THE

ROOKIE

Galactic Football League: Book One

Scott Sigler

THE ROOKIE

August 2009

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2009 by Scott Sigler

www.scottsigler.com

ISBN: 978-0-615-28744-7

Book design by Donna Mugavero

Published in the United States of America by Dark Overlord Media

Limited Edition

This book is dedicated to Coach Irv Sigler, my father, the greatest football coach and greatest man I have ever known.

This book is dedicated to the Junkies, the most rabid fans a writer could ever ask for. Let’s go tailgatin’!

Also by Scott Sigler

Infected

Contagious

Ancestor

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Special Thanks

Book One

Talent Show

Quentin

Book Two

The Combine

The Team

Practice

Arrival On Ionath

Book Three

Epilogue

Timeline

Glossary

Acknowledgments

A team of talented friends made this book happen. Y’all are a world-class offensive line that make this journeyman quarterback look like an All-Pro:

Kevin “The Franchise” Capizzi at Kevin Capizzi CGI for the GameDay program layout and 3D modeling

A “Future Hall-of-Famer” Kovacs and the team at Audacity for overall project management

Donna “Chalkboard” Mugavero at Sheer Brick Studio for interior book design

Greg “The Bomb” Poloynis for the killer alien designs and art

Jerry “SI Coverboy” Scullion for team logos and a book cover that will become a cultural icon

Special Thanks

Carol Sigler, who never missed a game. Go Chiefs! Go Redskins!

Jody Sigler, always subject to the first draft. Go Pack!

Scott Christian, for reading with a critical eye. Go Bama!

Shannon Fairlamb, for solid proofreading. Go Bears!

Rob Otto, talented commentator with a knack for stats. Go Titans (and Vikings, and Colts whoever else you’ve decided to root for this year because they happen to be winning this season)!

Irv Sigler III: The second-best football player among the Sigler Brothers (okay, that’s a dirty lie, but it’s my book, so I can say whatever the heck I want).

Looking forward to watching these guys play football

Tyler “Redneck” Sigler

Caden “The Crusher” Sigler

BOOK ONE:

THE PNFL

1

TALENT SHOW

Semifinals of the Purist Nation Football League (PNFL)

Outland Fleet Corsairs (7-2) at Mining Colony VI Raiders (9-0)

Micovi Memorial Stadium

7:25 pm PNST

Coverage:

Holocast: Channel 15 Promised Land Sports Network

Translight Radio: 645.6 TL “The Fan”

Third and 7 on the defense’s 41.

Micovi’s three tiny moons hung in the evening sky like pitted purple grapes. Their reflected light diffused into the night’s mist, making them glow with a fuzzy magnificence.

Smells of Human sweat, iron-rich mud and the saltwater-like odor of Carsengi Grass filled the frigid air. The endless hum of the atmosphere processor echoed through packed stands, but the players — and the crowd — had long since tuned out its ever-present droning.

Quentin Barnes slowly walked up behind the center, head sweeping from left to right as he took in every detail of the defense. Well, some would call it a “walk,” most would call it a “swagger.” A step left, a half bounce left, a step right, a half bounce right. He stood behind the center, his hands tapping out a quick left-right-left “ba-da-bap” on the center’s ample behind.

From his crouch, the center smiled — the ba-da-bap was the kind of thing other players would tease you for — that is, unless your quarterback was Quentin Barnes. The center smiled because Quentin only did that, did the ba-da-bap, when he saw a hole in the defense. And what Quentin saw, Quentin took.

Behind Quentin, the tailback and the fullback lined up an I-formation. Two wide receivers lined up on the left side, with a tight end on the right.

“Red, fifteen! Red, fifteeeeeen!” Quentin’s gravel and sandpaper voice barked out the audible. His breath shot out in a growing white cloud, which seemed to break into slow motion as the crystallized vapor rose almost imperceptibly into the windless night. Across the offensive and defensive lines, similar start-stop breaths filled the air like a thin fog of war, each puff illuminated by the powerful field lights.

“Watch that shucker!” the Corsairs’ outside linebacker called as he pointed to the tight end. The tight end had caught six passes on the day, four of them in third-down situations, racking up 52 yards and a touchdown. And it wasn’t even halfway through the third quarter. The linebacker’s jersey, once blazing white with royal blue numbers, was now a torn mess of brown streaks, green smears and splotches of red fading to pink. The linebacker moved to line up directly over the tight end.

From his stance, the tight end smiled. Now he saw it, now he saw the same thing Quentin had seen almost the second they broke from the huddle.

“Huuut ... hut!”

The center snapped the ball into Quentin’s wide hands. The linemen launched into their endless battle, huge cleated shoes kicking up clods of tortured grass and well-worked mud. Quentin dropped straight back as the fullback and tailback moved to the left and to the right, respectively, ready to block. The tight end shot off the line, big legs pumping and big arms swinging. The linebacker backpedaled, eyes wide and angry — he wasn’t going to let the tight end beat him this time.

The linebacker watched Quentin’s eyes as they locked onto the tight end. The tight end stepped to the right, like he was breaking outside, his head looking up and his shoulders turning out in an exaggerated move before he cut sharply left, to the inside, and curled up at eight yards from the line of scrimmage. Quentin’s left arm reared back — the linebacker snarled as he jumped the route: it was payback time, an easy interception.

Quentin’s arm came forward as the linebacker closed on the tight end — but the ball never left the tall quarterback’s hand. Pump fake. Quentin reared back again, lightning fast, and lofted a smooth, arching pass. The linebacker leapt, but the ball sailed just a few inches over his outstretched fingers to fall perfectly into the arms of the sprinting tailback, who had come out of the backfield on a delayed pattern. The tailback turned upfield, never breaking stride.

The tailback threw a head-and-shoulders juke on the free safety, who couldn’t change direction quickly enough to catch the streaking runner. The tailback cut to the right, towards the sidelines, and turned on the jets — the strong safety had a good angle of pursuit, but there just wasn’t enough field to catch up. The tailback strode into the dirty end zone standing up. The record crowd of 15,162 roared its approval.

Micovi Raiders 34, Purist Nation Outland Fleet Corsairs 3.

Quentin Barnes reached down and plucked a few blades of the tough Carsengi Grass from the muddy, cleat-torn field, then held them to his nose. He breathed deeply, smiled, then rolled his fingers, feeling the grass’ rough texture before the blades scattered to the ground.

• • •

SMILES SEEMED LIMITLESS that day, particularly to players and fans of the black-and-silver Mining Colony Six Raiders. And for Stedmar Osborne, the Raiders’ owner, the smile was so big it looked almost painful. He sat behind the smoked glass of his luxury box, enjoying an illegal Jack Daniels on the rocks and smoking an illegal Tower Republic cigar. Normally he was down on the field, as any young owner should be, but this week he was entertaining a visitor — a Quyth Leader, forbidden both because of his rap sheet and his species. Not that it was legal for any species other than Humans to stand on Purist Nation soil. But out here on the fringe colonies, such things were often ignored if you had enough influence.

“What did I tell you, Shamakath,” Stedmar said, respectfully using the Quyth word for ‘leader.’

Gredok the Splithead nodded quickly, his three sets of foot-long black antennae bobbing like dreadlocks. Gredok had to look up — he was tall for a Quyth Leader, but at three feet, two inches, he was exactly half Stedmar’s height.

Out of all the galaxy’s known species, Humans and Quyth shared the most similar body plan. Most similar, which was actually not very similar at all. Both species had evolved from primitive quadrupeds into bipeds, giving them two legs and two arms. From that point on, however, any similarity broke down. The average Human stood at twice the height of an average Quyth Leader, and weighed three times as much.

The Quyth Leader’s body looked as if a sculptor had taken a Human child’s arms and moved them down to just above the hips. Both arms and legs ended in three-pincered claws, which provided solid footing but were incapable of manipulating any tool. The proximity of legs and arms meant the Quyth could move with equal ease as a biped or a quadruped, although no respecting Quyth Leader would ever be caught walking on all-fours. Such behavior was fine for Warriors and Workers, but never for a Leader.

The trunk continued up from the arms, a long, smooth, furry body that ended in a head dominated by one softball-sized eye. A small, vertical mouth sat under the eye. A set of pedipalps extended from the sides of the Quyth’s vertical mouth — what were once tools for killing and eating had evolved into long, dexterous appendages the Quyth used like Human hands.

“I don’t know why he hasn’t thrown deep more,” Stedmar said. “With that kid’s arm, they should be going for the bomb on every play, you know?”

Gredok looked back at the field and rolled his eye, marveling in the Stedmar’s idiocy. Gredok caught himself in the act, then stared straight ahead — rolling one’s eye was an expression of derision he’d picked up from hanging around Humans for far too long. Any neophyte could see that the quarterback had been setting that play up for at least the last two offensive series.

Gredok looked to his left, at Hokor the Hookchest, also a Quyth Leader. Hokor had forgotten more about football than Gredok would ever know. Hokor’s single eye glowed slightly yellow with an internal light. The tips of his three sets of flexible, foot-long antennae spun in tiny circles — there was nothing Human about that expression. Hokor’s stubby legs were the only things that stayed still: his tan-striped yellow fur raised and lowered with subconscious excitement, his tiny three-pincered hands flexed involuntarily, and his pedipalps twitched, as if they were searching for food to stuff into his small mouth. Gredok reached over and gently nudged Hokor. Hokor’s antennae immediately stopped circling, and the yellow light faded until his big eye was perfectly clear.

Hokor was a great coach, but he had little of what the Humans called a “poker face.” Gredok, on the other hand, remained calm and collected. His antennae and pedipalps sat perfectly still, while his own fur, silky-black and impeccably groomed, lay smooth and undisturbed.

It might have been a casual outing of three business acquaintances, not much different than what went on in the stadium’s other luxury boxes save for the fact that there were probably no other non-Humans in the stadium, nor were they packed with lethal-looking bodyguards: four Humans, who belonged to Stedmar; and two thickly muscled, six-foot-tall Quyth Warriors, their furless, hard-shelled carapaces showing battle scars and the hand-painted emblems of combat tours and various war campaigns.

“Greedy, I’ve got to hand it to you on this football team stuff,” Stedmar said as the kicker knocked through the extra point to make the score 35-3. “I had no idea how lucrative this could be, but you were right — I’m moving at least five hundred keys of smack every road game, and coming back with a bus full of money. I never dreamed smuggling could be so easy. Local customs officials barely look at a team bus. Even the shucking bats don’t bother.”

“The Creterakians introduced football,” Gredok said, noting how Stedmar still called to the ruling race as ‘bats,’ a reference to some Human animal Gredok had never seen. “Football supposedly reduces interspecies violence. They don’t want to rock the boat over a little thing like smuggling.”

Stedmar lifted his glass. “Well here’s to interspecies cooperation,” he said, then took a drink as the ice cubes rattled wetly.

“And you have a Tier Three team,” Gredok said. “Imagine how valuable it becomes with a Tier Two team, and you’re moving across entire systems, or even a Tier One team, and you’ve got complete immunity across all governments.”

Stedmar nodded. “Tier Three is good enough for now. It’s going to take me a few years to buy out a Tier Two team. But hey, if I can hold on to Barnes, I’ll be competitive from the start.”

“Don’t be sure Barnes can carry your team,” Gredok said. “There’s a reason no Nationalite quarterback has ever led a team to a championship. It’s one thing to be great in an all-Human league. It’s a very different game when Barnes has to throw past eight-foot-tall Sklorno defensive backs and dodge 400-pound Quyth Warrior linebackers.”

Stedmar shrugged. “The boy thinks he can handle it.”

“The rest of your team can’t. Your repressive government barely allows non-Human trade let alone bringing in other races to play football. In Tier Two ball, you need Quyth Warriors, Sklorno and Ki. It would be fun to watch your puny 400-pound linemen try and block a 600-pound Ki nose tackle.”

“I’m working on it, Shamakath,” Stedmar said. Stedmar did an admirable job of pronouncing the word correctly, no small feat considering his Human vocal cords were only half as versatile as the Quyth voice chamber. It was a clear sign of his respect towards the leader of his syndicate. Hokor genuinely liked Stedmar, and had big plans for his lieutenant. Assuming, of course, that Stedmar lived to see the end of this game.

“Football is becoming too popular, even in the Purist Nation,” Stedmar said. “You know how the Holy Men are, how much they hate the Planetary Union and the League of Planets. It drives the Holy Men crazy to know those two heretic systems have fielded so many championship teams over the past twenty-five years.”

“Heretic?” Gredok said. “Is that what you believe?”

Stedmar laughed. “How can you ask that? I don’t follow this system’s damned religion.”

Gredok pointed to the infinity symbol tattooed on Stedmar’s forehead. “You seem to have all the trappings of a Church member.”

“The cost of doing business in this system.” If you’re not a confirmed member of the Church, you can’t get near most of the business. Corruption abounds, and is quite profitable.”

Gredok let out a rapid click-click-click of disgust. “Still, the Purist Nation is not going to allow non-Human races inside its borders, and you need other races to win in the Galactic Football League. Governments have been working on that for three centuries — the GFL has only been around for twenty-three seasons, and three of those were suspended.”

Stedmar shrugged again. “The bats have been here for forty years.”

“That’s different,” Gredok said. “They conquered all the Human planets. Your people don’t have a choice.”

“The scriptures also say no non-Humans on any Purist Nation planet, but you know the Holy Men — when they want something, the Book is always full of loopholes. If it wasn’t for out-system smuggling the border colonies couldn’t even survive. Our economy is a disaster and everyone knows it. Things are going to change, and soon.”

“You forget I’ve been alive three times as long as you. I’ve always heard about ‘coming changes’ in your system, yet it’s one fundamentalist coup after another. If it wasn’t for the Creterakians, the Purist Nation would have torn itself apart long ago.”

“Look at Buddha City,” Stedmar said. “They’ve got every race in the galaxy on that station, and it orbits Allah, the very seat of the Purist Nation. But that’s allowed, because the aliens can’t set foot on Allah itself. That policy has survived through the last three regimes, because even the radicals know the economy can’t sustain itself without at least some official out-system trade. There’s even talk of allowing a limited non-Human presence on outlying food and research facilities, space stations and, you guessed it, mining colonies.”

“And you think you’ll still have Barnes when that happens?” Gredok leaned forward, the football game forgotten, his game, the power game, now fully underway.

Stedmar shrugged. “The Holy Men might not open things for another ten years, so who knows. Besides,” Stedmar said as he turned to look straight into Gredok’s big eye, “I’ve got offers on the table for Barnes’ contract.”

Gredok showed no emotion, he kept his antennae still, but inside he felt a combination of disappointment and a rush of excitement. Of course the Human knew why Gredok had come.

Gredok turned back to the game. The Corsairs were driving, using their fast-passing game to move forward five or ten yards at a crack. Both teams wore simple uniforms: pants with no stripe, jersey decorated with only the player’s number, front and back in block-letter style, a helmet decorated only with the first letter of the team name. Every team in the Purist Nation Football League wore uniforms that were identical save for the team colors. The Raiders had silver-grey pants and helmets with black jerseys, while the Corsairs wore royal blue pants and helmets with white jerseys.

“Who would want Barnes?” Gredok said with disgust. “Purist Nation quarterbacks can’t handle the Upper Tiers, it has been proven time and time again.”

Stedmar’s thin smile returned. “Kirani-Ah-Kollok.”

This time, Gredok couldn’t control his quivering antennae. Kirani-Ah-Kollok, Shamakath of the Ki Homeworld Syndicate. The very being that Gredok hoped to someday replace.

“Kollok? Why would he want Barnes when he’s got Frank Zimmer at quarterback?”

“Zimmer’s getting old,” Stedmar said. “He’s 33. I know that’s not much to you, Shamakath, but for a Human that means he’s only got four or five good years left. Barnes is only 19. Kollok figures that by the time Zimmer starts to fade, Barnes will be in his mid-twenties, just hitting the peak of his abilities.”

Few bosses were as ruthless and clever as Kollok, who was not only a shrewd businessman but also a great judge of football talent. Kollok’s team, the To Pirates, had won the GFL championship in 2681, and followed up with a trip to last season’s title game, where they lost to the current champions, the Jupiter Jacks.

On the field, the Corsairs’ quarterback dropped back and threw deep downfield. The ball hung in the air for far too long, giving the Raider’s strong safety time to make a well-timed leap. His outstretched hands snagged the ball before the receiver dragged him down. The crowd roared in approval.

“That’s the quarterback’s fourth interception,” Hokor said quietly. “He should be shot.”

Stedmar laughed at what he thought was a joke, but Gredok knew it was no laughing matter. Hokor was a demanding coach, to say the least. Back in his days as a Tier Three coach in the Quyth Planetary League, he had executed more than one ineffectual player.

A flock of Creterakian soldiers flew over the field, moving from perches on one side of the stadium to the other. As their small shadows zipped across the near stands, then the field, then the far stands, the crowd noise fell to a hush. The tiny creatures always made their presence felt during football games, where radicals were fond of deadly terrorist acts. Each one of the twenty or so winged beings carried an entropic rifle, capable of killing a man with even a glancing shot. Like any other public gathering, even ones with only a hundred or so people, the local Creterakian garrison wanted to see and be seen.

“I hate those little shuckers,” Stedmar said quietly. “They do those flyovers on purpose, you know, to make sure the crowd doesn’t get too wild.”

Over the years, Gredok had seen several ‘wild’ crowds of repressed Purist Nation citizens. Just during the drive from the spaceport to the city center and the football field, he’d seen two minor riots and one lynch mob. The lynch mob ended when a flock of soldiers flew in to break it up, then some Purist genius started throwing rocks at the ugly little flying creatures: the lynching originally intended to kill one man for an unknown crime ended in at least twelve deaths when the Creterakians opened fire. Mining Colony VI, or “Micovi” as the locals liked to call it, was little more than a barely controlled, overpopulated border outpost of a Third World system.

The Raiders’ offense ran onto the field, led by the swaggering Barnes. The crowd noise picked up once again as hometown fans cheered for their star player.

“He’s awfully big for a quarterback,” Gredok said.

“Seven feet even,” Stedmar said. “Seven feet tall, 360 pounds.”

So big, Gredok thought. Big enough, possibly, to stand up to the punishment that Upper Tier quarterbacks took week after week. Frank Zimmer was 6-foot-9, 310 pounds, and was one of the biggest quarterbacks in the league. “It’s amazing how players keep getting larger and larger. Fifteen years ago a Human that size could have been a small tight end.”

Barnes barked out the signals, looking up and down the line as he did. He paused, stood for a moment, and his hands did a ba-da-bap on the center’s behind. Barnes screamed out an audible. Behind him, the tailback went in motion to the left, lining up in the slot between the tight end and the wide receiver.

“Here we go again,” Stedmar said. “He sees something!”

Gredok and Hokor also leaned forward, although they knew what was coming — any fool could see the Corsairs’ defensive backs were in man-to-man while the tailback’s motion revealed that the linebackers were in a short zone. Barnes now had three targets to his left — the wide receiver, the tailback, and the tight end.

“Roll out?” Gredok asked. Hokor nodded.

Barnes took the snap as the line erupted in the dirt-churning mini-war. He ran to his left, down the line, as the three left-side receivers sprinted straight downfield. But Hokor and Gredok weren’t the only ones to see what Quentin had seen — the much-maligned linebacker tore up field, blitzing just inside the sprinting tight end. Quentin and the linebacker seemed to be on a direct collision course. The 360-pound linebacker closed in and launched himself, at which point Quentin calmly sidestepped towards the line of scrimmage. The linebacker sailed through the air, not even laying a finger on the deft quarterback.

The defensive end had separated from his block. Quentin’s cut inside the linebacker took him right into the defensive end’s reaching arms. Quentin cut back to the outside at the last second as the 400-pound end grabbed him with cannon-sized arms. The quarterback kept his feet pumping and pushed hard with his right arm. The end’s feet chopped at the ground as he tried to keep up, but Quentin’s stiffarm had knocked him off balance. The end fell, both hands wrapped in Quentin’s jersey, pulling the smaller quarterback down. Quentin stumbled, leaned, then seemed to take a step towards the defensive end and twisted his shoulders as he pushed out with his right arm yet again. The end fell to the ground, his big hands slipping free of Quentin’s jersey. Then the quarterback popped upright, like a stiff spring that had been bent to the ground then released.

So strong, Gredok thought. I’ve never seen a Human quarterback so strong.

Already moving upfield and now free of the clutching defensive end, Quentin tucked the ball and ran. The defense shifted from their pass coverage to come after him, but in the two seconds after his initial cut he was already ten yards upfield and cutting to the outside.

“Hikkir,” Hokor said quietly — the Quyth equivalent of “oh my.”

The crowd roared as the cornerback streaked towards Quentin, but the defender came in too fast. Quentin juked to the right, to the inside, but in the same second was moving back to the left. The cornerback stumbled and started to fall — he reached out for Quentin, who slapped his hands away like an angry parent scolding a spoiled child.

