hokor barked. “Let’s see what you can do. And remember, this isn’t punting practice.”

The defense laughed at Hokor’s insult, and Quentin’s face turned red. Obviously the entire team knew of his embarrassing incident the day before. Well, they wouldn’t be laughing for long.

Quentin swaggered to the line. He’d watched the other two quarterbacks, and he’d watched the defenders — he knew how to run things. He lined up, feeling a surge of adrenaline pump through his veins. As Quentin bent down to start the play, the defensive players started calling out to him.

“Hey, rookie!” John Tweedy yelled. “Throw it my way, boy, make me look good for the Coach.”

“Come on, Human,” called Choto the Bright, the Quyth Warrior that played right outside linebacker. “You Nationalist racist scum, come make us sub-species look bad.”

“You won’t last, Human,” said the left outside linebacker, number 58, Virak the Mean. “You’re going back to your Third World planet in a body bag. I should have killed you on the landing dock at the Combine and just got it over with.”

Quentin smiled. He hadn’t been taunted since halfway through his first season of football back home. It had taken his opponents that long to learn what he was all about, that no matter what they said, he was going to tear their defense apart.

The defense closed in for bump-and-run. The cornerbacks Berea and Davenport lined up directly over Scarborough and Hawick, respectively. Quentin scanned through the rest of the defense, but he’d already seen what he needed to see.

“Hut-hut, hut!”

He took his strong five-step drop. Berea shoved Scarborough at the line of scrimmage, but Scarborough fought through the hit and streaked down the sideline. Quentin saw Stockbridge, the strong safety, moving over to help Berea but it was already too late. Quentin waited, waited, then fired. The ball tore through the air on a shallow arc, hitting Scarborough in stride thirty yards downfield. Stockbridge pushed Scarborough out-of-bounds — a 35-yard gain.

The Sklorno receivers on the sidelines hooted and clicked and jumped with excitement.

“You took too long, Barnes,” Hokor called. “You’d have never got that pass off. You’ve got to go through your reads quicker.”

Quentin put his hands on his hips and stared up at Hokor, who hovered fifteen yards above the field in his little cart. Quentin stared for a few seconds more, then walked back to the line, shaking his head.

He called out the next set, which featured one tight end and three receivers. Scarborough lined up wide to the left, Hawick and Denver to the right, Kobayasho lined up at right end. The defensive backs quickly shifted, taking out Choto the Bright, a linebacker, and bringing in another Sklorno defensive back. Quentin surveyed the field, running through the routes in his mind, matching them against the defensive set. Hawick was covered woman-to-woman by Davenport — Hawick’s pattern in that coverage called for a post, and Quentin didn’t think Davenport could handle Hawick’s speed. Quentin tapped his stomach in a quick ba-da-bap, then barked out signals and snapped the ball.

He dropped back five steps, looked left to throw off the defense, then turned and launched the ball deep. As soon as he let it go he saw his mistake: Davenport had broken off woman-to-woman and dropped into zone coverage, where she was responsible for defending a particular area of the field. Stockbridge, the strong safety, had the deep outside zone, where Quentin had thrown. Correctly reading the deep coverage of Stockbridge, Hawick broke off her post route and hooked up at fifteen yards — the ball sailed over her head, and Stockbridge swept in for an easy interception.

Tweedy let out a grating, evil, mocking laugh that sounded like a stuttering buzz saw. “Thanks, rookie!” he called out through cupped hands. “You just answered Hawick’s prayers!” The Human defenders laughed. Quivering pedipalps showed the Quyth Warriors’ amusement.

Quentin’s face felt hot under his helmet. Davenport had easily disguised her coverage by running stride-for-stride with Hawick, until the defender reached her assigned zone coverage. It all happened so fast — seemingly twice as fast as anything happened back in the PNFL. Quentin had thrown too early.

The team fell silent as Hokor’s cart lowered to the field. “Barnes, how many reads did you make that time?”

Quentin looked down. “One.”

Hokor’s pedipalps quivered, and clearly not from humor. “One. You just turned the ball over, again.”