“Hikkirapt,” Hokor said, a little louder this time, the Quyth equivalent of “that’s quite impressive.”

Quentin sprinted down the sideline. The free safety closed with a good angle of pursuit. There was nowhere to cut this time, so Quentin lowered his right hand, and brought it up hard just as the free safety reached for the tackle. Quentin’s thick forearm caught the free safety under the chin, lifting him off his feet. The free safety seemed to float for a second, moving downfield at the same speed as Quentin, before crashing into the ground and skidding clumsily across the torn Carsengi Grass.

“Joro jirri,” Hokor said loudly. That loosely translated into “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Stedmar jumped up and down and screamed nonsensical syllables, his drink spilling onto the floor. His bodyguards had lost discipline, straying from their posts to get a glimpse of the sprinting quarterback. Hokor leaned forward so far his neon-bright yellow eye pressed against the luxury box’s glass windows.

It boiled down to Quentin and the strong safety, who closed in as the quarterback passed the 30-yard line. Quentin looked back once, then turned his head upfield and seemed to take off, as if he had booster rockets. Quentin strolled into the end zone for a 52-yard touchdown run.

Raiders 41, Corsairs 3.

“Just how fast is he?” Gredok asked quietly.

“Yesterday in practice they timed him at 3.8 in the 40-yard dash.”

Gredok simply nodded. Of course. Why not? Why shouldn’t the nineteen-year-old huge quarterback, with a plasma rifle for an arm, the eyes of an aerial predator and the mind of a general run a 3.8 second 40-yard dash? That was faster than most Human running backs and definitely faster than the typical 380-pound Human tight end. It wasn’t nearly as fast as a Sklorno wide receiver or defensive back, but it was about equal with a Quyth Warrior linebacker. A Tier One linebacker — Quentin would leave most Tier Two linebackers in the dust.

Hokor still leaned forward, his eye and both sets of his hands pressed against the glass, his antennae quivering like drug-addled snakes. Gredok poked him again — hard. Hokor looked up and saw Gredok’s eye clouding over with just a touch of black. Hokor swept a pedipalp over his head, submissively pushing his antennae back, then sat quietly in his seat.

Gredok stared at his coach. Hokor had come across a holo of Barnes, and had instantly insisted the boy was Tier One material. Gredok had argued — there were reasons no Nationalite had ever quarterbacked a championship team. Most Nationalite quarterbacks, in fact, washed out within two seasons. Despite the boy’s skills, he had no experience dealing with other races, let alone leading them. There was more to quarterbacking than pure football skill. Far more.

But Gredok believed in his coach. He’d already leveraged his entire organization’s finances to create the team Hokor wanted, the team that would make the leap from Tier Two to the big time ... to Tier One. Hokor wanted Barnes, but to get Barnes, Gredok needed to make a play that could have serious business consequences.

Gredok’s wide eye asked an unspoken question: Are you sure? Is this kid really worth it?

Hokor stared back with an unspoken answer: Absolutely.

“I think Kollok is going to pay through the nose for this kid,” Stedmar said quietly, a smug smile on his lips. “Don’t you think he will, Shamakath?”

The time had come to formally open up the power game. Gredok wasn’t taking any chances.

“Actually,” Gredok said, “Barnes might do well on my team.”

Stedmar raised his eyebrows in a Human expression for surprise. Gredok sensed Stedmar’s body heat — very steady, only a hair above normal. Stedmar concealed his emotions very well, which was just one of the reasons Gredok liked him. Stedmar was also smart and ruthless. But for all his strong points, he should have known better than to play the game with Gredok the Splithead.

“You’ve got Don Pine,” Stedmar said. “Why would you want anyone else?”

“Pine is not what he used to be.”

Stedmar nodded. “But I’ve already got a considerable offer from Kollok.”

“You should just give me Barnes’ contract as tribute.”

Stedmar smiled. “Now come on, we both know tribute doesn’t cover something like this. You wouldn’t want me in your organization if I’d do something as stupid as give up this kid for free.”

Gredok thought for a second, then nodded. Stedmar played it smart: polite, respectful, and logical. “What is Kollok’s offer?”

Stedmar walked to the bar and poured himself another drink. “Well, Barnes’ contract is negligible,” he said. “I have him signed for another year at one million credits.”

Such a low number for such talent, Gredok thought.

“That is impressive, Stedmar. Barnes is worth three times that amount, even for a Tier Three team. How did you manage it?”

Stedmar shrugged and smiled. “Technically, I don’t have to pay him at all. He’s an orphan, like about a million other Nationalite kids his age. Pogroms, coups, fundamentalist revolutions, power struggles — thousands of people die or just disappear every year. Quentin never even knew his parents. They disappeared when he was one, maybe younger. He had a brother, got hung for stealing food when Quentin was only five. That was all the family he had.”

“How old was the brother?”

“Nine or ten, Quentin doesn’t remember for sure. Anyway, in the Purist Nation, family members are responsible for crimes committed by other family members, up to three generations. Since Quentin was the only one left in his family, they put him to work in the forced-labor mines.”

“A five-year-old Human, working in the Micovi mines?”

Stedmar nodded. “Happens all the time. Makes for a very cheap labor source.”

“Slave labor is always the cheapest.”

“The nice term is ‘honor worker,’ as in working in the forced-labor camps clears your family honor, you know? Only takes twenty years.”

Gredok’s antennae circled slowly. He didn’t like Human systems to start with, and the Purist Nation was by far the worst of the lot. “So if he was an honor worker in a mine, how did you discover him?”

Stedmar laughed. “It was the craziest thing. I was driving out to the mines to conduct some business. So I’m driving by in my limo when the workers are on break. There’s a crowd built up like it’s a fight. Well, I love to watch a good fight, especially on this planet — did you know if you kill a man in a fair fight here, you don’t go to jail?”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Anyway, so people really go at it. So I pull up to see what’s going on, only there’s not a fight, everyone is laughing and clapping, looking at each other in amazement. There’s this giant-sized shucker, must have been 425 pounds, built like an air-tank with legs, you know? Anyway, this guy looks pissed. He heaves back and chucks a rock, maybe the rock is a pound or two, chucks it about sixty yards, really impressive throw. Some guy runs the rock back, and that’s when the workers start flashing money back and forth — they’re making bets. Then this scrawny kid steps up, he’s about six feet tall, but you can tell he’s real young. The big guy has a look on his face like he could eat a bat whole, entropic rifle and all, you know? He’s looking at this kid like he wants to kill him. And the kid is just laughing. The kid takes the rock, pretends like he’s lining up under a center and actually barks out some signals. He’s looking left, looking right, then takes a five-step drop like he’s quarterbacking the Rodina Astronauts or something, and he heaves that rock. I mean the thing flew eighty-five, maybe ninety yards. I just about crapped myself.”

Gredok nodded. He was always amazed by Stedmar’s fascination with fecal euphemisms. “And that’s why you signed him?”

“Partially. So this kid won the bet, obviously, the big guy hands him a wad of bills, and the kid starts doing this dance, really rubbing it in, you know? Well, the big guy, he just loses it. He throws a big sucker-punch that knocks the kid on his butt. The kid pops up like nothing happened, except he’s not laughing now, he’s pissed.”

Gredok nodded again. Urine was also a key element of Stedmar’s stories.

“So the big guy comes after this kid, and this kid lays into him. I mean he took this big guy apart. Three straight jabs and then a big left hook, and the guy goes down. But the kid isn’t finished. He jumps on the guy and starts blasting him with big haymaker lefts, over and over again. There’s blood all over the dirt, in a couple of seconds the guy’s face looks like hamburger. The workers are laughing and having a grand time, but you know what I’m thinking to myself, Shamakath?”

“No.”

“I’m thinking, ‘What if that kid hurts his hands?’ Swear to High One, that’s what I’m thinking. So I send my Sammy and Dean and Frankie over there to pull the kid off. But he’s like a wildcat — doesn’t know who my boys are or what they want, so he lays Sammy out with that same left hook.”

Stedmar turned to look at one of his bodyguards, a thick Human with a nose that looked as if it had been broken a dozen times.

“You remember that punch, Sammy?”

“Yeah, boss,” Sammy said, laughing. “And he weighed about two hundred pounds less back then.”

“I didn’t want the kid hurt, but you can’t expect the boys to take that, you know? But the more they hit him, the madder he gets, and he just won’t stay down. Finally, Sammy gets up and he whips out a stun stick and puts the kid out. They drag him over to me. I ask the kid if he knows who I am. You know what he says to me?”

“No,” Gredok said, patiently waiting for the end of the story. Humans always took so long to get to the point.

“Through a split lip he says to me, ‘You’re the new owner of the Raiders.’ Not ‘You’re Stedmar Osborne, notorious gangster,’ or ‘You’re that guy that shakes down the mine owners’ or anything like that. Just ‘The owner of the Raiders.’ That was it for me, I knew the kid lived and breathed football. So I ask him, ‘How old are you?’ And he tells me ‘Fifteen.’ Fifteen. You know what I almost did?”

“Crapped yourself?” Gredok said.

“Yah! I almost crapped myself! I paid off the kid’s family debt. That’s why, technically, I don’t have to pay him at all, I sort of own him. And just to let you know, a million a year is probably more than his entire family saw going back three generations, if not four or five. He thinks he’s rich. So I signed the kid and put him on the team. He’d never played organized ball before, and the next year, at sixteen years old, he’s the backup quarterback.”

At this, Hokor looked away from the field and listened attentively. Gredok knew why — this quarterback already had four years of professional experience, albeit in the lowly PNFL.

“At seventeen he started for me,” Stedmar said. “We went 5-4 that year, he won his last three games. The next year, this eighteen-year-old kid wins it all for me, 9-0, and two more wins in the playoffs to give me my first championship. This year, we’re 9-0 again, we’ll obviously win today, and that’s 21 games in a row for him. Next week the championship game should be a cakewalk.”

“All because you were driving by and happened to see him throw a rock.”

Stedmar laughed, he obviously relished telling this story. “Yah! Crazy, isn’t it?”

“You still haven’t told me Kollok’s offer.”

“Kollok will hand me fifteen million,” Stedmar said, that same self-confident smile on his lips. “Plus smuggling rights for any pyuli he wants to unload in Purist Nation space.”

Gredok nodded, sensing Stedmar’s body heat increase just a bit. He was lying about the fifteen million, but not about the Kigrown narcotic pyuli, of which some Humans just couldn’t get enough — a year’s worth of rights to that stuff was worth far more than fifteen million. But Micovi belonged to Gredok. Most of it, anyway. Was this Kollok’s first move to cut into Gredok’s territory? Was Stedmar to be trusted?

“You should never take a deal with another syndicate without consulting me,” Gredok said, the anger building within him.

Stedmar ran his left hand over his head, brushing his hair back — while he had no antennae, the motion perfectly mimicked the Quyth sign of fealty. Gredok felt his anger subside a little, an involuntary, instinctive reaction to the gesture. His lieutenant was very good at this game. Gredok would never again underestimate Stedmar Osborne.

“But I have not taken the deal, Shamakath, nor would I ever do so without your blessing.”

“I will give you ten million for Barnes’ contract,” Gredok said. “Plus, I’ll give you Muhammad Jorgensen’s territory on Allah.”

Stedmar’s face wrinkled. “I suspect you were going to give me Muhammad’s territory anyway. He’s getting run over by the Giovanni syndicate — they want to expand their Purist Nation territory in a bad way.”

Gredok nodded again. Stedmar was correct. And yet, the offer had been placed on the table — to change it now was a sign of weakness, and any Shamakath could not admit weakness in front of his vassals. Stedmar had made his first mistake — instead of simply trying to add options, he insinuated that Gredok’s offer was no good.

“I have offered you a deal,” Gredok said quietly, his antennae pinning down flat against the back of his head, like a dog’s ears just before an attack. “You will now accept.”

Stedmar’s eyes widened slightly when he saw the antennae go back, and his temperature spiked almost a full degree. He quickly glanced at Gredok’s two bodyguards, who showed no sign of emotion.

Where Quyth Leaders were small and sleight, Quyth Warriors were so much larger they looked like a different species altogether. They shared the same body style of two legs, two arms with three-pincer hands and two pedipalps on either side of the vertical mouth. But while a Leader’s pedipalps were two feet long and slender, a Warrior’s were usually about three feet long, thick with muscle and heavily armored. Warriors did not have silky fur. Instead, thick chitin covered their bodies. The last difference was perhaps the most pronounced — a Leader’s softball-sized eye glowed like window to the soul’s emotions, while the Warrior’s cold eye was smaller, like a baseball, surrounded by a heavy ridge of chitin and hooded by a thick, tough, leathery eyelid.

Crazy red and orange designs — the marks of Quyth commandos — decorated the bodyguards’ upper carapaces. Warriors wore pants, usually grey and devoid of color, but rarely wore anything that would cover their enameled markings. Stedmar’s bodyguards, four densely muscled 400-pound Humans, tensed up, ready for action.

“Shamakath, please understand,” Stedmar said calmly. “With all due respect, Kollok’s deal is better. It’s bad business not to take it.”

“You will take my offer, Stedmar,” Gredok said. “And you will take it now.”

“Perhaps we could add some money to the offer — ”

“The offer is tendered. There will be no changes.”

Stedmar’s eyes narrowed. He looked down at the diminutive Quyth Leader. “Shamakath, I respectfully invoke my right to decline Kollok’s offer, and therefore am not obligated to take your offer. Barnes will play for me next season.”

Gredok’s antennae rose slightly. Stedmar had quickly taken his only way out. By keeping Barnes and not selling his contract to anyone, Stedmar could turn down Gredok’s offer without Gredok losing face.

But proper etiquette or no, Gredok wanted Barnes. And that was all that mattered.

Gredok clapped his pincers together and gestured to one of his bodyguards, who walked over as he reached into his belt. The Human bodyguards immediately went for their weapons, but Stedmar held up a hand to still them.

“Virak,” Gredok said to his bodyguard. “Show Stedmar the screen.”

The 375-pound Virak the Mean struck a rather imposing figure, but Stedmar never flinched. Despite the fact that everyone in the room knew Virak could kill Stedmar in the blink of an eye, the burly bodyguard looked at the Human and brushed back his one set of retractable antennae just before looking at Gredok and doing the same. He then produced a small holo-projector from his belt and switched it on.

The image flared to life. A dangerous stillness filled the luxury box. Stedmar looked at the image, eyes widening with rage. He glanced down to the stands, to the first row, then back again. Gredok sensed the skyrocketing stress level of the Human bodyguards. They reached for their weapons again, but Stedmar’s curtly raised hand stopped them for the second time.

The holoscreen showed a smiling, blonde Human woman holding a baby, both warmly dressed against the evening’s cold. They sat in the stadium’s front row, the woman laughing with two other Human women, all of them surrounded by alert bodyguards. The image shook slightly, obviously due to a long-range focus.

“Your mate and offspring,” Gredok said.

Stedmar swallowed. “Where is this picture coming from?”

“From the scope of pulse cannon, manned by a sniper sitting in one of the atmosphere processors overlooking the stadium.”

Stedmar looked across the field, up to the skyline, at the endless line of atmosphere processors that towered thirty stories high. The big machines were filled with platforms, grates, pipes, blocky compressors ... there were a hundred places a sniper could hide unseen.

“I’m sure you’re thinking you can kill me now and save your mate and offspring,” Gredok said. “But if the sniper doesn’t hear from me in the next five minutes, he’ll fire. The pulse cannon will incinerate that entire section, killing everyone in a twenty-yard radius. So I suggest no sudden moves on her part — if she should rise to relieve herself, for example, she’ll be the epicenter of a rather large crater.”

“Frankie,” Stedmar said to one of his bodyguards. “Call down to Stefan, tell him to make sure everyone stays put, especially Michelle.”

“Very good,” Gredok said. “The deal is tendered. You will take it now.”

Stedmar nodded, his face a narrow-eyed visage of barely controlled rage. That disappointed Gredok — Stedmar would have to improve his self control if he wanted to move even farther in the syndicate’s hierarchy.

Virak produced a contract box and handed it to Stedmar. The Human read through the contract, nodded, then placed his thumb in the slot on one end. Gredok placed his middle left pincer in the box’s other slot. The machine quickly recorded their genetic makeup, linked up to the Intergalactic Business Database, verified their identities, then gave a low “beep” to indicate the transaction had been recorded.

Gredok’s antennae rose to their normal angle. “Very good, Stedmar. I will now take my leave. Shall I remove Muhammad for you?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Stedmar said in a cold voice.

Gredok nodded, then left the luxury box, Hokor and his two bodyguards close behind.

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.

Excerpt from “The GFL for Dummies,” by Robert Otto

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.

BOOK TWO:

PRE-SEASON

HE WAITED for it.

Waited for the punch-out.

His pulse raced in a way it never did on the football field — a panicky way. He felt anxious, tried to control his breathing.

This is your fourteenth flight, everything went fine before.

The ship started to vibrate, just a little. A thin sheen of sweat covered his hands, which clutched tightly to his playbook messageboard. They were about to drop out of punch space and back into what people once called “reality.”

This is the most statistically safe method of travel in the galaxy.

Statistics didn’t stop newscasts, however, especially newscasts of passenger ships forever lost in punch space, or the horrific remains of a ship that met some stray piece of debris during the punch-out back to relativistic speeds. They called it the “reality wave,” the feeling that washed over the ship when it dropped out of punch space and back into regular time.

You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be –

His breath seized up and he squeezed his eyes shut as the shudder hit. That sickening feeling of splitting, or spreading. He knew everything blurred, himself included. He’d seen that blurring the first time he’d flown — seeing it once was enough.

Oh High One oh High One oh no oh no ...

And then it was over. He forced himself to relax, forced open his tightly clenched teeth. He opened his eyes. The observation deck was still there. Quentin slowly let out a long-held breath. Everyone else on the deck looked relaxed. Everyone else always did. He liked to tell himself that they were just oblivious to the danger, rather than tell himself to stop being such a pansy.

Four seasons in the PNFL had taken him to every major city in the Purist Nation. He’d seen all four planets, Mason, Solomon, Allah and Stewart, as well as most of the colonies. Space travel was nothing new to Quentin, but this time it was different.

This was his first trip alone, without the familiarity of his teammates. But on this flight he certainly didn’t suffer for lack of attention. On a ship full of Purist Nation businessmen, the league’s MVP never went wanting for a drink or a dinner or some fat old fool looking to shake his hand.

One guy on the ship, Manny Sayed, followed him everywhere, trying to get Quentin to endorse his luxury yacht company. Quentin wasn’t endorsing anything just yet — he didn’t want to associate himself with one company before he signed with an advertising firm that could connect him to the hundreds of industries trying to cash in on the phenomenal marketing power of the GFL.

The distance of this trip also made it different. The Purist Nation was only twenty light years across at its widest: most flights took only half a day. This time, however, he was at the edge of the Galactic Core, at Creterak — the end of a three-day journey of some forty-five light years.

Quentin stared out the huge observation window, looking into space as the passenger liner gradually slowed to a halt some ways off the Creterakian orbital station Emperor Two. It was a huge construct, bigger than anything Quentin had ever seen. Hundreds of ships surrounded the station, all a respectful distance away. The tiny, flashing dots that were shuttles constantly flew back and forth from the ships to the station, like a glowing rainstorm simultaneously falling towards and away from mile-long piers that jutted from the station’s equator.

He heard the rhythmic clonk of a now familiar footstep. Quentin grimaced, waiting for the fat voice to speak.

“You think this is big, you should see Emperor One,” said Manny Sayed. “It’s almost twice as big.” He bore the forehead tattoo and the blue robe of a confirmed church man — a big robe to cover his wide girth. He also brandished a half-dozen rings fashioned from the rare metals of the galaxy and a Whopol necklace suffused with a glowing silvery light. Manny’s left leg was missing just below the knee, yet he managed to turn even his handicap into a show of wealth: his platinum, jewel-studded prosthetic leg announced his presence wherever he walked.

Three days ago, the ostentatious show of wealth on a man wearing the blue took Quentin by surprise. The ship was full of such men ... businessmen who paid lip service to the tenets of the Church but also bore the trappings of a more powerful religion — commerce.

“I’m just taking in the scenery by myself, if you don’t mind,” Quentin said.

“Don’t mind at all.” Manny stood next to Quentin and looked out the bubble-like view port. “Hell of a sight.”

Quentin shook his head and sighed.

“It’s ironic,” Manny said. “Creterak is somewhat like the Purist Nation — no non-Creterakians are allowed on the planet. All trans-galactic activity is handled on one of the five orbital stations. But while we do it for religious purposes, the Creterakians do it for reasons of defense.”

“Why do they need to worry about that? They rule the whole freakin’ galaxy.”

Manny laughed. “If you add it up, there’s over four hundred million Humans, Ki, Harrah, Sklorno and Leekee who’ll do anything to end that rule. Patriots attack Creterakian garrisons all over the galaxy, every day. Imagine what they’d do if they could actually land on the Creterakian homeworld.”

Quentin noticed Manny used the word “patriots” instead of “terrorists.”

“They think all the other races are too warlike to be trusted. Don’t forget your history, my son. They hid their sentience from the rest of the galaxy for over two centuries. They just sat there and listened to the rest of us killing each other.”

“No offense, Mr. Sayed, but I’ve had my history lessons. I’d like to be by myself now.”

“You’re headed to the Combine, am I right?”

Quentin nodded.

Manny pointed to a bright star off the port side. “That’s it right there.”

Quentin leaned into the window and stared at his future. “What’s it like?”

Manny shrugged. “Looks like any other station, really. Used to be a prison station, where the Creterakians shipped their prisoners of war during the Takeover.”

“That’s just a myth.”

“‘Fraid it’s quite true, my son. From 2643 to 2659, the station that is now the Combine was one of the worst places to be in the entire Galaxy. They kept thousands of prisoners there. Not that many people made it out, and those that did were never the same.”

“Why’s that?”

“Torture, interrogation. The Creterakians wanted to learn everything they could about their new subjects, and they view prisoners of war as property. Creterakians breed in the billions, and they only live for ten or fifteen years, so life and death doesn’t mean the same thing to them as they do to us.”

“Great. So I’m headed to a former prison station that was used to torture and execute millions.”

Manny smiled and reached up to clap Quentin on the shoulder. “Oh come on, my son, you’re on your way to the GFL! Hell, if I made it out alive, a big kid like you will have no problems.”

Quentin looked inquisitively at the fat man. “You were in the Combine?”

Manny’s smile faded and he shook his head. “Not the Combine. You might say I was an original tenant.”

Quentin’s eyes went wide with surprise. He hadn’t met many veterans of the Takeover. The majority of soldiers who served in that short, failed war were long-since dead. Creterakians fought viciously and rarely left their enemies alive.

“Which planet did you fight on?” Quentin asked quietly.

“Allah.” Manny stared out the view port. “The homeworld itself. They only managed to land four ships — our boys in the sky destroyed about four hundred others. We like to remember that we destroyed ninety-nine percent of the infidels, but that last one percent was all they needed. High One knows that was all they were planning for, with their strategy of victory through overwhelming numbers. The Creterakians packed one million soldiers into each landing vessel. Packed them in there like a gas, filling up every nook and cranny. And they came out like a gas, too. An endless cloud of them. We had a half-million soldiers on the ground — so just like that we were outnumbered ten-to-one.”

Manny’s voice trailed off, the memory etching a tired, sad expression on his face.

“What was it like?” Quentin asked. “The fighting, I mean.”

Manny laughed, a dark, hopeless laugh. “Don’t believe what the Holy Men write in the history books. It wasn’t a fight, it was a slaughter. They moved so fast, flying in low, millions of them, so many you could barely make out an individual amongst the masses. You’ve seen the sparrows flocking on Allah?”

Quentin nodded.

“Well, think of that, except they’re so thick they darken the sky, the entire horizon, and each one carries a little entropic rifle. I remember the first wave came flying over the hill, and we let them have it — sonic cannons, laser sweeps, shrapnel dust, you name it. We killed thousands of them, tens of thousands, but the rest just poured over us. I was hit in that first wave ...”

His voice trailed off. Quentin didn’t want to look at Manny’s leg, but he had to, then looked up again.

“The rifle take off your leg?”

Manny smiled, a sad smile with no humor as his eyes looked into some faraway memory.

“No, my son, I did that myself. I was hit in the shin. I don’t know why I didn’t go into shock, like most of my friends did when they were hit. I looked down and my leg was just disintegrating, down towards my foot and up my leg as well. Those entropic rifles, if you don’t get to the wound fast, there’s nothing left of you. I got out my hatchet and just swung it.”

Quentin winced at the thought of such horror.

Manny’s eyes refocused, and he looked at Quentin. “Well, anyway, we beat off that initial attack. My friends, the few that were left alive, managed to stabilize my wound. But the bats came again. There had to be at least 200,000 in that wave. I watched every one of my friends disintegrate within thirty seconds. That’s how fast it was over. Thirty seconds. Did your history books tell you that?”

Quentin shook his head. “The history books tell us the fight went on for days.”

“Right,” Manny said. “Figures. It was over just like that. For some reason the High One spared me, and they just shot everyone around me while I stood there, firing away, killing a few, as they ignored me. The funny thing is when I got back home, all the Holy Men called my survival a miracle. They said the High One was watching over me. I guess there were only a few miracles to go around that — there weren’t any available to all my friends, or the 490,000 men that died that day. When everyone else was gone, the bats surrounded me and told me to surrender or die. Regardless of what I’m told awaits me on the other side, I’m not that partial to dying. They drugged me up and shipped me off to what’s now known as the Combine.”

Quentin waited for more of the story, but Manny said nothing.

“What was it like,” Quentin asked finally. “What did ... what did they do to you?”

Manny shook his head and forced a practiced businessman’s smile. “I don’t talk about that anymore, my son. High One saw fit to see me through. But don’t you worry about it. It’s a different world now. The Creterakians run everything, and they’re very fond of the GFL, so they won’t hurt the players. I know a lot of Nationalites think you’re a race-traitor for leaving, but I hope you do well. Just try not to get killed in the first season. That’s always embarrassing.”

“I’ll do my best.”

A flock of five Creterakians flew onto the observation deck in a sudden blur of motion. Just as quickly, they perched on any available surface. Manny, Quentin, and the three other Humans on the observation deck froze in place, a reaction bred from thousands of stories of Creterakians shooting anyone who moved too fast or in a threatening manner. The five-pound, winged creatures all wore the tiny silver vests that marked them as security forces, and each held a small entropic rifle. Manny started to sweat and the fat on his chin quivered — but he stayed perfectly still.

The Creterakian body consisted of, ironically, a football-shaped trunk, one end of which tapered off into a flat, two-foot-long tail — like the body of a tadpole, but with the tail flat on the horizontal plane instead of the vertical. Their bodies were different shades of red, some a solid color, some with splotchy patterns of pink or purple. Thin, short legs ended in feet with three thin, splayed toes that curled up around anything available. Two pair of foot-long arms reached out from either side of the body. The upper pair were webbed with membranous, patterned wings that ran from the tip of the arm to the base of the tail. The bottom pair looked just like the first, but without the membrane.

The bottom arms held the deadly entropic rifles.

Quentin had always found Creterakian heads rather revolting. Three pairs of eyes lined the round head: a pair looked straight ahead, a pair sat a bit below those and on the outside looking out to the left and right, and a pair that pointed straight down.

“Quentin Barnes,” two of them said in unison, their brassy, high-pitched voices sounding almost as one. The other three simply sat, feet shuffling back-and-forth. “You will come with us.”

Quentin let out a slow breath and tried to calm his heart rate. Not since he’d been a child of eleven had a bat actually spoken to him. There had been a riot at the mines. When the bats came to break it up, they killed fifteen men.

“Good luck, my son,” Manny said as he bowed twice in the respectful manner of the Church. He handed Quentin a small plastic chip. “My card. I’ll be at Emperor One for a week, so if you need anything give me a call. And think about my offer — you’d look very photogenic at the helm of a luxury yacht.”

Quentin slipped the chip into his pocket. “Thanks,” he mumbled, then walked out of the observation deck. The Creterakians whipped into a hovering formation around him, surrounding him like an honor guard.

An honor guard or a prison escort, Quentin thought. I’ve got armed military guards leading me to a former prison station. Great, just great.

Somehow, his introduction to the Galactic Football League wasn’t quite as glamorous as he’d expected.

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.

Excerpt from “A History of the Game: The rise, fall and rise of the GFL,” by Robert Otto

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.

4

THE TEAM

QUENTIN SPENT two days at the Combine, but experienced nothing as arduous as the initial test, or as disturbing as his exam with Doc. League officials continued to test his reflexes, his strength and his endurance. The initial exam created a baseline of his physical capabilities. Subsequent tests further developed that analysis, and were combined with extensive measurements of intelligence, analytical thinking and mental reaction time. Meal trays slid through a slot in his cell walls, three times a day, the same time every day. The best of that food tasted like a bland nothing, the worst like some kind of rancid sawdust. He ate it anyway. Quentin wondered if the food would be like this on the Krakens’ team bus — the thought made him shudder. He wanted some good old-fashioned Nationalite cooking.

After his last test, a holographic video game that had him slapping colored balls in a pre-described pattern as fast as his hands could move, Quentin returned to his cell to find new clothes laid out on his metal bunk. Loose fitting sweat pants and a sweatshirt, new Nike football shoes and socks, all in the orange-and-black colors of the Ionath Krakens. A orange-and-black bag sat next to the clothes, containing a second set of sweats and the clothes he wore when he arrived at the Combine. The last item, the one that really caught his attention, was an Ionath Krakens jersey.

A jet-black jersey, it had an orange “10” with white trim on the front and the back. He was glad to see he’d keep his old number from the Raiders. Orange, black and white Krakens logo patches were sewn onto each shoulder. A “Kraken” was a huge oceanic predator native to Quyth, the Concordia’s capitol planet. As long as two-hundred feet, with a twenty-foot-wide tail and six tentacles that ended in sharp, jagged hooks, the Kraken was a vicious hunter. Quentin thought it a fitting nickname for a football team, much better than, say, the scientific-based names of League of Planets teams like the Wilson 6 Physicists or the Satirli 6 Explorers.

This is it. I’m on my way. I’ll be on every holotank in the freakin’ galaxy. My parents will find me for sure.

A buzz sounded from the speakers, followed by the computer voice.

[ATTENTION PROSPECTS. GARB YOURSELVES IN THE CLOTHES PROVIDED, AND WHEN YOUR DOOR OPENS CARRY YOUR BAG AND TAKE ONE STEP OUTSIDE. YOU WILL BE GUIDED TO YOUR TEAM REPRESENTATIVE AND TAKEN TO TRAINING CAMP]

Quentin quickly removed the sweat-stained yellow body suit and stepped onto the mesh circle. A nearly invisible cloud of tiny machines flew up from the mesh like a hazy fog. He moved slowly, raising his arms, lifting his feet, letting the nannites reach his every nook and cranny. The tiny, tingling machines scoured his skin, gobbling up every piece of dirt and dust, scrubbing away sweat and grime. While effective, the nannites did not offer the pleasure of a steaming water shower.

In less than a minute, the cloud disappeared, fading back into the metal mesh. Quentin couldn’t contain his excitement as he put on his new team clothes. Tier Two or not, he felt a surge of pride as he slipped on the orange and black. This was his team now, the team he would lead to victory.

The door to his cell hissed open. Quentin hurriedly pulled the sweatshirt on over his jersey, grabbed the bag, and stepped outside. Up and down the hall stood smiling young men with similar clothes, but all in different colors — Alonzo in the red and blue of the Earthlings, Olaf in the grey-on-black stripes of the Klipthik Parasites, a player in the cherry-red dots of the Satah Air-Warriors, and another in the multi-shaded purple of the Sky Demolition, a team in the Quyth Irradiated Conference along with the Krakens. There were far fewer players than Quentin had seen the first day. By his rough estimate, around thirty percent of them were gone. He wondered what fate awaited those men — either an ignoble ride home for a trivial offense, surgery and prison for any removable mods, or possibly they had already been executed.

Boss One fluttered through the hall. “You have all passed the Combine. You will now join your team representative. Be aware that other species may be joining you at this point. It is a crime under Creterakian law to use racial insults against other species, and that species-based crimes such as assault result in far harsher penalties than the same crime against a member of your own species. Intolerance of other species is not allowed under Creterakian law.”

Boss One fluttered to his perch.

The voice once again came over the loud speaker. [TEXAS EARTHLING PROSPECTS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

A blue line glowed on the floor. Alonzo and a lanky black-skinned man, probably a quarterback, walked down the hall.

Alonzo waved. “Good luck, Quentin. I hope I see you in the playoffs.”

[SHORAH CHIEFTAIN PROSPECTS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

Three men wearing green dots on black walked to the end of the hall. All three were obviously quarterbacks, and Quentin knew two of them would probably open their lockers in a week to find a ticket home — only one would make the cut.

[IONATH KRAKENS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

Quentin stepped out. For a second, he thought he was the only one in orange and black, but another man fell in line behind him. Quentin hadn’t seen him during the combine nor did he recognize the face. The man wore number 26.

Quentin followed the blue line, his new teammate right behind him. Two hallways later, an airlock hissed open and he found himself on a empty deck in the landing bay. The deck had four doors — the eight-foot high one that Quentin had just walked through, another just like it, a narrower one twelve feet high, and one ten feet high and eight feet wide.

The view port showed that the deck’s sealed airlock connected to a hundred-foot-long shuttle, an older model but neatly trimmed out in orange and black. Five Creterakian guards waited there, flittering about, first in the air, then hopping on the floor, then hanging from the ceiling, never staying still.

“I am Boss Seven,” the lead Creterakian said. “Line up on the blue line.” At his command, a blue line appeared on the deck, perpendicular to the airlock. Quentin did as he was told. He turned to number 26, his new teammate, a burly, thick-chested man with legs the size of sonic cannons. He had dark, yellowish skin and a curly beard that hung to his chest.

“Quentin Barnes,” Quentin said, offering his hand.

“Yassoud Murphy,” the man said, shaking Quentin’s hand. Quentin finally recognized the man’s face — Yassoud had broken the Tier Three rushing record in the Sklorno league and led his team to the championship of the Tier Three tournament.

“Glad to have you aboard,” Quentin said. “I saw highlights of your performance in the finals.”

Yassoud nodded. “Yeah, thanks. That was a pretty good game. I cleaned up on the point spread on that one.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You bet on your own game?”

“Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “Everyone bets in the Sklorno leagues. What, you never bet on your own game?”

“Not on your life.”

“Well, you should,” Yassoud said. “There’s money to be made if you know the odds. There’s bets for everything in the GFL, man. Take me for example, did you know the odds of me making it through the season without serious injury are three-to-five?”

“That’s not very good.”

“Not very good? Are you crazy? Three-to-five is great for a rookie. I’m only here because the Krakens third running back caught Fenkel Fever from some girl on Earth. He’s out for the season. That means I’m third string, so I won’t see a whole lot of action playing behind Mitchell Fayed and Paul Pierson. But then again, you know how frequently running backs get hurt in this league. Everyone except Fayed, anyway — that guy can take more hits than a battle cruiser. They don’t call him ‘The Machine’ for nothing.”

“What are my odds to start, about even?”

Yassoud laughed. “Start? Hardly. Odds are three-to-one that you don’t even make it through the season before they ship you back to the Purist Nation.”

Quentin felt anger instantly overtake him. “That’s bull.”

“Nope,” Yassoud said. “It’s not. Three-to-one.”

“Why the hell is that?”

“You’re a Nationalite,” Yassoud said. “You’ve probably never met other species face to face, let alone played with them. Did you know that only twenty percent of Purist Nation rookies make it through their first season?”

Quentin shook his head. He’d had no idea his people held such a dismal success rate.

Yassoud continued. “It’s true. You backwater jokers usually can’t handle the inter-species dynamics. Hell, I’ve got a thousand on you dropping out before the season is half over.”

Quentin paused a moment, trying to control his anger. “Then you made a big mistake.”

Yassoud shrugged. “We’ll see. You win some, you lose some.”

Quentin started to speak when the twelve-foot-high airlock door hissed open. Two Sklorno stepped onto the deck. Quentin had seen them on the net before, but never in person. They were tall, probably nine feet apiece — twelve long feet, if you counted the tail that extended past their legs. Translucent chitin covered black skeletons and ghostly images of semi-translucent internal organs. They reminded Quentin of full-body Human X-rays he’d seen in his childhood schoolbooks. Coarse black fur jutted out at every joint.

Their legs practically screamed speed and leaping. Translucent two-foot segments, folded back like a grasshopper’s legs, ended in a thick pad of a foot with five long, splayed toes.

The legs supported a slender body-stalk that curved backwards like a bow. Two long arms — coils of translucent, boneless muscle three feet long — jutted out from three-quarters of the way up the trunk, in the approximate position where a Human female’s breasts would be. Each Sklorno wore a orange-and-black jersey, with the numbers “81” and “82,” respectively, on the trunks below their coiled arms.

Even though he’d seen Sklorno heads a few times on the Web, they still took some getting used to. Two curled raspers hung at the top of the body-stalk, just below the head, partially covered by a chitinous chin-plate. When unrolled, the raspers reached to the floor. Hundreds of tiny teeth coated each rasper — they could tear through most anything. Back in the Wartimes, stories abounded that the Sklorno ate their enemies. Humans were supposed to be a particular favorite.

The head itself was nothing more than a softball-sized block of oily, coarse black hairs. Sklorno heads didn’t require a lot of volume, as the brain was located in a long column on the back of the trunk. Four boneless eyestalks, each a pebbly, deep magenta, jutted from the furry black ball. The eyestalks moved independently, like intelligent snakes on the head of the mythical Medusa.

Boss Seven shouted something in the high-pitched click-and-squeal Sklorno language. The Sklorno walked up to the blue line, eyestalks waving as they examined every angle of the flight deck. Quentin fought down a wave of revulsion. He felt grateful the two wore jerseys — otherwise, there was no way to tell them apart.

Number 81 stood on Quentin’s right side, and Number 82 stood to the right of Number 81. Number 81’s raspers rolled out, wet with saliva. A thin strand of drool dangled from the left rasper, wetly swinging down the eight feet to the floor.

“You are Quentin Barnes?” Its voice sounded like a combination of bird whistles, but Quentin had no problem understanding the words. He nodded in acknowledgement. It lowered itself; rear legs folding up like a grasshopper’s. In that position, it stood just under six feet tall, and actually looked up at Quentin.

“I am Denver,” the Sklorno said. It used its tentacle-arm to point at the other. “This is Milford.” Another string of drool dripped down from Denver’s left rasper. Quentin fought the urge to turn away.

“You are great thrower,” Milford said. “The Sklorno people watch you on the net. I am looking forward to catching many passes thrown by you.”

“No, I am looking forward to catching many passes thrown by you,” Denver said. “I will catch majority of passes.”

Milford turned suddenly and stood tall, extending to a full nine feet. “No! I will catch majority of his passes!”

Denver also stood, eyestalks waving wildly, tentacle-arms whirling in a threatening pattern. “No! You will be on the sidelines watching me catch passes!”

Milford’s body began to shake, sending streamers of drool flying across the flight deck. The boneless arms stretched back, as if to strike at Denver, then suddenly five Creterakians brandishing entropic rifles flew between the two Sklorno.

“Cease hostilities!” Boss Seven said loudly. “Cease or you will be deported before you can report to your team.”

As quickly as the flare-up started, it ceased. Denver and Milford sat down on their tails. They twitched and moved and squeaked, just a little, as if neither was capable of sitting perfectly still or remain perfectly quiet. Their ever-moving eyestalks flittered in all directions.

“You must be one sexy guy,” Yassoud said quietly. “The girls are fighting over you.”

“Girls? They’re females?”

Yassoud rolled his eyes. “Don’t they teach you backwater Purist idiots anything? You never took basic multi-species biology?”

Another nursery rhyme jumped into his brain.

The crickets have eyes on top of their head

Grab them and pull them they’ll soon be dead.

With Satan’s soldiers don’t ever be kind

They can’t see to sin if they are made blind.

Quentin shrugged. “I know how to kill them. That’s all the biology the Nation is concerned with.”

Yassoud laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. Sklorno females are the athletes, the soldiers. The males are these little two-foot-high things, kind of like a furry black ball.”

Quentin’s face wrinkled in surprise, remembering broadcasts showing the small creatures that seemed to throng around the tall Sklorno he now knew to be females. “Those things? There’s hordes of those. Those are the males? I thought those were pets.”

Yassoud shook his head. “Ah, the wonderful education system of the Purist Nation.”

Quentin again felt very stupid and hickish. The feeling made him want to hit someone. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve heard the word Denver. Isn’t that a city on Earth?”

“Yeah. The Sklorno are football crazy. Once they start playing the game, they take the name of an Earth city or region because Earth was the birthplace of football.”

“I didn’t know Sklorno could speak English.”

“English is the language of football,” Yassoud said. “You either understand it or you won’t get to this level. The Sklorno players spend several hours a day working on it, but it’s very difficult for them. Quyth have no problem, of course, and the Ki can understand it well enough even though they can’t speak it for crap.”

The ten-foot by eight-foot door hissed open, and a nightmare crawled out.

Like the Sklorno, Quentin had seen Ki only on the net. Ki were often cast in Purist Nation movies as bloodthirsty monsters, or tricksters out to collect Human souls. With movie-making technology that could make any imagined creature as real as a Human, however, everything on the net took on a sense of fantasy. This Ki looked like the movie creatures, but a holocast simply didn’t do the species justice.