“Relax, Coach, I’ve got it now.”

Hokor just stared at him with his one big eye. “Run it again,” he said, then his cart rose noiselessly to fifteen feet and hovered behind the end zone.

Quentin lined up for another stab, but his confidence had suddenly abandoned him. Things were moving too fast. He ran the same play, saw the defensive coverage, and opted for a short dump to the tight end. Even that was almost an interception: Virak the Mean tightened up into a ball and rolled sideways, not as fast as a Sklorno but pretty damn fast, a rolling blur that popped open at the last second when the ball drew near.

The next play, Quentin checked off his primary and secondary route, which were covered, and fired a short crossing pass to the tight end — as soon as he let go, he knew he’d messed up again. Tweedy had seemed to be yards away from the play, but he stepped in front of Warburg and picked off the ball.

This time Hokor didn’t come down, but it didn’t matter — Tweedy’s buzz-saw laughter roared across the field.

“You’re my kind of quarterback,” Tweedy called. “I just wish you were playing for Wallcrawlers instead of us, it would make my job easier.”

Laughter and quivering pedipalps were all Quentin heard and saw. His face burned with embarrassment.

“You’re not utilizing your arm strength.”

Quentin turned to see Pine next to him.

“Tweedy is giving you the same cushion he gives me,” Pine said quietly, practically whispering. “But you throw much harder than I do. If you want to shut them up, go after Tweedy again, but this time hard. These tight ends are much better than the guys you played with in the PNFL. As soon as you burn Tweedy a couple of times, he’ll close the cushion, then call crossing routes over his head.”

Now Pine was giving him advice as if he were some school-boy playing pickup ball. It was the final insult. Go after Tweedy, who’d just picked off a pass? Did Pine think Quentin was stupid? Pine obviously wanted to make him look bad.

“Get out of my huddle, Pine,” Quentin growled. “I don’t need any help from a blue-boy.”

Pine leaned back as if he’d been slapped. He stared, shook his head sadly, then turned and jogged back to Yitzhak.

“Is daddy helping Little Quentin play the game?” Tweedy called out loudly.

Quentin’s patience hit a dead end. He pointed his finger at the linebacker. “Shuck him, and shuck you, Tweedy.”

Tweedy’s mocking smile turned into a gleeful snarl. “Well, show me what you got. So far you ain’t got nothin’.”

I’LL POKE OUT YOUR EYES AND CRAP ON YOUR BRAIN played across Tweedy’s face tattoo. Quentin watched it for a second, then shook his head, trying to concentrate.

He ran through ten more plays, his frustration growing with each pass. He threw two more interceptions, his third and fourth of the day, one on a deep passes to Scarborough, and one where Virak the Mean rolled forward in addition to sideways and sprang open right in front of a hooking Kobayasho.

“You’ve got two plays left, Barnes,” Hokor called from his loudspeaker. “Let’s see if you can continue your ineptitude.”

The defense continued to taunt him. He was so mad he could barely see, barely think. This hadn’t been what he’d expected at all. He lined up for his second-to-last play, a three-receiver set with Warburg on the right. Quentin dropped back, trying to read the coverage. Within two seconds, he saw that all of the receivers were well-covered. He checked through the routes, but no one was open. Frustration exploded in his head as he read his last option — Warburg on a crossing route — only to see Tweedy lurking close by. Rage billowing over, Quentin reared back and vented all of his anger on a laser-blast pass. The ball was a blur as it shot forward. Tweedy sprang at it, but too late, and fell flat on his face. The ball slammed into Warburg’s chest, hitting him so hard that it knocked him backwards. Warburg stumbled, bobbled the ball, but hauled it in before he dropped to his butt.

For the first time that afternoon, the defense fell silent. Tweedy got up slowly, staring hatefully at Quentin.

Quentin blinked, his rage clearing away, one thought echoing through his head. If you want to shut them up, go after Tweedy again, but this time hard.