Its twelve-foot-long, tube-shaped body bent upwards in the middle, giving it a six-foot long horizontal piece and a six-foot-high vertical piece. Bright orange skin covered with small dots of reddish-brown enamel covered the body. Six legs stuck out from the sides of the horizontal segment, each leg thick and just over four feet long. Two more limbs protruded from each side of the vertical body — these were shorter but thicker, with muscle rippling under the pebbled skin. Each upper-body limb ended in four stubby fingers.

Five glossy black eyespots surrounded the vertical body’s tapered point. Ki were well known for their 360-degree vision. At the very top of the tapered point was the vocal spout, a small cluster of wormlike tubes. Between the top sets of vertical arms was the thing that gave Quentin nightmares as a child — the Ki “mouth.” The mouth consisted of six short, thick, sharp black hooks in a hexagonal pattern. Inside the hex was a pinkish hole lined with row after row of triangular black teeth. He’d seen many movies where the upper arms would drag Human prey to the mouth. The hexagonal hooks dug into the screaming victim, pulling it tight, while the triangular teeth ripped out chunk after chunk after chuck — bite, swallow, bite, swallow.

What do I do if a Ki should attack?

I get behind him with my foot in his back

I bend him hard, his back gives a crack

Because the High One loves me, and I love him back

The Ki’s orange and black, four-sleeved jersey ran from the bottom of the vertical body to just under the horrific mouth. There was just enough room for a small number “93” on the chest.

Quentin shuddered as he pictured the creature tearing through an offensive line, multi-jointed arms wrapping him up and taking him down. This Ki had to weigh at least 580 pounds. The smell of rotting meat filled Quentin’s nose. His face wrinkled in disgust, and he waved his hand to clear away the odor.

“What is that stench?”

Yassoud laughed. “Better get used to it, that’s how Ki smell.”

Boss Seven barked out a command. The Ki language sounded hoarse, gravelly, guttural, and Quentin didn’t understand a word of it. The hulking Ki scuttled towards the blue line, its horizontal legs moving like a cross between an insect’s and an the oars of an old Greek warship.

Yassoud nudged Quentin. “That’s Mum-O-Killowe. He played in the Sklorno leagues. Had twenty-six sacks in a twelve-game season, another five in the playoffs.”

“You played against him?”

Yassoud nodded. “Yeah. You can’t imagine how hard that thing hits. And he has no concept of the difference between practice and a game, so don’t get on his bad side.”

Mum-O-Killowe stopped four feet from the blue line. He pointed his upper right arm straight at Quentin. The tubes of the vocal spout quivered as the nightmarish creature let out a long, barking sound. It then reared back and started lunging forward. Quentin had already taken two steps back before the Creterakian guards flew in front of Mum-O-Killowe, their entropic rifles aimed directly at his eyespots. The Ki stopped, turned his long body, and got on the blue line to the right of Milford.

“Too bad,” Yassoud said. “Looks like you’re already on his bad side.”

“Did you understand what he said?”

“Some of it. It seems your fame precedes you. He said something to the effect that he saw your championship game, and he prayed to the Ki gods that you were on another Tier Two team so he could cripple you.”

“Cripple me?”

“The Ki consider it a high point of honor to knock someone out of the game — maiming, dismembering and death are all acceptable methods. Now that you’re on the same team, and he’ll see you every day in practice, he figures he’ll cripple you for sure.”

“Oh this is just great.”

Yassoud laughed. “You know, if you want to put some money down that you won’t make it through training camp, I can put you in touch with my bookie.”

“Screw you.”

“Hey, I’m just saying you might as well come out of this with some money, if only to pay your prolonged hospital bills.”

Quentin turned and raised his fist, but Yassoud raised his hands, palms out in a defensive posture. His eyebrows rose high in mock surprise. “Hey now! Take it easy,” he said. “I’m just riding you — and if you throw that punch, you’re on the next ship back to the Purist Nation.”

Quentin lowered the fist and stared straight out from the blue line. “Just keep talking,” he said quietly. “You’ll get yours soon enough.”

The main airlock door, the one connected to the orange and black shuttle, hissed open. A pair of furry Quyth Leaders scurried out, one with jet-black fur that glistened under the landing deck lights, the other with unkempt yellow fur mottled with irregular brown stripes.

Two dangerous looking Quyth Warriors followed the Leaders, one about 300 pounds, the other a good-sized 375. Their carapaces were both painted in the wild reds and oranges of Quyth commandos, and each carried a five-foot long stun-stick. Quentin had read about Quyth Warriors in his history classes. They were one of the deadliest creatures in the galaxy: fast, strong and vicious. One-on-one, they were no match for trained Purist Nation soldiers, of course. At least that’s what the history books said. Standing this close to one, Quentin suddenly found himself wondering if his history books were more than a little bit colored by Holy Men’s propaganda.

The big warrior, Quentin was surprised to see, wore a Krakens jersey with the number 58 on the chest.

A Creterakian dressed in a blue vest inlaid with tiny, tinkling silver bells flew out of the airlock, did a pair of 360-degree circles, then fluttered in front of Mum-O-Killowe. The Creterakian barked something out in the Ki language, the Ki answered, and the Creterakian settled down on top of the bigger creature’s head.

Quentin leaned over to Yassoud. “What the heck was that all about?”

“Most Ki can’t speak Human or Quyth,” Yassoud said. “Creterakians can speak all languages, so they frequently act as interpreters.”

“Why is it dressed like that?” Quentin asked. “Is that some kind of an interpreter’s uniform?”

Yassoud chuckled softly. “He’s a civilian.”

“A ... civilian? You mean it’s not in the military?”

“Let me guess, the Holy Men taught you that all Creterakians are mindless soldiers bent on exterminating all the other races?”

His hickish feeling cranked up another notch. “Well ... yeah, that’s about right.”

Yassoud shook his head. “It’s amazing that such a backwater place can even function. Creterakians are just like everybody else, they’ve got a mostly civilian population along with the military.”

“Well I’ll be.”

“Just don’t trust them,” Yassoud said. “All the Creterakians that deal with Tier Two and Tier One are con men, or so I’m told.”

Quentin started to ask another question, but fell silent when the black furred Quyth Leader stepped forward.

“I am Gredok the Splithead. You are all now my property. You are rookies, you are nothing of importance. I own your contracts for this season, and have the final say on if you make the team or not.” He gestured to the yellow-furred Leader. “This is Hokor the Hookchest, coach of the Ionath Krakens. You will follow his instructions to the letter.”

Hokor stepped forward, his antennae plastered back flat against his skull.

“Training camp begins immediately. This shuttle will take you to the Touchback, our team bus, which is your home as long as you are with the Krakens. You will stow your gear, then report to position meetings where you will be given your study assignments. Once you have been shown how to operate the Kriegs-Ballok Virtual Practice System, you will report to the field for practice.”

Mum-O-Killowe barked out something unintelligible.

Want to learn more about the basics of American football? Hear the author give you info that will add to your enjoyment of The Rookie, at http://www.scottsigler.com/football.

“Shizzle, what does he want?” Hokor asked the blue-suited Creterakian.

Shizzle swooped down, his silver bells tinkling in time with each flap. “The great Mum-O-Killowe wants to know when he can begin to hit the Human Quentin Barnes.”

Quentin’s eyes widened with surprise. This giant Ki wanted to tear his head off.

“Tell him to shut up,” Hokor said. “And tell him he’ll only be told once.”

Shizzle relayed the command, then Mum-O-Killowe turned and strode towards Quentin, roaring sounds that rang obscene despite the language barrier.

Quentin turned to face him and crouched, mind instantly switching to game mode, looking for the best place to hit the 580-pound, 6-legged, 4-armed nightmare. The nursery rhyme said to go for its back, but he didn’t see a way around the long, muscular arms.

Quentin barely saw movement before the two Quyth Warriors were on Mum-O-Killowe. They both jabbed him with their staffs, resulting in a loud crackling sound and flickers of blue-white light. Mum-O-Killowe roared in pain. He turned and grabbed for the Quyth Warrior wearing the Krakens’ jersey, but the smaller creature danced back, effortlessly avoiding the wild grab, then jabbed the stun-stick into Mum-O-Killowe’s chest. Mum-O-Killowe sagged, then fell to the ground, a twelve-foot-long motionless blob.

The rookies stood in silence. The smell of ozone filled Quentin’s nostrils. The Quyth Warriors each grabbed one of Mum-O-Killowe arms and labored to drag him into the shuttle.

“Normally, we’d kick him off the team,” Hokor said, “but we’re short on defensive linemen and the season is only a week away. We’re not, however, short on wide receivers, running backs, or quarterbacks.”

Hokor walked down the blue line until he stood in front of Quentin. “Kneel down, Human, I want to look you in the eye.”

Quentin quickly looked at Yassoud, who nodded nervously. Quentin got on one knee, and still had to lean down to look straight into Hokor’s one big eye. He’d never seen a Quyth Leader — or any other alien, for that matter — this close up. Hokor’s eye wasn’t really clear, but a translucent light blue, filled with hundreds of green discs in a tight geometrical pattern. His fur was thick, each strand much thicker than a Human hair. The most disturbing physical aspect was the pedipalps, quivering things on either side of the mouth, as coordinated and well-developed as a Human arm. Quentin kept his cool, but it surprised him to feel the grip of a lifetime of Purist Nation teachings. Most of his people would be screaming right now, either with pure terror or righteous, murderous rage. He mostly viewed those people with contempt, so it shocked Quentin that he felt both emotions stirring up from somewhere so deep in his subconscious he hadn’t even known they existed.

But Quentin was on a mission. And his pure, unstoppable desire to play football at the highest levels ran far stronger than programmed ideology.

“As soon as practice starts, nobody is going to be there to stop him,” Hokor said. “You had better be ready to complete the offensive play when three of those things are coming at you, hoping to maim you, or if they get in a good shot just kill you outright.”

Quentin smiled. “Just give me the ball, Coach.”

Hokor’s antennae quivered once, then fell flat. “We’ll see, rookie.” He walked to the airlock door. “Krakens rookies, come aboard.”

Transcript from “the Galaxy’s Greatest Damn Sports Show with Dan & Akbar & Tarat the Smasher.”

DAN: Welcome back, sports fans, Dan Gianni here with Akbar Smith and our own football-legend-in-residence, Tarat the Smasher.

TARAT: Thanks, Dan.

DAN: So what are we going to talk about today?

AKBAR: As if there’s any question.

DAN: Baseball season is almost over, and to tell you the truth, with four player strikes in the past ten seasons, I really don’t think anyone gives a damn. It’s so boring!

AKBAR: I still like baseball.

DAN: Like I said, no one gives a damn. Intergalactic Soccer Association season is coming up, but that’s a little boring as well.

TARAT: Good sport, but the Sklorno have completely taken it over.

AKBAR: There are 1,012 players in that league, and all of them are Sklorno.

DAN: You can’t fight speed, not in soccer. But we all know one sport that caters to all species, and that’s only one week away.

TARAT: Nothing like finishing up Tier One football and rolling right into Tier Two.

DAN: That’s right, sports fans, we’re talking Tier Two football. The Jupiter Jacks captured the Tier One crown last week, with a thrilling 21-20 Galaxy Bowl win over the To Pirates. Don’t the rookies arrive in camp today?

AKBAR: That’s right, Dan. You know how I hate this system — the rookies only have one week in camp before the first game.

TARAT: But there is no way around that.

DAN: I know there’s no way around it, but it still sucks. I mean, some of these guys were playing in championship games only a few days ago!

TARAT: Trust me, not one of them is complaining.

DAN: Sure, no argument there, but take Quentin Barnes, for example, the quarterback of the Micovi Raiders of the PNFL. I mean he played the PNFL championship only a week ago, and in seven days he’ll line up for his first Tier Two game with the Ionath Krakens. That’s crazy!

AKBAR: What makes you think he’ll play a down? He’ll ride the bench for the first half of the season like most of the rookies.

DAN: You think? The Krakens have to get someone at quarterback who can win games.

AKBAR: Were you dropped on your head repeatedly as a child? Have you ever heard of the Krakens’ quarterback, some guy named Donald Pine?

DAN: He’s all washed up. He can’t win the big games.

AKBAR: He won two Galaxy Bowls!

DAN: Ancient history. He has choked in every big game in the past two seasons for the Krakens.

AKBAR: And you think some rookie is the answer?

DAN: Probably not, we all know quarterbacks from the Purist Nation don’t last. But Barnes probably doesn’t have to do much to be better than Donald Pine is right now.

AKBAR: You’ve got to be kidding me.

DAN: Look at the games, will ya? Last year the Krakens went 6-3 and missed the playoffs with a week-nine loss to Orbiting Death. Pine throws four interceptions. He gets pulled, and the number-two quarterback, Tre Peterson, dies four plays later. Pine goes back in and throws another interception.

AKBAR: Okay so that’s one game.

DAN: What about two seasons ago? Krakens kill eventual league champ Sala Intrigue 48-24. But they drop four games to teams with a combined record of 13-23. All of those games were upsets — Pine couldn’t win the games he’s supposed to win.

AKBAR: He’s not the only guy on the field, Dan.

DAN: Of course not. But look at Pine’s record since he won that last Galaxy Bowl back in 2676. You know how this game works — the blame falls on the quarterback. If it wasn’t for Mitchell Fayed, the Krakens would be nothing.

TARAT: I played against Fayed before I retired. That is the toughest Human I’ve ever seen. You hit him and hit him, and he just gets up and smiles.

DAN: That’s why they call him The Machine. Number forty-seven just keeps on running.

AKBAR: Can we get back on the subject of Donald Pine?

DAN: Look, Pine’s still a great quarterback, but in some games he just flat-out chokes.

AKBAR: So again, you’re going on record saying Quentin Barnes is the answer?

DAN: I didn’t say that. He’s a rookie. And a Purist Nation rookie at that. He’s never been hit by a Ki lineman, and never faced a blitz from a Quyth Warrior. If he lasts one season I’ll be surprised. Pine will start, as usual, Pine will lose the big games, as usual, and the Krakens will flail about in the middle of the pack, as usual.

• • •

THE SHUTTLE DISENGAGED from the airlock and shot away from the Combine. It felt cramped inside the small vehicle, which probably would have seated twelve Humans comfortably. The prone form of Mum-O-Killowe took up half the floor. The rest of the rookies took whatever seats they could find.

Within minutes, they approached the Touchback. It was only half the size of the starliner that had brought him from Micovi, yet much larger than Quentin had thought it would be. Perhaps an eighth of a mile long, over half the ship consisted of a clear dome covering a full-sized practice field, 100 yards long with 10-yard end zones, one painted orange, one painted black. Eighteen decks rose up all around the field, as if engineers had scooped out a large section of ship, put down the field, then sealed everything off with the clear dome. It seemed that from every deck, one would be only a short walk from a view of the practice field.

A large engine assembly sat behind the black end zone. The passenger decks, bridge and other ship constructs were on the opposite side, behind the orange end zone. Instead of the sleek, eye-pleasing lines of a passenger liner, the Touchback bore the blocky profile of a distinctly military vehicle. As the shuttle drew closer, Quentin recognized the tell-tale mounted spheres of weapon assemblies.

“High One ... Are those gun mounts?”

Yassoud nodded. “Looks like a converted frigate. Couldn’t tell you what kind, though — I’ve never actually seen a warship, except in the movies.”

The sudden sound of rapidly tinkling bells accompanied by the heavy fluttering of wings erupted near their heads. Quentin instinctively ducked down to one knee, while Yassoud simply turned. Shizzle hovered, resplendent in his blue and silver suit.

“The Touchback is a converted Planetary Union Achmed-Class heavy-weapons platform,” the flying creature said in a tone as smooth as the voice-over for an intoxicant commercial. “Formerly known as the Baghavad-Rodina, a component of the famed Blue Fleet. Taken by Creterakian boarding parties in the battles of 2640. Temporarily used as a patrol craft. Mothballed in 2644. Purchased by Gredok the Splithead in 2665 under special license from the Creterakian Empire when he acquired the Ionath Krakens franchise.”

Quentin stood, feeling foolish for having ducked like a frightened child. The two Quyth Warriors stared at him, stock-still save for their pedipalps, which quivered in a sickening fashion. The two Sklornos, Denver and Milford, also stared at him, but seemed emotionless. He looked at Hokor and Gredok — he didn’t know much about Quyth Leaders, but he felt quite sure they were laughing at him.

“What’s the matter, Human?” Gredok asked, his pedipalps quivering. “Haven’t spent much time around Creterakians?”

Quentin felt his face flushing red. The Quyth Warriors weren’t moving, but their pedipalps quivered just like the Leaders’ — they were all laughing at him.

“Don’t sweat it,” Yassoud. “You get used to it. The Creterakian civilians love the game, you’ll see them all the time.”

“I am not used to beings being frightened of me,” Swizzle said. “Especially one that’s thirty times my mass.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Quentin said quickly. “You just startled me, that’s all.” He felt eager to change the subject. “I thought weapons were illegal on anything but System Police vessels and Creterakian military ships.”

Gredok stood and walked over, emanating confidence and control despite the fact that Quentin towered over him. “I don’t know what kind of news they show you in the ‘Nation, but piracy is still a major problem. The SP forces have cut it down quite a bit since they were implemented in ‘54, but it’s still out there. Since the league started in ‘59, five team busses have been destroyed by pirates — that’s an entire franchise, players, coaching staff, everything, instantly wiped out. Wreaks havoc on a league schedule. So GFL ships are allowed limited defensive weaponry. Nothing that would be a match for a Creterakian frigate, mind you, but it’s usually enough to fend off pirates.

The Touchback loomed large outside the view port. The shuttle banked sharply — Quentin and Yassoud each had to place a hand on the bulkhead to keep their balance. Quentin noticed that the Quyths, both Leaders and Warriors alike, instantly adjusted their weight and barely seemed to notice the sharp bank.

The shuttle slowed and docked. Quentin’s ears popped as the airlock hissed open. Gredok and Hokor led the rookies out, followed by the Warriors who dragged the still-unconscious Mum-O-Killowe by his front arms.

The airlock opened into an expansive landing bay covered by a fifty-foot high domed ceiling. The place looked fairly empty save for orderly rows of equipment and stacked metal crates. A handful of Humans, Sklorno, Ki, Quyth Leaders and Quyth Warriors walked forward to greet the rookies. A babble of strange languages filled the landing bay.

A huge, glowing hologram hung in the middle of the bay. It read: THE IONATH KRAKENS ARE ON A COLLISION COURSE WITH A TIER ONE BERTH. THE ONLY VARIABLE IS TIME.

A tall man eased out of the crowd and walked up to Quentin.

“Praise the High One for blessing your journey,” the man said in a traditional Purist greeting. “Welcome. I’m Rick Warburg, tight end.”

Warburg extended his hand, and Quentin shook it. He hadn’t expected to feel homesick, but he did, just a little, and he was surprised to feel relief at the sight of one of his countrymen. Warburg was tall, an even seven feet, and looked to weigh around 365 pounds. He had curly, deep black hair, light brown skin and the infinity forehead tattoo of a confirmed church member.

“Quentin Barnes, praise to the High One for bringing us together,” Quentin said in the traditional answer to Warburg’s welcome.

Warburg was nothing short of a national hero to the Purist Nation. He was one of twenty-nine Purist players among the top two Tiers, and all of them were quite famous within Nation space. When Quentin had been a child, twenty-odd Purist Nation players in the League sounded like a lot. Other than reporting scores, the only feature stories and highlights broadcast over the government network concerned Nation players, so Quentin had thought his Purist Nation heroes ruled the GFL. The truth, however, was that with 76 teams, each with a roster of 44, there were 3,344 players in the League. That meant that Purist Nation players took up less than one percent of league roster spots.

“It’s so good to see a Nationalite here,” Warburg said with a warm grin. “These sub-races can challenge the will of any man.”

“Uh-oh, there we go again with the sub-races chat.” A smiling, 6-foot-6 blue-skinned Human pushed through the crowd and extended his hand to Quentin. Despite the Nation’s limited GFL coverage, Quentin had no problem recognizing the man — Donald Pine, quarterback for the GFL Champion Jupiter Jacks in ‘75 and ‘76. Quentin found himself caught between a burst of hero worship and a sense of revulsion at touching blue skin. But that wasn’t who he was anymore — he shook Pine’s hand.

Pine smiled, his teeth a sharply white contrast against his blue skin and darker blue lips. “Warburg, you’ve always got such a friendly outlook on things.”

“The truth should never be blurred over, eh Pine?” Warburg said. He was also smiling, but there was nothing happy about it. “You were born this way, you know I don’t hold it against you.”

Pine laughed. “Well, let’s just hope that Quentin doesn’t hold it against me, either. I see he’s not wearing forehead makeup, so maybe he doesn’t think quite like you, eh?”

Warburg’s smile disappeared. “I’ve told you before, blue-boy, it’s not makeup, it’s a holy mark.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Pine said. “Yeah, you did tell me that. So sorry your Holy Holiness.”

Warburg nodded, his features melting into a dark, dangerous scowl. “One of these days, blue-boy, you won’t be the starter anymore.” Warburg tilted his head to indicate Quentin. “And that’s going to happen sooner than you think. And when it does, you and I are going to settle up. Quentin, I’ll see you at dinner.”

Warburg walked away.

“Charming fellow,” Pine said. “Not entirely indicative of all the Nationalites I’ve met, but not far from it, either.”

“He’s confirmed,” Quentin said, not sure if Pine’s comments were a slam on Warburg or on all Nationalites. “Confirmed Church members are rather set in their ways.”

Donald Pine nodded. “And I see you’re not confirmed. Does that mean you’ve got that ever-so-rare Purist Nation resource known as an open mind?”

Quentin shrugged. “I’m set in my ways, too. They might not be the same ways as Warburg.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Pine said with a smile. “It’s my duty to show you around the ship and get you ready for practice, give you any help you might need.”

As a teenager, Quentin had idolized Pine, watching pirated broadcasts of the Jupiter Jacks’ games, marveling in the man’s effortless skill. All Pine needed was enough time and he could dissect any secondary. But that was in the mid-70’s — recently, Pine’s star had fallen and fallen fast. After three straight losing seasons, the Jacks traded Pine to the Bord Brigands in 2680. He lasted only one season there, before the Krakens picked him up, hoping he would lead them back to Tier One. The Krakens were still hoping. Considering they had picked up a certain Quentin Barnes, that hope no longer seemed to hinge solely on Donald Pine.

“I don’t need any help,” Quentin said coldly. “I’ve learned to figure things out for myself.”

Pine’s smile faded, just a little, then returned as he shrugged. He waved another man over. “Suit yourself. Let me introduce you to another Krakens’ QB, Yitzhak Goldman.”

Yitzhak stepped forward and shook Quentin’s hand. At 6-foot-4, he was very short for a quarterback. He had the bleach-white skin of a Tower Republic native of the planet Fortress, along with equally white hair and eyebrows. The only things of any color were his deep black eyes. The irises were just as black as the pupils, giving the man an eerie, haunting stare.

“Welcome aboard,” Yitzhak said.

Quentin simply nodded. He’d seen Yitzhak play last year when Pine was out two weeks for knee replacement. Quentin had been less than impressed.

Through the flurry of meet-and-greet, a strange creature crawled forward. Quentin couldn’t help but take a step back — he’d never seen the like before. It resembled a Quyth Leader, or Warrior, or at four feet tall maybe something in-between. It had only one eye, which was much smaller than a Leader’s or a Warrior’s. The creature’s pedipalps were long, almost three feet long, and so thick they seemed like Human arms. It smelled like onions.

The creature reached out with one of the pedipalps and gently tried to take Quentin’s bag. Quentin turned his shoulder, pulling the bag slightly away. The demonic-looking creature made his skin crawl, but he concentrated on staying his ground, dead-set against repeating the embarrassment he’d felt when he hit the deck at the sound of Swizzle’s flapping wings.

“What’s the matter?” Pine asked. “Pilkie here will take your bag for you.”

“Pilkie?” Quentin said, never taking his eyes of the creature.

“It’s okay, Quentin,” Yitzhak said. “You look tense.”

Quentin looked at Yitzhak, then at Pine, then lifted the bag-strap off his shoulder and set it down on the deck. Without a sound, Pilkie grabbed the bag and walked towards a door at the edge of the landing bay.

Pine laughed. “You okay, boy? You act like you’ve never seen a Quyth Worker before.”

Quentin shrugged. “I haven’t.”

Pine and Yitzhak laughed, then stopped when they realized that Quentin wasn’t kidding.

“Sorry about that, Quentin,” Pine said, clapping Quentin on the shoulder. “I forgot you’re fresh off the Purist Nation. Come on, we’ve got a position meeting in twenty minutes. Hokor handles the quarterback meetings, and trust me, you do not want to be late.”

“So are there any other kinds of Quyth?” Quentin asked. “I’m getting kind of tired of surprises.”

“Just the females,” Yitzhak said. “But there’s none of those onboard. Females are sacred in Quyth culture. No non-Quyth are even supposed to lay eyes on them. Females never leave their home planets.”

“Can we see the field?” Quentin asked.

Pine nodded. “Right this way, kid.”

A central tunnel, large enough for heavy equipment, ran from the flight deck all the way to the other end of the ship. The tunnel, with its arched ceiling and curved walls, acted like a main highway — every thirty feet or so, smaller tunnels branched off at right angles, leading into the ship’s numerous sections. Quentin followed Pine straight down the main tunnel, until it opened up into the huge space that was the Krakens’ practice field.

The clear dome revealed the black expanse of space. Thousands of bright sparks glittered; the stars of the Milky Way Galaxy. Ten yards or so past the end zones and sidelines, the ship’s decks rose up eighteen levels high.

They walked onto the field, entering at the orange end zone. The surface had some give and felt a lot like the Carsengi Grass that covered most Purist Nation fields, but he could tell this was artificial. Hundreds of flat, circular, white creatures, each the size of a pancake, moved around the field. They moved slowly, but quickly scooted out of the way of approaching feet.

“I think you guys need to call an exterminator,” Quentin said.

“Those are clippers,” Yitzhak said. “This is nanograss, self-replicating mechanical cells that grow constantly to give us a good practice surface. The clippers are little robots that keep the nanograss at a constant height.”

“They ever get underfoot?”

Yitzhak shook his head. “Naw, they steer clear of anything that moves.”

As they walked past the 50-yard line, Quentin noticed that the white disks cleared out in front of them, then closed in behind as the Humans passed by. He looked around, trying to take it all in — this is where his destiny would start.

Just past the black end zone, the three men stepped aboard a lift. Pine pressed a button, and the lift rose swiftly to deck eighteen.

Quentin followed Pine down the hall. The orange walls complimented the white and black carpet. Most of the diverse furnishings — two seats each for the varying body styles of Quyth, Ki, Sklorno and Human — were also done in orange-and-black. The high ceiling allowed Human and Sklorno alike to pass in comfort. Holoframes covered the walls, showing great players from the 23-year history of the Ionath Krakens. Most holoframes, of course, depicted players or scenes from the Krakens’ Tier One Championship of 2665.

That had been the franchise’s heyday, back when quarterback Bobby “Orbital Assault” Adrojnik put together three fantastic seasons, culminating in the ‘65 title, a 23-21 thriller over the Wabash Wall. After that game, Adrojnik died in a bar fight under conditions most called “suspicious.” Krakens fans blamed Wabash supporters, or possibly even the Wabash owner herself. Gloria Ogawa, who had founded the Wall in the GFL’s inaugural season of 2659, was a known gangland figure in the Tower Republic and had not taken the loss well.

“This deck holds the Krakens’ corporate offices,” Pine said. “Communications with the league, archiving, marketing, network relations, stuff like that.” Pine looked at the famous holoframe of the smiling Adrojnik, held aloft by two Ki linemen, raising the Championship trophy high in one hand.

“Is that what you’re going to be kid?” Pine said quietly. “The next Adrojnik? The future of this franchise?”

Quentin shrugged. He’d never seen Adrojnik play. Sometimes you could score pirated games on Micovi, or on Buddha City, but for the most part the old historical GFL stuff just wasn’t available.

Pine grinned, looked at Quentin, and continued down the hall. “Yep, you could be the savior. What are you kid, twenty-one? twenty-two?”

“Nineteen,” Quentin said.

Pine’s eyebrows rose up. He looked at Yitzhak, who let out a low whistle and shook his head.

“Nineteen,” Pine said. “Kid, you play your cards right you could have a great career ahead of you.”

“Of course, that’s what the press said about Timmy Hammersmith in 2678,” Yitzhak said. “And Crane McSweeney in 2680, after Hammersmith washed out in just two seasons.”

Pine smiled and nodded, looking at Quentin the whole time. “Yeah, that’s right! But McSweeney didn’t last much longer. He might have developed into something big if he hadn’t died in the season opener against the Wallcrawlers in 2680. Rookie QBs just don’t seem to fare too well around here.”

“It seems veterans don’t fare too well, either,” Quentin said. He wasn’t going to put up with this rookie bull — he was no normal rookie, something they’d all find out soon enough. “They brought you in to finish the 2680 season, didn’t they, Pine? Two seasons at the helm, and the Krakens are still Tier Two.”

Yitzhak stopped and turned to face Quentin. “Hey, now you’d better watch yourself, rookie, you don’t -”

Pine held up his left hand to stop Yitzhak, cutting the shorter man off in mid-sentence. Pine’s smile was no longer friendly, but that of someone who looks down on another.

“That’s a good point, Quentin,” Pine said. He held up his right hand. On his ring and index finger were two thick, golden rings, each set with dozens of sparkling rubies. Championship rings from 2675 and 2676. At the sight of the rings, Quentin felt his soul roil with pure envy, greed, and flat-out desire.

“You can have all the good points you want, rookie,” Pine said. “But until you prove it out on the field, it’s all talk. Until you’ve got one of these -” Pine wiggled his fingers, letting the rubies catch the hall’s light — “I suggest you keep those good points to yourself.”

Quentin smiled graciously, flourished, and gave a half-bow. “Whatever you say, pops.”

Pine’s smile briefly faded to a glare, then he continued down the hall. Quentin felt the competitive fire building inside his brain. He couldn’t wait to get out on the field. He was the future of the Krakens, not this washed-up has-been. He’d learn what he could from this old man in the next week, before the old man got used to his new position: benchwarmer.

They turned into a large room, about fifty yards in diameter, with a clear dome open to the star-speckled blackness of space. The floor consisted of a silvery grid of small hexes, each only a centimeter or so wide. Just inside the door sat a long rack of footballs, built on a tilt so the balls would roll down and stop at a catch at the end.

“What is this?” Quentin bounced on his toes, feeling the hexes give slightly under his feet.

“This is the sim-room,” Pine said. “State-of-the-art in football technology.” He walked to the end of the rack and picked up a football. The other footballs rolled down the rack to fill the space.

“The Kriegs-Ballok Virtual Practice System,” Yitzhak said. “Gredok had it installed during the off-season.”

“Ship,” Pine called. “Grontak Stadium, night game.”

The clear dome shimmered with flashes of blue and silver, then it was gone, instantly replaced by a bright purple sky arching over a massive stadium. The room’s sound went from echoing silence to the sudden cacophony of 165,000 fans, mostly Quyth, screeching in their spine-rippling equivalent of a Human cheer.

Quentin spun around, suddenly disoriented by the purple sky, the thousands of fans swinging black, teal and white banners and flags, the steady, subdued roar of a crowd waiting between plays. A blazing sun hung almost directly over head, and a blue moon ringed with light red hung suspended in the southern sky. It was all so real. The floor shimmered as well, and then the hexes were gone, replaced with millions of the flat blue plants that made up a Quyth playing field, complete with white yard markers.

“Krakens, first-and-ten,” Pine said. “Boss-right set, split left, double-hook and post.”

More blue and silver shimmers flashed in the air, this time only ten feet from where the three men stood. Ten players dressed in Krakens’ uniforms materialized and moved to the line of scrimmage: the scurrying waddle of huge Ki linemen, the loping, graceful strides of three Sklorno receivers, the natural gait of the Human tailback and right end. The players moved like the real thing, although they were all slightly translucent. Their uniform colors seemed blurred by a slight blue haze.

A computer voice echoed through the chamber.

[DEFENSIVE SELECTION, PLEASE]

“Random,” Pine said as he walked up to the line, crouched, and held the ball in front of him as though he were ready to take a snap.

Another flash preceded the sudden appearance of players clad in the black, teal and blue colors of the Glory Warpigs. Quentin’s awe over the technology faded away. His strategic mind took over as he watched the holographic Warpigs players line up in a 3-4 with man-to-man coverage.

“Red fifteen, red fifteen,” Pine called out, barking out the signals so he could be heard over the crowd. Quentin felt his heart rate increase and the rush of adrenaline pump into his veins — he’d never seen anything like this. He could feel the stadium shake as the crowd’s intensity increased.

“Hut .... HUT!”

Pine dropped back five steps, then planted and bounced a half-step forward. He stood tall, looking downfield as his Sklorno receivers darted out, tightly covered by the Warpigs defensive backs. Pine threw the ball a split second before the right wide receiver suddenly cut back towards the line — a timing pattern. The receiver raised her long arms to catch the ball — it went right through the hologram, skipping and rolling down the field. The players vanished, although the crowd and the crowd noise remained.

[PASS COMPLETE. A GAIN OF SIX YARDS. SECOND AND FOUR]

Pine walked back to Quentin, who couldn’t stop himself from constantly looking around. “What do you think, rookie?”

“This is incredible. Is this where we practice?”

Pine shook his head. “No, we practice on the main field. But this is where you do your position work, and drill for each week’s game. This way you can practice sets over and over again against holographs that are just as fast as the opposition’s defensive backs. Practice squad players aren’t as much of a challenge.”

“Can I give it a try?”

Pine grabbed a football and tossed it to Quentin. “Be my guest. Let me set it up for you. It’s second-and-four, what do you want to run?”

Quentin smiled. “I want to go deep.”

Pine smiled — that condescending smile again — and nodded. “Wide set, snake package, double post. On two. Defense, cover two with woman-to-woman under.”

“You mean man-to-man.”

“The Sklorno are females, remember? Woman-to-woman. There you go, kid, I made it easy for you.”

The players materialized and ran to the line. Quentin walked forward, eyes wide with wonder. He crouched below the center as his eyes scanned the defense. The reality was such that he recognized Warburg at tight end, Scarborough at wide receiver, Hawick in the slot, two yards in and one yard back from Scarborough. He didn’t bother to look, but he knew a life-like image of number 47, tailback Mitchell Fayed, would be right behind him.

“Hut ... hut!” The line surged forward. It sounded similar to a real line crash, but was just a bit stale and echoey. Quentin dropped back five steps, planted and eased into his standup, ball at the ready.

He watched the holo-Scarborough streak down the right sideline. The man-to-man (woman-to-woman, that is) coverage quickly fell behind. Just as the safety started to pick up the route, Quentin reared back and let the ball fly. It sailed through the air in a perfect, arching spiral, a brown missile framed against a bright purple sky. The ball looked on the money, but the safety moved faster than anything Quentin had ever seen on a football field.

“Damn it,” Quentin whispered as the holo-safety blurred in front of the holo-Scarborough, leapt twelve feet into the air, and reached for the ball. The ball continued down the field, bouncing off the flat leaves, but Quentin didn’t need the computer to tell him the results.

[PASS INTERCEPTED]

“Why’d you guys have to rig this? Quentin said. “You think that’s funny?”

“Rig it?” Pine said. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on, you saw how fast that safety closed. Nothing moves that fast.”

Pine and Yitzhak looked at each other, then started laughing.

“Welcome to the GFL, backwater,” Yitzhak said. “You’re going to love it here.”

Quentin glared. If they wanted to play stupid games with him, he’d show them. “Let me try that again.”

“Why, so you can fail again?” Hokor’s voice caught him by surprise. He turned, an unexpected sense of trepidation in his chest, as if he were a teenage boy caught in the middle of masturbating.

“End simulation!” Hokor barked. The tiny Quyth Leader marched towards Quentin as the field, the fans, the stadium and the players vanished, replaced by the clear dome and the sparkling stars.

“Barnes, what in the name of your primitive, backwater gods was that?”

Hokor’s fur seemed to stand on end, making him look thicker than normal. Quentin knew that was some instinctive reaction, evolutionarily designed to make Hokor look bigger, therefore more dangerous, but in reality it just made him look fuzzy, like a stuffed animal. Still, his voice had a tone of command Quentin’s previous coaches had never possessed. Or, perhaps more accurately, had never used, at least not on him.

“That was an interception, Coach,” Quentin said calmly.

“Why did you throw it?”

“Well, I thought I had Scarborough on the streak.”

“You thought? You thought? Don’t you know who the Warpigs’ safety is?”

Quentin assumed it was a rhetorical question, but Hokor seemed to wait for an answer. Quentin shrugged. “Nope.”

Hokor’s pedipalps quivered with anger. “You don’t know who it is, but you threw the pass anyway? You didn’t know that the Warpigs’ picked up Keluang in free agency?”

“Keluang?” “I thought he, I mean, she, played for the Hullwalkers, in Tier One.”

“Well now she plays for the Warpigs!” Hokor’s furry body shook with anger. “You stupid Human, you don’t even know who you’re playing against and you just blindly throw into coverage.”

Quentin smiled. “Take it easy, Coach. How am I supposed to know who’s on what team right now?” Quentin saw Pine and Yitzhak duck their heads in an effort to conceal their grins. Yitzhak hid his face in his hands and slowly shook his head.

“It’s your job to know,” Hokor said coldly. “You are a quarterback for the Ionath Krakens. We will not make it to the Tier Two tournament and therefore back into the glory of Tier One if my helpless quarterbacks don’t know everything there is to know about the opposition. You must be punished for this error. You will report to me after practice. And by tomorrow, you will know the defensive roster of all nine teams in the Quyth Conference.”

“By tomorrow? Come on, Coach — I figure that out on the field. Nobody knows all that stuff, nobody except sports reporters.”

Hokor turned to face Pine. “Who is the second-string free safety for the Sheb Stalkers?”

“Fairmont,” Pine answered instantly.

“What are her stats?

“Last recorded time in the 40 was a 3.2. She’s seventeen years old, an eight-year veteran, tends to jump the short routes and give extra space on deep routes for passing situations. She comes in as nickel back, but doesn’t like to hit big tight ends head-on.”

“Yitzhak, what is the strategy when playing her?”

“Passing situations, send tight ends on deep outs or deep curls. She doesn’t pressure the tight end enough, usually allowing for a little extra time to make a well-placed throw. Shouldn’t go deep on her if avoidable, but put the ball up high if you must because her vertical leap of twelve feet usually can’t compete with our receivers.”

Hokor turned back to Quentin. “That is why these men have been around the league for so long.”

Quentin sneered. “With all due respect Coach, just because you guys memorize one player doesn’t mean anything. I may be young, but I wasn’t born yesterday. You guys set that up just to impress me.”

Hokor’s fur rippled, and his pedipalps were a vibrating blur. “Pick a player.”

“Huh?”

“Pick a player.”

Quentin felt a sinking feeling. “From what team?”

“Any team in the Quyth Irradiated Division.”

“Okay, how about this? The second-string weak-side linebacker for the Bigg Diggers.”

“Ripok the Stonecutter,” Pine and Yitzhak said simultaneously.

“Last recorded time of 3.9 in the 40,” Pine said.

“Five-year veteran, the last three with the Diggers,” Yitzhak added.

“Very disciplined,” Pine said. “Plays excellent zone, makes excellent reads, but poor lateral movement due to leg-replacement surgery in 2671.”

“Use quick tight end out patterns,” Yitzhak said. “Or, bring wide receivers on crossing patterns and throw when they are equal to Ripok, because he can’t break on the ball as fast as they can.”

Quentin just stared. He didn’t know that much information about his own linebackers for the Raiders, let alone for another team. And these guys had ripped off the info without a second thought.

“Now are you impressed?” Hokor asked.

Quentin nodded dumbly.

“By tomorrow,” Hokor said, “know every player on the rosters. We will work on stats and tendencies throughout this week. Let us commence with our position meeting. We are six days from the season opener against the Woo Wallcrawlers. It will take us four days to reach Ionath. We will practice on the Touchback until we reach Ionath, then shuttle down to the field facility for on-field practices.”

• • •

BY THE TIME the position meeting ended, Quentin felt thoroughly annoyed. He had several days of busy work lined up — rote memorization of defensive players and schemes in addition to his offensive studies. And the real annoyance was that none of it really mattered. When he took the field, that’s when all this garbage would fade away, once Hokor saw what he could do.

After the position meeting, Quentin followed Pine and Yitzhak onto the dining deck. He had an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite explain. He’d never done ‘team functions’ with the Raiders, he’d always done his own thing. Here, he gathered, he was expected to dine with the team. The brightly lit room held over twenty tables, each surrounded by a variety of chairs designed for the different body types of Humans, Sklorno, Quyth Warrior and Quyth Leader. Unlike the corporate offices, there were none of the six-foot-long, table-like chairs made for Ki.

“We have to eat with the sub ... I mean, the other races?”

Pine stared at him. “What, you can play a game with them, but you can’t eat with them?”

“You have to have the different races to win the game,” Quentin said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to eat with them, for High One’s sake.”

“It’s a league rule,” Yitzhak said. “All species must use the same dining facilities. Remember the Creterakians’ whole point of this league is to create a sense of ambassadorship amongst the races.”

“Are the Ki an exception, then?” Quentin didn’t see any of the monstrous creatures in the dining hall.

Yitzhak shuddered before he answered. “Their eating habits are a little, er, messy compared to the other races. They eat alone.”

“What do you mean, messy?”

“They butcher their food at the table,” Pine answered. “They eat it raw.”

Quentin looked at both men. “You’re kidding me, right?”

They shook their heads.