The receivers returned to the mini-huddle. Quentin called his last play, a two tight end set, and made sure to include a deep crossing route behind Tweedy. At the snap he dropped back three steps, then reared back to throw a hook to Warburg. Tweedy jumped forward, much sooner than he’d done all day. Quentin pump-faked, then tossed an easy pass over Tweedy’s head to the crossing Kobayasho.

Quentin turned and looked back at Pine, who simply smiled and shrugged.

AFTER QUENTIN’S last pass, the team started jogging back to the tunnel, headed for the locker room. Quentin stopped when Hokor called out to him. As his teammates disappeared into the tunnel, Quentin waited while Hokor’s cart floated down to the field.

“You have to make your reads faster,” Hokor said.

Quentin felt embarrassed, but couldn’t argue. He felt like he was moving in slow-motion. He’d finished up ten-of-thirty with four interceptions — four — and only his first pass went for more than fifteen yards.

“Who’s the second starting cornerback for the Wallcrawlers?” Hokor asked.

“Jacobina,” Quentin said instantly. “Great vertical leap, but not very strong and easily blocked. Two-year vet.”

“What’s her weakness?”

“Trouble reaching maximum vertical leap during a full sprint.”

“How do you beat her?”

“Throw deep and high, make the receiver have to really sprint and jump to make the catch. Jacobina usually can’t match the jump if the ball is thrown correctly.”

“Good,” Hokor said. “And their second-string nose guard?”

Quentin opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. “Come on Coach, he’s just a lineman. All I have to do is avoid him, I don’t need to know anything about him.”

Hokor’s pedipalps twitched, just once. He pointed to the sidelines. “Start running.”

Quentin groaned. “For how long?”

“Ten laps.”

“Come on Coach, that’s crap!”

The pedipalps twitched, and this time kept twitching. “You’re right, that is crap. Twenty laps.”

“What? You just said ten!”

“Did I? I thought I said it thirty. Yes, I said thirty.”

Quentin clenched his jaw tight. He felt helpless, out of his element. Hokor held all the cards, and would until Quentin took over the starting spot. Quentin’s mouth closed into a tight-lipped snarl. Hokor stared at him another five seconds, until Quentin jogged to the sidelines and started doing laps around the field.

Post patterns? Crossing routes? Woman-to-woman coverage? If you want to elarn more about the passing game, hear the author explain the basics at http://www.scottsigler.com/passing101.

HOKOR THE HOOKCHEST sat in the control room mounted a hundred feet up from the practice field end zone. A dozen small holotanks lined the big window that looked out onto the field. The holotanks let him watch any of his players at any time, wherever they were in the ship.

The Ki slept together, as was their custom. They looked like a pile of legs and long bodies. The Ki section of the ship consisted of four large rooms — the communal room, the feeding room, and sleeping rooms for offense and defense, respectively. He visited their communal room at least four or five times a season. It was decorated with multi-colored mosses and various slimes he was told were plants. He’d entered the defensive room once, and only once, because the place stank like a combination of rancid meat and animal offal. Ki family units slept together. It wasn’t sexual — he’d heard stories about the Ki mating season, and had no intention of ever witnessing such a brutal display.

He made the offense and defense sleep separately — they had to face off against each other in practice every day, and when they all slept as one big family unit, they were far too civil to each other. He needed violence and aggression on the practice field. It was the only way to prepare the team for the weekly war against the other GFL squads.

The Sklorno were deep into their morning worship. There were thirteen of the beings on the team, seven receivers and eight defensive backs. Even after ten seasons of coaching, the Sklorno still seemed so bizarre to him. They worshipped strange things, like trees, the clouds on certain planets, works of literature, and — strangest of all — quarterbacks and coaches. Three of the veteran receivers were high-ranking members of the Donald Pine church. Another two, both defensive backs, worshipped Frank Zimmer of the To Pirates. He didn’t know what the rest worshipped, and didn’t care, as long as it didn’t complicate football.

He rarely checked up on the Quyth Warriors. He saved his spying for the sub-races. Warriors deserved the right to come and go as they pleased.