“It’s horrific,” Yitzhak said. “They kill the animal right there on the table. The table is even designed to catch all the blood so they can drink that, too.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s not the worst of it,” Yitzhak said. “That’s just the ones from the Ki Empire planets. The ones that come from the Ki Rebel Establishment planets, they don’t even bother to kill the animal before they start eating.”

Quentin stared dumbly. “You mean they eat it live?”

Yitzhak nodded.

“High One,” Quentin said. “They are demons.”

“Oh take your morality and vent it, Barnes,” Pine said. “They’re not demons, they’re different from Humans, that’s all. Meals are a major ritual for the Ki. It’s part of their culture, how they bond and crap like that.”

“But to eat a live animal? Only a mongrel race could do that!”

Yitzhak laughed. “Well then I guess Pine here is a mongrel.”

Pine smiled, but Quentin just stared, dumbfounded at the evil surrounding him. “You’ve broken bread with creatures that eat their food alive?”

Pine simply nodded.

Quentin felt his stomach churning at the thought, and suddenly found Pine’s blue skin more repulsive than ever. “What are you, blue-boy, some kind of Satanist?”

“And there it is,” Pine said with a knowing nod. “See, you are just like Warburg. Just another Purist racist. I’m a leader, Barnes. Ki don’t really accept you until you eat with them, until you fight and bleed with them. I do whatever it takes to make this team play as a whole. That’s something you’ll either figure out and succeed, or won’t figure out, and you’ll be gone.”

Quentin turned to Yitzhak. “And I suppose you’ve eaten living flesh, too?”

Yitzhak shuddered. “Couldn’t quite bring myself to do that, but I managed to sit through the whole thing, and drank some blood. You’ve got to see it to believe it — it’s worse than any horror holo you’ve ever seen.”

Quentin shook his head, then turned and walked away. Position meetings were over, and he didn’t have to spend any more time with these two barbarians. He spotted Warburg, sitting alone, a huge tray of food in front of him.

“Quentin,” Warburg called out. “Come let us break bread.”

Quentin walked up to the table and stared at the food. With all the activity he hadn’t eaten, and suddenly realized that he was famished.

“Where’s the chow?”

Warburg stuffed some potatoes into his mouth as he gestured to the back wall. A glass-enclosed counter ran the entire length, all fifty feet of it. Under the glass sat every kind of food Quentin could imagine. The counter was divided into sections, each about two feet in length. Above each section glowed a holographic symbol of a planet or system. Quentin didn’t recognize half the symbols, but the Purist Nation infinity symbol glowed a warm welcome. He grabbed a tray from an overhead shelf and started loading up: the mint mashed potatoes he’d seen Warburg eating, chicken breasts smothered in curry paste, pita bread and Mason gravy, the multi-colored broccoli that grew only on the planet Stewart, and a thick piece of chocolate cake.

Just to his right was the flag of the Planetary Union. The dishes that looked somewhat familiar, but were all things he’d never before tried. One of the dishes seemed to be some kind halved shell, with a raw, glisteny, grayish mass sitting inside. Raw food — typical blasphemy of non-Nation races. Quentin didn’t exactly say his twenty Praise High Ones each night, but that didn’t mean he was so sinful he’d eat raw food.

Just to his left was the glowing Five Star Circle of the Quyth Concordia. His lip wrinkled involuntarily in disgust at the brownish selections, many of which had more spindly legs than any insect he’d ever seen.

Quentin turned away from the strange foods and walked back to the table, rejoicing in the smells that drifted up from his plate.

“Did you see that disgusting garbage the Quyth eat?” Warburg asked as Quentin sat.

“Yes, what is that crap, bugs?”

Warburg shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care to know. High One knows it’s something unblessed and blasphemous. We’ll see what they eat when they’re burning in Hell.”

Quentin cut a big piece of chicken breast and bit into it — his eyes closed in pleasure at the taste.

“Food’s gotten pretty good since Gredok picked you up.” Warburg said with a smile.

“It wasn’t good before?”

Warburg shrugged. “It wasn’t bad. The cooks would try to make Nation dishes out of whatever Planetary Union or League of Planets crap they had laying around. Ever since they signed you, though, they’ve been bringing in the real deal from Nation freighters or whatever. Seems like Gredok and Hokor want to make you right at home.”

Quentin shoveled in some potatoes, marveling at the succulent taste. “I’m glad they feel that way. I haven’t had decent food since I got to the Combine.”

“I hope they start you right away,” Warburg said. “I can’t stand that shucking blue-boy Pine.”

Quentin nodded. “You know he told me he’s eaten raw flesh with the Ki?”

“What do you mean, eaten? That’s past tense. He does it every week. Low One take him, look at him now.”

Warburg gestured to the far end of the hall. Most of the tables held members of only one race, either Human, Quyth or Sklorno. But Pine sat at a table of Quyth Warriors, laughing, smiling, and stuffing some limp, brown, multi-legged creature into his mouth.

“I hope he likes the heat, considering where the High One will place him on Judgment Day,” Warburg said. “I mean, it’s one thing to have to talk to these demons, that’s just the nature of the game, but to sit down with them, to eat with them, and eat their barbaric food. It’s unforgivable.”

Quentin nodded and turned back to his plate. The sight of Pine chewing that brown thing had killed his appetite, but he kept eating anyway. Tomorrow was the first practice, and he’d need all of his strength if he was going to win the starting QB slot.

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.

6

ARRIVAL ON IONATH

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

Just relax just relax everything is fine ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

For once, Yassoud said nothing, simply nodded instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warburg stared. “What do you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we help?” Denver asked again.

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that who I think it is?”

Yassoud nodded. “Yes indeed.”

“What is that ad for?”

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

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

Why not Pine?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pine calmly stepped forward.

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

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

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

“Got it, kid?”

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

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

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

Quentin looked over his center and surveyed the defense.

It was like looking straight out into a nightmare.

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

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

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

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

EAT CRAP LOSER scrolled across Tweedy’s face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yassoud reached down to help Quentin up.

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

“What did he say?”

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

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

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

It was going to be a long day.

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s her weakness?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well so do some Humans!”

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

“Not this Human, pal.”

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

His door-buzzer rang.

[MITCHELL FAYED IS AT YOUR DOOR]

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

“Good evening, Quentin.”

Quentin just nodded.

“Why are you not at second meal?”

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

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

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

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

Fayed paused, as if waiting for permission.

“Well go ahead,” Quentin said.

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

Quentin nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

Fayed then nodded once, turned, and walked away.

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

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

BOOK THREE:

THE REGULAR SEASON

GAME ONE: Woo Wallcrawlers (0-0) at the Ionath Krakens (0-0)

An hour before the game, the Humans started dressing. The stadium was already mostly full. Even three stories below the stands, inside the locker room’s thick walls, they heard the crowd’s roar.

Music pumped from Yassoud’s locker. He loved scrag music: loud, boisterous, boasting rhymes produced from the downtrodden culture of Rodina. Several people had asked Yassoud to turn it down, but John Tweedy liked the music, so nobody pressed the point.

Quentin sat on the bench, already dressed, his thoughts focused on the game ahead. His first Upper Tier game. He barely noticed his teammates or the music. He didn’t come out of it until he felt someone near, staring at him. Quentin looked up and saw Don Pine only a few feet away. Quentin’s eyes narrowed to hateful slits.

“What do you want, Pine?”

Pine shrugged. “Nothing.”

“So go stare at someone else’s booty.”

“Kid, you need to relax.”

“I really didn’t appreciate your joke back on the landing platform.”

“What joke?” “What are you talking about?”

“Denver. You had Denver come up to me — in front of everyone — and ask if I needed help with my passing.”

Pine blinked a few times. “You thought that was a joke?”

“Not a very funny one,” Quentin said. “You’ll get yours.”

Pine shook his head in amazement, then sighed. “Well if you get in today, kid, good luck.”

He turned and walked away. Quentin didn’t return the sentiment.

• • •

THE KRAKENS PLAYERS GATHERED in the tunnel that led to the field.

The announcer said something in Quyth, then repeated it in Human: “Here is the visiting team, the WooooooOOOO Wallcrawlers!”

A scraping sound filled the stadium, like a million carpenters sanding a million rough boards. Quentin pressed his hands to the ear holes of his helmet. He turned to Yitzhak. “What the hell is that?”

“Fur-scraping,” Yitzhak said, leaning into Quentin and shouting so he could be heard over the horrible noise. “Workers scrape the bristly fur on their forearms together — it’s kind of like a Human booing.”

The Krakens packed tightly into the small space. Clean or-ange-and-black jerseys covered the bodies and armor of Human, Heavy-G, Sklorno, Ki and Quyth Warrior. No one pushed, no one shoved, no one threatened. The very walls vibrated with the growing roar of the capacity 185,000-being crowd. Intangible electricity filled the air, making the skin on the back of Quentin’s neck tingle with excitement.

Racial hatred disappeared. That wasn’t quite true — it didn’t disappear as much as it transformed, mutated, moving from alien teammates to the unified body of the enemy: the Woo Wallcrawlers. The Krakens players were no longer individual species, no longer individual beings with petty biases and hatreds and arguments.

They were warriors.

Headed to battle.

The announcer said something in Quyth, and the crowd erupted with the roar of the High One himself. The unified army of orange-and-black surged forward. The announcer repeated the call, this time in Human.

“Beings of all races, let’s hear it for, your, Ionath, KRAAAAAA-KENNNNNNNS!”

Quentin found himself carried along in a wave of teammates. This was nothing like it had been on Micovi, where the starters were introduced one at a time, and the largest crowd he’d ever played before amounted to 24,500.

The team sprinted out through the tunnel mouth into the perfect daylight of Ionath Stadium. Quentin had never seen such a concentration of life. The crowd’s roar hit like a physical, concussive force. At the sidelines, the Krakens gathered in a tight circle. Quentin found himself packed in shoulder-to-shoulder against Milford on his right, pressed next to Mum-O-Killowe on his left, and Killik the Unworthy behind him. In front of them all, at the center of the circle: Donald Pine.

“This is it,” Pine said. He wasn’t yelling, yet his words carried loudly despite the crowd’s massive volume. “This is what we’ve worked for. The road to Tier One starts right here, right now.”

His voice rang with authority and command. All around him, Quentin felt Krakens players leaning in towards Pine. The veteran quarterback radiated calm and utter confidence. Creterakian civilians dressed in tiny orange and black uniforms flittered about, translating Pine’s words into Ki.

“We’ve got to go out there and establish ourselves right now,” Pine said. “No waiting. They won the toss. Defense, I want the ball back. Offense, I want to score on our first drive. Then I want to score on our second drive. Then I want to score on our third drive. No letting up.”

He raised his fist and the circle tightened in a convulsive surge. Hands, pedipalps, chitinous arms and raspers reached out to Pine, who stood in the center of it all like a battlefield hero. Quentin found, to his surprise, that he instinctively reached out his own hand as well — but he stopped himself only a few inches from the veteran quarterback, pretending that he couldn’t quite reach.

Every player let out a single, deep, guttural grunt that transcended language, then the circle broke apart, the players gathering in groups: kickoff team, defense, offense and second-stringers. Across the field, the Woo Wallcrawlers broke from their own huddle. They wore pinkish leg armor and white jerseys with letters and numbers in light-blue rimmed by purple. Each jersey had the word “‘Crawlers” stretched across the chest above their number. A stylized purple creature on the right shoulder of each jersey spread forth long tentacles: two down the chest, two down the back, and two down the right arm (or arms, in the case of the Ki).

Five graceful, boneless Harrah floated onto the field. Their soft wings undulated in wave-like patterns, carrying them smoothly forward. They wore black-and-white striped jerseys custom fitted to their flat bodies. Quentin suddenly understood why the Harrah made great refs — they could fly up to monitor the twenty-foot-high mid-air battles between Sklorno receivers and defensive backs. A grounded ref could never accurately judge interference.

Pine walked up next to Quentin. He saw the younger QB looking at the refs.

“Never seen flying refs before?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, but it’s a great idea.”

“Stupid zebes, they hate the Krakens. We always get crap calls.”

“What’s a zebe?”

“That’s what they call refs.”

“But what is it?”

“I think it’s short for Zebra.”

“What’s a Zebra?”

Pine shrugged as he put on his helmet. “Beats me. Some animal with black and white stripes, I guess. From Satirli 6, I think.”

The Krakens lined up for the kick-off. The crowd of 185,000 started beating their feet in place. Quentin looked at the stands behind him: the crowd was mostly Quyth, with Workers filling the higher rows and upper decks. Plenty of Humans, Quyth Warriors and Quyth Leaders filled the lower seats. He spotted the distinctive shape of many Sklorno females in the stands, most of whom wore replica Krakens jerseys with number “80,” Hawick’s number.

Special sections of the stands were packed with the bouncing, one-foot diameter fuzzy balls that he now knew were Sklorno males. These sections were enclosed in clear crystametal. The males bounced up and down inside — there had to be a thousand of them in each enclosure, moving so fast he could barely make out individuals. Quentin wondered why, when looking at a stadium packed with a half-dozen races, the Sklorno males were segregated.

Quentin nudged Yitzhak. “Why are the Sklorno males in that cage?”

“The bedbugs? Because they get so turned on watching the females that they will rush the field and try to mate with them.”

Quentin grimaced. “What? Really?”

“Oh sure. They’re horny little buggers. Watch out if you’re around any of our receivers or DBs in public, the little scumbags lose it and will just start humping them. That’s why the females wear full-body clothing in public, otherwise the bedbugs might impregnate them.”

The crowd’s foot-pounding picked up in intensity, and was joined by a low “oohhhhh” that quickly increased in pitch and volume. Quentin turned in time to see the kicker’s foot slam into the ball exactly at the moment the crowd’s “ohhh” turned into a sustained “ahhh!” of excitement. The ball sailed through the air as the Krakens kickoff team pounded down the field.

Quentin saw Yassoud rushing downfield, that murderous look on his face. Denver and Milford were out there as well, sprinting like living missiles, pulling ahead of their teammates. A line of Human and Quyth Warrior Wallcrawlers formed a wedge and drove upfield, followed by a Sklorno carrying the brown ball. Denver and Milford launched themselves high into the air, arching over the Wallcrawler wedge. Two pink-and-white clad Sklorno players shot through the air to meet them: one picked off Denver in mid-air and they fell in a heap. Milford twisted and her defender sailed past. She landed on her feet as Yassoud and the other Krakens smashed into the Wallcrawler wedge. Milford sprang forward — the Wallcrawler ball carrier tried to dodge, but Milford brought her down at the ‘Crawlers fifteen yard line.

The crowd roared so loudly that Quentin put his hands to his helmet’s ear-holes. He heard some kind of high-pitched screeching from the stands and looked back — the Sklorno males bounced maddeningly in their enclosures, hitting the crystametal walls so hard they had to be injuring themselves.

John Tweedy led the defense onto the field. I AM THE BRINGER OF DEATH scrolled across his face. The ‘Crawlers offense came out and huddled up, led by quarterback Kelley Moussay-Ed. Warburg walked up and stood next to Quentin.

“Kelley’s in for a long day,” Warburg said. “This run-and-shoot garbage doesn’t work against Michnik and Khomeni.”

Kelley snapped the ball and handed off to running back Copu Soggang, who found nothing at the line. He cut right, but Khomeni reached out his long arms and dragged the runner to the ground for no gain.

The ‘Crawlers next ran a short out-pass, good for three yards before Berea leveled the receiver. On third-and-seven, Kelley dropped back as four receivers snaked into the defensive backfield. Michnik drove into the ‘Crawler’s right tackle, then spun to the inside and broke free. Kelley felt the pressure and threw the ball away. The crowd roared in approval.

The defense ran off the field to congratulations and approving slaps from the offense and the second stringers. The ‘Crawlers punted. Richfield called for a fair catch, and the Krakens’ offense took over for the first time. Pine led the offense onto the field. Warburg waited a few seconds before leisurely trotting to join the huddle.

Quentin moved to stand next to Yassoud. “What’s it like out there?”

“It’s unbelievable,” Yassoud said, his grin once again firmly in place. “The crowd is unreal, there’s so much energy. You’ll see soon enough.”

Quentin shrugged. “Hopefully the old fart won’t last long.”

“You never know,” Yassoud said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Quentin’s hopes.

First-and-ten on the Krakens’ 45. Pine wasted no time exploiting the ‘Crawler’s slow secondary. He hit Hawick for a twelve-yard slant, then Kobayasho for a six-yard out, then a deep crossing pattern to Warburg. Warburg caught the ball in full stride and turned up-field, all 365 pounds of him moving at top speed. ‘Crawler defensive backs Seoul and Onoway closed in on him. Warburg turned to slam into Seoul head-to-head, knocking the 280-pound Sklorno defensive player backwards. Warburg stumbled from the contact, and Onoway brought him down for a 22-yard gain that gave the Krakens first-and-ten on the Wallcrawler fifteen. Warburg and Onoway got up, Seoul didn’t.

The game paused as a Harrah doctor flew onto the field, trailed by a floating cart. The Harrah looked exactly like Doc, except this one’s backpack was pink and light-blue instead of orange-and-black. The doctor looked at Seoul for a long minute, then pushed the cart over the Sklorno’s prone form. A hundred tiny wires shot out of the cart’s underside, wrapping around Seoul in a hundred different places. The cart rose about a foot, and Seoul’s body rose with it, still in the exact same position she’d been in on the ground. The doctor flew off the field, towards the tunnel to the locker room, the cart zipping along behind.

With the wounded player removed, the teams lined up once again.

The ‘Crawlers blitzed on the next play. Pine calmly delivered a seven-yard slant to Scarborough. He dropped back once more, standing tall and taking his time. His offensive line gave great protection, and after five full seconds Pine fired a tight spiral to Hawick for a touchdown.

The stadium shuddered from the crowd’s roar. Fireworks exploded overhead. The entire sky seemed to turn a deep orange. Quentin ducked involuntarily, as if from the shadow of some giant bird flying close overhead.

“Relax, that’s just the dome,” Yassoud said. “They turn the whole thing orange when we score a touchdown.”

The color blinked away, and the sky was once again clear and bright. Pine and the receivers ran off the field as the kicking team came on for the extra point.

“Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “He is an old fart. Five-for-five and a TD on the first drive. Man, we should get him a wheelchair and some oxygen before he collapses.”

“Screw you,” Quentin said. Yassoud just laughed.

The defense continued to pound the Wallcrawlers throughout the first half, shutting down Moussay-Ed. Michnik sacked him twice, and Tweedy got to him once with a devastating hit on a linebacker blitz.

Pine made good on his pre-game plans, guiding the Krakens to scores on their next two drives. At the half, the Krakens were up 24-7. Pine added one more touchdown for good measure in the third quarter, a 32-yard strike to Scarborough. With each completion, Quentin grew angrier. He’d settled into his new-found role as a sideline spectator when late in the fourth quarter he heard Hokor’s distinctive bark.

“Barnes!” the coach called. “Next series, you’re in!”

Quentin stared at his coach, then back at the field. He was going in before Yitzhak. Was he second-string, then? Quentin’s pulse beat double-time as he watched the Krakens defense working against the ‘Crawlers. Kelley hadn’t made it past the third quarter before the ‘Crawlers coach pulled him. His replacement, second-year player Aniruddha Smith, didn’t fare much better. Smith completed a short hook for a first down at the Krakens 32.

“Come on defense,” Quentin said through gritted teeth. He looked up at the clock — 1:12 left to play.

He should have been able to predict what happened next — Tweedy showed blitz, but slid into coverage as Smith dropped back. Mum-O-Killowe, who’d already notched one sack, furiously drove his opposing lineman back as he reached for Smith. Smith dodged to the right, feeling the pressure. He threw a quick crossing pattern to a seemingly open tight end. Tweedy was playing his lame-duck act — he broke on the ball with a speed he hadn’t shown the entire game and picked off the pass. The crowd roared in approval. As Tweedy & Co. came off the field, Quentin sprinted on, so excited he could barely think.

He stood in front of the huddle, a mix of first-string linemen and second-string skill players. Yassoud looked back at him, grinning. Denver and Milford were there, their armored eyestalks twitching in anticipation.

Quentin’s head-up display activated automatically. Hokor’s yellow and black, one-eyed face appeared, lifelike and right in front of Quentin’s facemask.

“Base-block dive right, Barnes,” Hokor said. “Keep it simple and hang onto the ball.”

Quentin relayed the play to the Krakens. He broke the huddle and walked to the line. That feeling was back in his stomach again, the queasy feeling, the one he’d never known before that first full-contact practice two days earlier. His five Ki linemen looked like a giant wall of muscle. Yet if they were a wall, a fortress, beyond them were three Ki battering rams in white jerseys, waiting to blast through the offensive line and tear into him. Outside of them, two gigantic Human defensive ends, obviously heavy-G natives, so big they dwarfed the PNFL’s biggest players. The first play, at least, he wouldn’t have to worry about the front five.

Quentin squatted, left foot forward, right foot back, as he reached his hands under Bud-O-Shwek. He pressed his left hand up, but Bud felt wet, Quentin pulled his hands back out — black wetness smeared the back of his left hand. Bud was bleeding. Should he call a time-out? He quickly looked at his linemen — black blood smeared the orange numbers on their black jerseys, most of which were ripped in one place or another. Some of their arms were up and ready to block, while a few arms hung limp and lifeless, broken. Yet none of the Ki had come out of the game.

“Quentin let’s go!” Yassoud shouted from behind him. Quentin flashed a glance at the play clock — seven seconds before they’d be flagged for delay of game. He quickly wiped his hands on his jersey, then squatted and thrust his hands under Bud-O-Shwek.

“Blue, thirty-two!” Quentin called. “Blue, thirty-two, HUT-HUT!”

Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball. Quentin felt it slap into his hands. He pulled it to his stomach and turned as he stepped back. Yassoud surged forward, back of his right hand on his chest, elbow high, his left hand across his stomach. Quentin reached the ball out and Yassoud slammed his arms together, taking the hand-off and driving forward. He found no opening at the line, so he cut right. Vu-Ko-Will, the Krakens’ right tackle, drove his defender backwards. With nowhere else to go, Yassoud put his head down and followed Vu-Ko-Will. Defenders swarmed on him for a gain of only three.

The Krakens huddled. The clocked ticked past 1:00 and kept rolling.

“Screen pass,” Hokor said. “X-Left.”

Quentin looked to the sidelines and tapped the “transmit” button on his right wrist. “Come on, Coach. Their secondary is soft, let me go deep.”

Quentin saw the little holographic Hokor’s yellow fur suddenly stand on end.

“Barnes run the plays I call! Screen pass! X-Left.”

Quentin nodded, turned to the huddle and called the play. He lined up again, noticing suddenly that the butterflies were worse than before. His stomach seemed to shrink, reducing itself to half-size, then quarter-size. And now he had to pee. Quite badly.

“Red ... sixteen! Red, sixteen! Hut-hut, HUT!”

The line clashed together once again. Quentin dropped back, holding the ball up by his ear, ready to pass. Suddenly the line parted, and the white-jersied battering rams surged forward, multi-jointed legs pumping and multi-jointed arms quivering. The monsters roared with unbridled fury as they charged towards him. He backpedaled as if he was avoiding the rush — just before the Ki defenders reached him, he turned and threw the ball to Yassoud in the flat. Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, the left tackle and left guard, respectively, had released their blocks and moved to the flat to block for Yassoud.

Yassoud caught the pass, but Quentin didn’t see the results of the play — three huge bodies bore down on him, driving him to the ground. Almost a ton of defensive lineman smashed into him as he hit the turf. His armor resisted most of the impact, but not all. His lungs felt compressed, like he couldn’t draw a full breath, and he couldn’t move a muscle.

Quentin heard a whistle, but the weight remained. He felt the Ki’s hot breath on his face, and looked up into the hexagonal mouth and sharp teeth. The mouth flexed as the Ki spoke in its guttural tongue.

“Grissach hadillit eo.”

“Heard it all before, loser,” Quentin grunted out.

The huge creature shifted its weight, and suddenly Quentin felt the tip of a chitinous arm reaching into his helmet. The arm moved quickly and he felt a searing pain across his cheek. More whistles sounded, and the lineman pushed off him.

Quentin stood as he felt a hot wetness spread across his cheek. He touched it, and his fingers came away streaked in his own blood.

The butterflies in his stomach dried up and crumbled to dust.

Blossoming rage took their place.

The Krakens started to huddle up, but Quentin walked past them, shouldering roughly past his own Ki linemen.

“You want to play with me?” Quentin shouted, pointed his finger at the back of the Ki lineman who’d cut him. The name on the back of the jersey read “Yag-Ah-Latis.” The unblinking black eyespots on the back of its head saw Quentin, of course. Yag-Ah-Latis turned to face him.

“You want to play with me, you salamander?”

Yag-Ah-Latis simply put his bloody hand to his hexagonal mouth. A blackish tongue slithered out and licked the red blood clean.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw yellow flags fly. Harrah officials in their black-and-white striped jerseys flew between Quentin and the Ki lineman. Quentin was about shove them away and go after Yag-Ah-Latis when strong arms wrapped around his chest.

“Easy, kid,” Yassoud said as he tried to hold Quentin back. “Come on now.”

Quentin kept pointing and kept shouting. “You want to do that bush-league garbage with me?”

Another flag flew. Three black-and-white jerseys fluttered in front of him, helping to holding him back. A distant part of Quentin’s rage-stoked brain found it interesting a flying creature could display such considerable strength. A ref pushed him and he almost fell backwards. Quentin shoulder-tossed Yassoud, sending the rookie running-back sprawling on the ground, then reared back to hit the ref that pushed him. Hokor’s voice in his ear screamed loud enough to make him wince.

“Barnes, no! You hit a ref you’re suspended for the season!”

The coach’s words snapped Quentin out of his one-track intentions. A season-long suspension? Hell, nothing was worth that. He helped Yassoud up and walked back to the huddle, casting glances over his shoulder at Yag-Ah-Latis as he did.

“Barnes, that little act cost us fifteen yards,” Hokor growled in his earpiece. “Now take a knee and run out the clock.”

Without looking at the sideline, Quentin reached down to his belt and calmly turned off his receiver. He looked up at the scoreboard and assessed the situation: 32 seconds to play, first-and-25 on the Krakens’ 45.

As Quentin reached the huddle, he glared at his Ki linemen. Their eyespots stared back at him seemingly impassive. They didn’t seem bothered in the least that their quarterback had just been cut by an opposing lineman.

“Hey,” Yassoud said. “Call a timeout, chief, you’re bleeding pretty bad.”

“Shut up,” Quentin growled. “No talking in my huddle. X-flash left, double deep. Denver and Milford, get deep fast and get open.”

The two Sklorno started to quiver with excitement.

“Knock it off!” Quentin barked. “You want the whole stadium to know what we’re doing?” The two receivers instantly fell stock-still.

“Shouldn’t we just take a knee?” Yassoud asked.

Quentin reached out and grabbed Yassoud’s facemask, twisting it and pulling his head forward. “My huddle. You talk one more time and you’re out, got it?”

Yassoud, surprised and wide-eyed, nodded once.

Quentin let him go.

“Line up like we’re showing a QB kneel. As soon as we get to the line, Denver and Milford sprint to X-flash. Go on first sound, ready?”

“Break!” the players called in unison.

Quentin and the others jogged to the line. Denver and Milford lined up outside the left and right tight ends, respectively, then just as the defense settled in for the predictable situation, the Sklorno receivers sprinted out along the line of scrimmage.

Quentin saw Hokor’s fur ruffle once more. The coach said something into his mouthpiece, but Quentin didn’t hear it. Just as Hokor started to signal for a timeout, Quentin shouted “hut!” and the ball hit his hands. He dropped back five steps and planted, looking downfield. The crowd roared as Denver sprinted down the sideline, then angled towards the center of the field. Jacobina, the ‘Crawler’s cornerback, matched Denver step-for-step with blanket coverage.

He suddenly realized that Mitchell Fayed had been right: this was nothing like practice. The Ki defensive tackles drove hard against the offensive linemen, roaring and punching and tearing. The offensive linemen gave as good as they got, backing up as they did, throwing punches and tearing at half-shredded jerseys. Huge bodies smashed against one another, flesh shuddering in concussive waves with each impact. Droplets of black blood flew in all directions as the pocket formed around Quentin — he stood at the eye of a storm of predatorial violence, where he was the prey.

Yag-Ah-Latis, his white jersey streaked with black, tried a spin move — it was amazing to see something so big move so fast, show such agility. Kill-O-Yowet managed to counter the spin move and stayed in front of the attacking lineman. The left defensive end had dropped into pass coverage, but the right end came with all his heavy-G force. The 535-pound monstrous Human drove forward, powered by thighs that looked like beer kegs, his thick arms pushing and pulling at Vu-Ko-Will, the Kraken’s right tackle. As big as Vu-Ko-Will was, it was all he could do to stay in front of the attacking beast in a football uniform.

They didn’t just want to tackle him, they wanted to kill him. For the first time since his rookie season in the PNFL, Quentin Barnes felt small.

Quentin waited, feeling the defensive pressure coming for him. His mind operated like a multi-processing machine, simultaneously measuring a hundred different inputs.

He let the ball fly and it arced through the air. At first he thought he’d thrown a bit too far, and a bit too high, but Denver and Jacobina turned on the jets and burned downfield. Fifty yards downfield, Denver and her defender sprang high into the air — but Denver jumped higher. Fifteen feet up, Denver reached out and snagged the perfectly thrown ball. Her momentum carried her into the end zone — she landed for a touchdown.

The crowd volume reached deafening levels. Quentin knelt and picked up a few blades of Iomatt, torn up by the constant churning cleats. He held the circular blades to his nose and sniffed — smelled like cinnamon. He stood, then pointed straight at Yag-Ah-Latis.

“That touchdown was for you, baby!” Quentin shouted. “Now go translate this!” He grabbed his crotch and shook it three times. Yag-Ah-Latis’ black eyespots shrunk to tiny pinholes, and he started to charge forward. This time the Harrah officials were ready. Flags flew again as four of them blocked Yag-Ah-Latis from coming after Quentin. The massive lineman could have effortlessly knocked the Harrah aside, but Yag-Ah-Latis wanted to sit out the season no more than Quentin did.

The offense ran off the field as the kicking team came on. Hokor’s fur stood on end. “What was that? I told you to take a knee!”

Quentin shrugged. “Transmitter was broken, so I called a play.”

Hokor’s one eye stared hard at Quentin. “After the game I’ll see you in my office, Barnes. Now go get that cut fixed.”

Quentin nodded, then smiled and walked to the bench.

Teammates thumped him on the helmet and shoulder pads. Pine approached and extended a hand. Quentin shook it before he realized what he was doing.

“Great pass,” Pine said. Amazingly, he sounded genuinely happy, but Quentin knew the veteran was mocking him. Pine still had that grin on his face. “Perfectly timed for Denver’s leaping ability.”

“Thanks,” Quentin said.

“How’d you know to throw it high and deep against Jacobina?”

“Well, I ... she can’t do her maximum vertical when she’s running full ...” Quentin’s voice trailed off, a recent practice memory jumping into his head.

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

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

“What’s her weakness?”

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

“How do you beat her?”

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

Pine’s grin widened, just a bit more, as recognition washed across Quentin’s face.

“Maybe Hokor’s instructions aren’t ‘busy work’ after all, eh rookie?”

Quentin looked away. Pine was right, and he didn’t want to deal with the veteran’s smugness.

A smiling Yitzhak came up and pounded Quentin on the shoulder pad. “Great throw! That’s showing them!”

Doc floated over, his vocal processor kicking out more volume than usual to compensate for the crowd’s incessant noise.

“That’s a nasty cut, Quentin,” Doc said. “Let’s get to work on it.”

Doc grabbed Quentin’s arm and pulled him into one of the med-bays behind the bench. Quentin’s cleats clacked as he moved from the soft field to the bay’s metal-grate floor. Doc reached into a drawer and pulled out a spray can and something wrapped in a sealed plastic wrap. “First let’s clean that up. Ki claws can produce a nasty infection in Humans. Now hold your breath. This will sting just a bit.”

Quentin took in a deep breath and held it as Doc sprayed the can’s contents on his cheek. The mist felt cool on his skin.

“That didn’t sting at all, Doc.”

“I wasn’t talking about the antiseptic,” Doc said, and with one smooth motion ripped open the plastic pouch and put a blue, wet, rectangular cloth on Quentin’s cheek. Pain leapt up immediately, as if someone had placed a branding iron on the cut. He stood up with a start and pushed Doc away.

“High One, what the hell is that?” Quentin reached up to tear off the cloth, but Doc’s ribbon-like tentacle slapped his hand.

“Don’t be a baby,” Doc said. “That’s nano-knit. It burns because nanocytes are ripping open a few cells to read your DNA.”

The burning intensified. Quentin felt tears welling up in his eyes. “Couldn’t you just stitch the damn thing?”

Doc shuddered, a ripple that coursed through his boneless body. “Don’t insult me, Quentin. You’re not in the barbarian lands anymore.”

Quentin danced in place, fighting to keep his hands off the cloth, but already the pain was subsiding.

“Has the burning ceased?”

Quentin nodded. A tingling sensation replaced the burning.

“The nanocytes have read your DNA to see exactly how your skin is supposed to be. They are rebuilding the cut right now.”

“How many of them are in there?”

“The patch contains roughly five hundred thousand.”

“A half-million?”

“A trivial amount, I assure you. You would need ten times that amount for muscle or ligament damage.”

Quentin had never heard of such medical technology. And he was receiving it on the sidelines of a football game. He could only wonder just how advanced things were in an actual hospital. The Holy Men preached about the Nation’s technical advancements, but most people knew the truth — that the Nation was decades behind rival systems like the Planetary Union and the League of Planets. Of course, he was in the GFL now, in the land of the big money, where no expense would be spared to keep oft-damaged players on the field. Still, he thought of the boy back on Micovi, the one he’d given his jersey to after the PNFL championship. Would this kind of treatment have helped that boy? Would it have saved his leg?

Doc reached out and removed the cloth. It was bloody and limp. He tossed it towards the bench, where it lay with other sideline debris like grass-stained tape, broken straps and broken buckles, torn jerseys and magni-cup rings.

“So what happens to the nanocytes now?”

“They’ll run around, looking for more damaged skin, until they run out of energy.”

“And then?”

“And then what? They stop working.”

“But when do you take them out?”

“We don’t do anything with them, Quentin. Your body will process them out like any other waste. Kidneys will filter them.”

“So I’ll pee them out?”

“That is correct. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must see what other injuries require my attention.”

The game finished with the Krakens defense on the field. Surprisingly, the crowd counted down the last ten seconds in English, and that grand football tradition sounded little different than it had back in the PNFL. Orange and black banners flew, colored streamers sailed, and fireworks blasted over the open stadium.

The Krakens, victorious, drifted in small groups off the field and into the tunnel. He saw Warburg and Seth Hanisek, the Wallcrawlers’ stocky fullback and another Nationalite, praying at the 50-yard line. Quentin ignored them — he had always felt the High One had more important things to do that concern himself with football, and probably didn’t listen to victory thanks.

He left the field, basking in the glow of his first GFL game. He hadn’t played much, but he’d made the most of it: 2-of-2 for 80 yards and a TD. Hokor really had no choice now but to give him more playing time. Pine was great, but Quentin was the future, and now everybody knew it — the Krakens, their fans, and especially Coach Hokor.

HE LOOKED AT his face in the mirror a dozen times in a dozen different ways, but he couldn’t find any sign of that nasty cut. There was redness, like mild sunburn on the area where the bandage had been, but nothing else. Quentin tilted his head this way and that, pulled at his skin, amazed at what he didn’t see.

John Tweedy walked by, dressed only in a towel. “Cut all gone, farm boy?”

Quentin looked at the bigger man, and just nodded. YOU’RE A DUMB BACKWOODS CRACKER scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.

“You won’t find the cut, you stupid hick, it’s fixed,” Tweedy said. He then put on a sarcastic, wide-eyed expression of wonder. “Oh, this here some big magic, Quentin! Here in the big city we fix people right up, like by magic! Big magic here!”

Quentin stared for a moment before he spoke. “What’s your home planet, Tweedy?”

Tweedy pounded his chest three times. “Glory be to Thomas 3.”

“Well, at least the Nation has something in common with Thomas 3.”

“Oh? And what’s that, rookie?”

“Based on your intelligence level, I gather Thomas 3 also has a major inbreeding problem.”

Tweedy’s sarcastic expression evaporated, replaced by a tooth-bared sneer. “You better watch your tongue, boy, or your butt is mine.”

“Sorry, afraid I like women. I’m not your type.”

Tweedy’s right first reared back, his taut muscles rippling under his skin. Quentin watched the hand and simultaneously watched Tweedy’s eyes. The big man stepped forward and threw his ham-sized fist, but Quentin moved so fast the punch might as well have been in slow motion. He stepped to the side and the fist hit only empty air. Tweedy’s momentum carried him forward a few awkward steps. In one smooth motion, Quentin reached out and snatched the towel from Tweedy’s waist, holding one end in each hand: he pulled it tight then snapped his left hand forward. The towel shot out like a striking snake and snapped Tweedy’s rear end — all of this before the big linebacker could even recover from his missed punch.

Tweedy stood straight up as he turned, his hands reaching back to cover his butt. His eyes grew wide with fury and his lips curled back in a primitive snarl. Fists clenched, he took a step forward, but stopped when Quentin held the towel tight once again, poised for another snap.

Tweedy pointed his finger at Quentin. “Put down that towel, you Purist piece of garbage, and we’ll settle this right now.”

“Sure thing, Johnny-boy,” Quentin said. “Maybe this time I can snap Little Johnny right off your body.” He twitched his shoulders as if to snap again, and the naked Tweedy took a hurried step back. Someone in the locker room started laughing.

“Barnes! Put that towel down!”

Quentin turned to see Hokor standing there, fur fluffed, his pedipalps trembling.

“Put it down.”

Without looking, Quentin tossed the towel behind him. Tweedy caught it and wrapped it once again around his waist.

“In my office, now.” Hokor stomped away, and Quentin followed.

Here we go, Quentin thought. He saw how I play in a real game, and now I’ll get the talk about how he thinks I’m ready for more.

Hokor’s office was just off the central meeting room. Holoframes lined the wall, showing Hokor with Krakens players as well as action shots of him on the sidelines of the D’Kow War Dogs, the Jupiter Jacks and the Chillich Spider-Bears. There were several pictures, the old-fashioned flat kind, showing Humans that Quentin didn’t recognize. One had a brimmed, houndstooth-patterned hat pulled down almost over his eyes. He wore an antique suit and had Human players around him in crimson helmets with a white stripe and crimson jerseys with block white letters and numbers. Another showed a squat, smiling man in a long coat with thick black glasses and a buzz-cut. He was riding on the shoulders of two dirty, happy men in green uniforms with yellow helmets.

A football holo played in the center of the room: the Glory Warpigs playing host to the Krakens’ next foe, the Grontak Hydras.

“How are the Hydras looking, Coach?” Quentin asked.

“They are my nightmare,” Hokor said as he sat behind his desk. The desk was curved like half a circle, made of some hard plant material Quentin had never seen before. Yet despite the alien wood in the alien city with the alien coach, Quentin couldn’t help but think of Coach Graber, sitting behind his desk back on Micovi.

“They have great speed at receiver,” Hokor said. “Their outside linebackers, Lokos the Bruised and Bilis the Destroyer, were All-GFL last year, and Wichita is without a doubt the best corner-back in Tier Two. She’ll probably be able to shut Hawick down completely.”

As the camera changed angles, a score flashed: Warpigs 22, Hydras 12.

“If they’re so good, how come they’re losing?”

Hokor stared for a moment before answering. “Barnes, the Hydras’ score against the Warpigs doesn’t matter. Nor does their record. Nor does it matter if the Hydras lose all their games. The only thing that matters is how they match up against us, and they match up very well indeed. Not that it matters to you.”

“Of course it matters to me, Coach. Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you’re benched next week.”

“Benched? Are you kidding me? For snapping John Tweedy on the butt?”

“I do not care about the silly bonding games you Human males play,” Hokor said, his big eye flooding clear black. “You’re benched for that pass you threw.”

Quentin’s jaw dropped. “What the hell are you talking about? I threw a 55-yard touchdown, for High One’s sake!”

“A pass that I did not tell you to throw,” Hokor said as he slapped the desktop with his pedipalps. “I told you to take a knee. And don’t think I’m fooled by your trick of turning off your helmet receiver.”

“Is this some kind of a rookie joke?”

“I do not joke.”

“So how long am I out?”

“One game,” Hokor said. “You will dress to lessen your shame, but you will not see any playing time. It is important that the team sees you as a competent backup to Pine, so we will keep this to ourselves. You are going to learn who is in charge here, Barnes.”

Quentin stared at the diminutive coach. He wanted to come across the desk and punch out that one big eye.

“This is all to protect Pine, isn’t it,” Quentin said. “You know damn well I should be starting.”

“Right now you’re not fit to start a grav-cab, let alone start for a Tier Two team,” Hokor said. “The sooner you see that, the sooner we can start working to make you good enough to play in this league.”

“I looked pretty flippin’ good today.”

“You were playing garbage time against the worst team in the division,” Hokor said. “Hardly an impressive outing. Now leave, I must prepare for next week’s game.”

Quentin stood and stormed out of the office, making sure to accidentally bump his shoulder against one of the holoframes as he left. He heard the heavy thing crash into the floor, and heard Hokor’s angry yell, but ignored both and walked back to the Human dressing room.

Pine was there, dressed in a sharp blue suit that complimented his blue skin. “Hell of a game today,” he said with a wide smile. “And hell of a shot you put on Tweedy. The guy’s left cheek is already black and blue. Where did you learn to do that?”