Eleven of his thirteen Humans were in bed, sleeping away. Ibrahim Khomeni, the 525-pounder from Vosor-3 was, of course, eating again. Hokor wondered how those heavy-G Human worlds maintained any economy at all, considering how much their subjects ate. Between Khomeni and Aleksandar Michnik, also from Vosor-3, they daily consumed enough food for ten normal-G Humans.

But while Hokor kept tabs on all of his players, he was really only concerned with one — Quentin Barnes. The Human rookie was in the virtual practice room, working away on the timing that had given him so much trouble in the first three days of practice.

The door to his control room hissed open. Hokor’s antennae went up, briefly, long enough to sense the presence of Gredok. He stood, turned and brushed back his antennae.

“Don’t bother old friend,” Gredok said. “Sit down, continue what you were doing.”

Hokor sat and again turned his attention to Quentin. The Human surveyed his holographic players and the holographic team, then dropped back as the line erupted into holographic chaos. He took a strong five-step drop, set up, and rifled the ball downfield. It fell short of the holographic Scarborough — a defender dove to intercept the ball.

“He’s up early for a Human, isn’t he?” Gredok asked.

“Just him and Ibrahim.”

Gredok looked at the monitor that showed Ibrahim, sitting alone at a table with four heaping trays of food spread out before him.

“Females be saved,” Gredok said with disgust. “Do these high-G Humans ever stop eating? I swear his salary is nothing compared to his food bill.”

“If you could locate a 525-pound Quyth Warrior who can bench-press a thousand pounds, I’d be happy to trade for him.”

Gredok watched Quentin run the same play. This time, he threw ahead of Scarborough for an incompletion.

“Does Barnes do this a lot?”

“He doesn’t socialize with the other players,” Hokor said. “He spends most of his time in the VR room, repeatedly running plays.”

Gredok said nothing. Quentin lined up again, dropped back, and ran the same play. This time the ball sailed over the leaping defender and hit the holographic Scarborough in full stride.

“Nice pass,” Gredok said. “How long has he been at it?”

“Two hours.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Horrible,” Hokor said. “But he’s improving fast.”

“Horrible? I watched him in practice yesterday. He threw 75-yard strikes like they were nothing.”

Hokor turned to look at his Shamakath. “He has only been playing the game for four years, and in a very low-quality league. He’s never thrown to Sklorno receivers before, and he’s not used to passing being a three-dimensional game instead of two-dimensional. Throwing routes is one thing, but he’s not ready for the speed of real defensive backs.”

“He’d better get ready for it. I went through a lot of trouble to obtain him.”

“We had to get him now,” Hokor said. “One more season, and every team in the GFL would have been after him. I just don’t know how long he will take to develop.”

“Need I remind you that this is your third season?” Gredok said coldly. “I don’t care about development time, I care about winning. I want this team in Tier One next season. All the good trade routes require Tier One immunity. You know that.”

Hokor did know that. Trade routes was a nice way of saying smuggling routes. Hokor didn’t care for that part of the business at all, but that was the way the league worked.

“I’m sure that in two seasons, maybe three, Quentin will be the best player in the league.”

“You don’t have two seasons,” Gredok said. “You wanted Donald Pine, I got you Donald Pine. You wanted Choto the Bright, I got him for you. You found out one of my lieutenants had Tier Three experience, so Virak the Mean is playing football instead of acting as my bodyguard and enforcer. I spent a fortune on Mum-O-Killowe, I gave up my drug distribution in Egypt City for him because you said we had to have him. I upgraded this ship because you said it would help us win games… do you think that was cheap?”

“No, Shamakath.” Hokor knew the ship’s retrofit had been horribly expensive, but he was a firm believer that if you wanted to play like a Tier One team, you had to practice like a Tier One team.

“I want Tier One and am willing to spend the money to get it,” Gredok said. “But the time for investing is over, the time for profit is near. You will win the Quyth Irradiated Conference, get us into the Tier Two tournament, and qualify us for Tier One next season or someone else will be around to watch Quentin Barnes turn into the best player in the league.”

Gredok stood and walked out of the control room. Hokor slowly turned back to the holotank, just in time to see Quentin throw another interception. His pedipalps quivered in frustration.