“In the mines,” Quentin said as he sulked to his locker. “Roundbugs down there. Every kid carries a weighted rope. You learn early on how to snap the rope to kill any roundbugs you see — you don’t learn how to do it right, you die.”

Pine’s face wrinkled in disbelief. “What, are you kidding me? How old were you when they taught you that?”

“Five,” Quentin said. “That’s when you start working in the mines.”

“At five? Five years old? Working a mine with poisonous ... bugs, or whatever? Good God, Quentin, what kind of a place did you grow up in?”

“A chosen place,” called the deep voice of Rick Warburg. “Where only the blessed can live.”

Pine laughed. “Doesn’t sound that blessed to me, champ.”

“High One protects the faithful,” Warburg said as he walked over.

“I see,” Pine said, drawing out the last word. “The faithful. And so therefore if a little child is killed by one of these bugs, then that’s because the child was not faithful. So the child dies, and it’s the child’s fault.”

Warburg nodded.

Pine shook his head. “Nice place you guys come from. Say, Quentin, Yitzhak and I are heading out on the town. There’s a great Chinese place just past the stadium.”

Pine’s audacity amazed Quentin. The guy was pulling every string in the book to keep his starting job, and was two-faced enough to try and be friends.

“I’ve got a place Quentin would be more happy,” Warburg said. “With his own people.”

Pine looked at Warburg, then looked at Quentin, then shrugged and walked away.

“Finish getting dressed,” Warburg said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“YOU’LL LOVE the neighborhood,” Warburg said. “There’s thousands of ex-patriot Nationalites on Ionath. Most of them came during the cleansing.”

Their grav-cab floated along the magnetic track that led through the Human Cultural Area. Grav-cabs abounded in the domed city — you just hopped on, told it where you wanted to go, then enjoyed the ride. On Micovi, only the rich could afford any kind of car, let alone one with a driver. Here in Ionath City, cars were not only available to anyone at any time, they were also free.

The four mile diameter dome created twelve square miles of ground, most of that space taken up by the main towering buildings of downtown Ionath City. The remaining space was home to the “Cultural Areas” of several species: Sklorno, Ki and Human; a fifty-story, high-pressure gas cylinder for the Harrah; aquatic centers for Leekee, Dolphins and Whitok. The Human Cultural Area consisted of only six city blocks, which didn’t leave a lot of room for individual neighborhoods that reflected the thousands of various Human cultures. The Human District, as the residents called it, was a hodge-podge of cultural influences crammed together in a claustrophobically confined space.

“Wait ‘til we eat,” Warburg said. “An old couple owns the place, used to run a restaurant back on Allah. Down-home Nation cooking. They’ve got a habanero falafel biscuit that will put your mouth in punch space.”

Quentin marveled at the area’s diversity. A hotel catering to League of Planets residents right next to a café that advertised food from the Tower Republic, next to a vodka-only liquor store that specialized in brands from across the galaxy. He saw dance clubs, restaurants, grocery stores, shops, all of which had signs written in Standard and hundreds of other languages. Shops and stores and restaurants packed one on top of the other and side-by-side. There were also dozens of places that — despite assorted cultural trappings — were easily identified by brightly lit signs showing stylized logos of liquor and beer, combined with some image of football. Bars, it seemed, looked the same all over in the galaxy.

People of every type walked the streets. Back home, he was used to the skin tones of his countrymen: black, brown, yellowish and pinkish. But here, those tones mingled with others that never set foot on Nation soil: blue, bleach-white, reddish, and even the occasional deep purple skin of an amphibious Human from the Whitok Kingdom. The “mongrel” races, as they’d been called back home. And it wasn’t just Humans. Gaudily dressed Ki businessmen freely walked the streets, as did Quyth Leaders, Quyth Warriors, tiny Sklorno males and floating Harrah.

Amidst the diversity, he suddenly realized that one species was notedly absent. “Where are the Creterakian soldiers?”

“There aren’t any.”

Quentin looked at Warburg. “There aren’t any? But, how is that possible? They rule the universe.”

Warburg shrugged. “They don’t rule here. The Quyth are independent. The bats never conquered them.”

The concept seemed impossible. All his life, he and his people had been ruled by Creterakians. Quentin had never known a time when the omnipresent bats hadn’t controlled everything.

“So, in the war, the Quyth won?” The Quyth won while the Purist Nation was conquered were the words that went unsaid.

“They can thank Satan for that,” Warburg said. “The Quyth are in league with the Low One. Temporary freedom for an eternity of fire, Quentin, it’s hardly a good deal.”

Music of many differing styles filtered out of windows and open bar doors. Smells of enticing foods combined with the stench of garbage and the ever-present onion scent of Quyth Workers. Quentin had never before experienced such a concentration of sights, sounds and smells.

“Look at this place,” Warburg said, gesturing to the brightly lit signs of three different churches lined up side-by-side. “Look at all the blasphemy that goes on in the galaxy, Quentin. It’s as if a new religion pops up every other day.”

Churches of every type filled tiny buildings, offices and upper-story lofts. He’d never imagined there were so many different religions. On Micovi, you either followed the Purist way or you followed no way at all — practicing other religions in Nation space got you thrown in jail, if you were lucky, or dragged before a tribunal, which usually resulted in jail, public beatings, or being stoned to death.

“Someday, Purist Nation troops will walk down this street,” Warburg said. “Someday, all of these sinners will burn.”

Quentin said nothing. He didn’t feel anger or disgust, he felt excitement. Excitement at something new and different. He suddenly realized that, for the first time in his life, he was free of not only the Creterakian Empire’s watchful eye, but also the Purist Church’s constant restrictions.

“Here we are,” Warburg said as he hit the stop button on the automated grav-cab. Quentin got out in front of a building with a flickering holo sign of the infinity symbol. Below the flickering sign were the words “The Blessed Lamb,” and below that a nondescript brown door. Some graffiti covered the plain black walls. Quentin couldn’t make out most of the writing, but one message in Standard read haters go home.

Warburg walked in and Quentin followed. There was a brief pause as the men entered and heads turned, followed by a chorus of cheers and calls of “Praise High One.” Over half the crowd of fifty-plus patrons wore the blue. Most of the men bore the infinity tattoo on their foreheads.

“Welcome, Brother Warburg,” said a fat man in priest’s robes. “We enjoyed your performance today.”

“Thank you, Father Harry.” Warburg warmly shook the man’s hand. “Three catches is a good day’s work.”

“Three catches for twenty-eight yards,” said a man on their right. He wore Purist blue and held a coffee mug in his hand. “And let’s not forget the highlight of the day, when you put that cricket in the hospital.”

“Thanks, Elder Greyson. Any word on his condition?”

Father Harry smiled. “ESPN reports the beast is out for two to three games. Said her leg was nearly severed at the knee!”

A snarl-smile covered Warburg’s face, and he pumped his fist. “I tried to make the thing come right off.”

The words shocked Quentin. He stared at Warburg, wondering if the man was joking. Had he really tried to maim the Wallcrawler defensive back?

Warburg stood tall and raised his voice. “Hey, listen everybody. I want to introduce you to the latest Purist Nation export, Quentin Barnes.”

A round of cheers and applause filled the small bar. Hands reached out to pat Quentin’s shoulder or shake his hand. He couldn’t help but smile at the outpouring of affection. These were Nationalites, Church members, and they seemed to instantly accept him. Quentin didn’t know what to make of it.

“A blessed game you played today, my son,” Father Harry said. “Two-for-two, for eighty yards and a touchdown! Now that’s showing the galaxy what a Nationalite can do.”

“Maybe you’ll be starting soon,” Greyson said. “Get some more passes to Rick, here. High One knows he’d have more catches if that damn blue-boy quarterback would stop throwing to that scum Kobayasho. He doesn’t even have half of Rick’s skills!”

Warburg shrugged and held up his hands as if to say what can I do?

Quentin’s thoughts came back to football, and he felt his face turn red with embarrassment. He wouldn’t be starting, he wouldn’t even be playing in the next game. Benched. Benched.

Quentin and Warburg were the center of attention as the bar owners, a husband-and-wife team named Brother Guido and Monica Basset, brought plate after plate of classic Nation dishes. The conversation revolved around the hated Planetary Union, the hated League of Planets, the hated Tower Republic, the demonic Ki, the demonic Sklorno, the demonic Quyth, et cetera, et cetera. It was the same conversation Quentin had heard every day of his life, yet somehow, in this alien city, with his alien teammates probably only a few blocks away at their own cultural centers, the conversation seemed out of place. It even seemed wrong. He suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.

And, he wanted a beer. Several beers. Back on Micovi, he didn’t care who he offended with his preference of beverage, but these people were so nice, and Warburg really had tried hard to make him feel at home. For the first time in Quentin’s life, he didn’t want to offend the people around him.

He finished his fourth helping of habanero falafel biscuits, his mouth a dichotomy of tasty pleasure and fiery, burning pain. He stood and smiled. “Thank you all for your hospitality.”

“You’re leaving?” Warburg said amidst the groans from the other patrons.

“This is my first time in the city,” Quentin said apologetically. “I want to walk around a bit.”

“You want me to come with you?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, thanks. You stay. I just want to take in the sights by myself.”

Warburg stood and shook Quentin’s hand, starting a cavalcade of hand-shaking and back-patting from smiling, happy expatriot Nationalites.

Father Harry stood. That took some effort thanks to his ample girth. He handed Quentin a plastic call chit. “Quentin, my son, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, you have but to call. We have a network of Nationalite business owners and travelers who can help you no matter what the problem.”

Quentin took the chit. The offer didn’t surprise him — he’d received preferential treatment ever since he’d started his first game two years ago. But this was different. Before, he’d been treated with deference just because he was a quarterback, but here he had the feeling it had nothing to do with football. Well, almost nothing. It was mostly because he was a Nationalite.

“There is one thing.”

“What is it, my son?”

“I ... I’m looking for my parents.”

“Are they on Ionath?”

“I, um, I don’t know. I haven’t seen them since I was maybe three. I think they left Micovi but I don’t know.”

Father Harry nodded knowingly, a sad nod, a supporting nod. “I see. Don’t be embarrassed, Quentin. Your story is quite common. Many of us, even in this room, had to leave the Nation suddenly, either leave or die. Families are scattered throughout the universe.”

“So how do I find them?”

“What are their names?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin said, staring at the ground. “I don’t remember. I know their last name is Barnes, but that’s all.”

“Do you have any other family?”

Quentin held his breath. Here it comes, he thought. Now they find out I have no family, and they treat me like garbage, just like they treated me back on Micovi.

“Quentin, do you have any other family? Brothers? Aunts or uncles?”

“No,” Quentin said in a whisper.

Father Harry clapped Quentin on the shoulder. “Then we’ll have to start from scratch, my son. We’ll put the word out. Last name Barnes, left Micovi about sixteen years ago?”

Quentin looked up, into Father Harry’s eyes. The man was still smiling, still supportive. “Yeah, fifteen or sixteen years ago.”

“If they can be found, we will find them. Now go enjoy your sightseeing. You are welcome here anytime.”

Quentin mumbled thanks, then walked outside. He didn’t know what to make of it. These people were a support network, a small tribe in a hostile land. He felt the sense of community, of brotherhood. They offered to help him not because he was a football player, but because they automatically considered him to be one of them. He had to travel hundreds of light years from his home to be accepted by his own people. It was so confusing it made his head hurt.

He started walking. He’d never been treated like that before. Those people were so nice to him, so gracious and friendly and loving — just because he was a Nationalite. And yet, those same people hated everything that was different from them. Not just hated, but wanted to destroy.

He had walked only a few short minutes when the environment changed. The buildings looked the same, but the glowing signs showed alien words. Strange music flowing from open doors. If you could call it music — some horrible screeching sound with rhythm. Quentin looked around him, realizing he’d walked right through the Human District and into the Sklorno Cultural Area. Tall Sklorno females wrapped in heavy clothing walked about. Sklorno males abounded, but here the tiny creatures moved in an orderly, calm fashion, nothing like the bouncing madness he’d seen at the game.

He also realized he’d drawn a crowd. Looking about, he saw he was surrounded by Sklorno females. They kept their distance, a good fifteen feet, but ringed him nonetheless.

“Well, well, well, look who’s out on the town!”

Quentin cringed when he heard the deep Human voice — John Tweedy. He turned to see Tweedy and Yassoud standing there. Perhaps leaning was a better description. Both men held magnicans of beer, and both looked like they’d been drinking for hours. They were both stylishly dressed, although the clothes looked a bit worse for the wear, as if they’d both fallen down several times during the night. Tweedy also wore a bandoleer filled with magnicans. TAKE ONE DOWN PASS IT AROUND scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.

“Hey, Q,” Yassoud said.

“Hey,” Quentin said, staring at Tweedy, bracing himself for some kind of conflict.

“So what’s a racist waste of skin like you doin’ in the Sklorno District?” Tweedy said, his words slurring slightly.

Quentin started to answer, but Yassoud cut him off. “Aw, leave him alone, Johnny. He’s here, ain’t he?”

Tweedy seemed to seriously consider this for almost five seconds, as if it were an advanced trigonometry problem. “Uh ... yeah,” he finally said with a definitive nod of the head.

Yassoud laughed. “I’m finding our world-class linebacker ain’t too sharp after you get a few in him.”

Tweedy reached into his bandolier and pulled out a magnican. “Hey, Q, you want a beer?”

It was the last thing he’d expected to hear from John Tweedy. “Sure,” Quentin said, and took the offered can. He twisted the top, feeling the can grow instantly cold in his hand. He took a long drink — the amazing taste exploded in his mouth. He looked at the can: Miller Lager.

“Where the hell did you get this?”

Tweedy’s face furrowed in confusion. “From a beer store.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, how much did this cost?”

Yassoud laughed. “Five credits for a ten-pack.”

“Five credits? You’re joking.”

Yassoud and Tweedy looked at each other, then at Quentin, and both laughed.

“Okay, fine, so it’s cheap beer,” Yassoud said. “Go to the store and get what you want.”

“No no, it’s great!” Quentin took another long pull, draining the can. “I don’t know how you got it for that price. Is there any left at that store?”

Yassoud laughed and shook his head. “Are you kidding me? There’s a whole wall of it.”

They had to be joking, of course. Miller Lager was ten credits a can back home.

Tweedy and Yassoud started to walk towards a door. Quentin didn’t know what the building was until he saw the glowing holosign: some logo he didn’t recognize, with words he couldn’t read, but in the middle of it was the familiar outline of a football — a sports bar. Tweedy and Yassoud made it as far as the wall before they fell down in a heap. Yassoud attempted to rise, while Tweedy didn’t move.

Quentin sighed. All of the sudden he was the sober one, and knew he had to get his teammates home. He signaled a grav-cab and helped Yassoud stumble in. Then he struggled to lift Tweedy’s 310-plus pounds, breaking a sweat before he rolled the big, muscular man onto the cab’s floor. The vehicle was built to carry all types of sentients, including Ki, which meant there was still plenty of room.

“The Krakens’ Building,” Quentin said. The grav-cab slid noiselessly down the track.

WEEK ONE LEAGUE ROUNDUP (courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

Opening week of the Quyth Irradiated schedule held few surprises. The Glory Warpigs (1-0) topped the Grontak Hydras (0-1) thanks to a pair of interceptions by the Warpigs’ All-Pro corner-back Toyonaka.

Last year’s rookie sensation Condor Adrienne showed why he’s the hope of the Whitok Pioneers (1-0), throwing for 334 yards and three touchdowns in a 42-10 blowout win over the Quyth Survivors (0-1).

Donald Pine, quarterback of the Ionath Krakens (1-0), showed no signs of his age, throwing three TD passes in a 31-7 win over the Woo Wallcrawlers (0-1).

The Sheb Stalkers (0-1) couldn’t manage any answer to “The Mad” Ju Tweedy, who ran for 212 yards to lead the Orbiting Death (1-0) to a 32-7 win. Ju notched three rushing touchdowns, and knocked two Stalkers defenders out for the season.

The Bigg Diggers (1-0) edged out a 21-16 win over the Sky Demolition (0-1).

DEATHS:

Princeton, a kick returner for the Bigg Diggers, was killed on a tackle by Yalla the Biter. League officials ruled that it was a clean hit.

WEEK #1 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: Condor Adrienne, quarterback, Whitok Pioneers. 31-of-42, 334 yards, three TDs, no INTs.

Defense: Arkham, cornerback, Bigg Diggers. Six tackles, one sack, two interceptions, five passes defended.

GAME TWO: Grontak Hydras (0-1) at the Ionath Krakens (1-0)

QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS

THE HYDRAS WERE 0-1, but drastically better than the Woo Wallcrawlers. The Hydras wore white jerseys with bright red numbers and yellow trim. The jerseys looked normal, but their leg armor was painted a bizarre red-and-yellow checkerboard pattern. Red facemasks adorned pure red helmets free of any logo.

Quentin watched from the sidelines, his black jersey and orange leg armor pristine and unblemished with dirt or sweat or blood or the blue streaks from the plants that made up the playing field.

Pine’s uniform, on the other hand, was far from clean. A cut on his left forearm had spilled blood all over his shoes and his orange leg armor. He’d been sacked three times. Iomatt-blue stains and dirt marks spotted his uniform. His black jersey had come half-untucked and he’d never bothered to fix it.

Pine had taken a beating. In addition to the three sacks, he’d been knocked down four times and hurried ten. His classic pocket-passing style ran into problems against the Hydras’ defense. The Hydras’ secondary played a lot of woman-to-woman, bump-and-run style, taking away Pine’s accurate short-passing game. That gave the defensive line more time to get to him, which had resulted in the pounding he’d taken thus far. Hokor countered with running plays to keep the defense on its toes. The woman-to-woman coverage also meant receivers were eventually going to get free — Pine had torched the secondary with two long TD passes, putting the Krakens up 23-17. Both TDs went to the right side of the field, to Scarborough. The Hydras’ star cornerback, Wichita, had shut down Hawick on the left side all day long.

Quentin watched with mixed emotions. He knew he could have used his speed and mobility to avoid the defense. Each time Pine went down, Quentin felt a smug satisfaction that Hokor was sleeping in the bed he had made for himself. Yet at the same time, Quentin wanted to win — when Pine threw a completion, he found himself hissing “yes!” between clenched teeth. Pine kept getting knocked down, knocked down hard, and he kept getting back up. Slower each time, it seemed, but he refused to stay down.

The game was a real nail-biter, but Hokor seemed to have things under control. Up 23-17 with 1:41 to play, ball on the Krakens’ 32, Hokor relied on running plays to Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed. sFrom the sidelines, Quentin saw where he got his nickname. The punishing Hydra defense brought it all against Fayed, delivering big-time hit after big-time hit. Yet after each bone-crushing impact, some so devastating they made other players wince just from watching, Fayed simply popped up and ran back to the huddle. He smashed into the line again and again, dishing out as many hits as he took.

Paul Pierson, Fayed’s backup, had also seen several carries. Quentin hadn’t been that impressed, and wondered if Yassoud could do better.

On second-and-six, Pine dropped back and stood tall in the pocket. Wichita, the defensive back, lined up over Hawick, took two steps back as if in pass coverage, then came full speed on a blindside blitz.

As Pine checked through his receivers, Wichita closed the fifteen-yard distance in only two seconds, a white-red-yellow blur of speed. Pine saw the blitz at the last second and fired a pass to Fayed in the flat, just before Wichita dove at Pine’s legs. Even from the sidelines, despite the roar of another 185,000-plus capacity crowd, Quentin heard the snap.

Wichita hit Pine at the thigh, seemingly bending him in half and driving him to the side. His orange-colored leg armor split into two pieces and spun away like large chunks of shrapnel. The two players hit the ground, Wichita on top, Pine already howling in pain. As Wichita rolled off, Pine’s hands flew to his thigh. His leg suddenly seemed to have an extra joint — the thigh flopped sickeningly halfway between the hip and the knee, more like a Ki’s leg than a Human’s. At this new, unnatural joint, his cool-suit stuck out at a weird angle. A growing circle of bright blood stained the microtubule fabric.

Whistles blew as Harrah refs swarmed to the downed quarterback. Doc flew out onto the field, the medsled stretcher automatically following slowly behind. A hush fell over the crowd as Pine rolled to one side, then the next, clutching his leg, his face a scrunched-up vision of agony.

As Doc reached Pine, Quentin noticed the Sklorno players trembling on the field. Not the excited trembling he’d seen before, but something else, something disturbing. They huddled together, Kraken and Hydra both, raspers linked like a pile of entangled snakes. All but Wichita, who stood a few yards away from Pine. Her tentacle-arms were spread out to her sides, and her eyes looked up to the sky. Quentin didn’t know what to make of the strange behavior.

Doc put a small device to Pine’s neck. One second later Pine stopped moving. Thin wires snaked out from the gravsled, sliding under Pine and lifting him up off the ground. With Pine dangling motionless underneath, the medsled glided noiselessly off the field towards the end-zone tunnel, Doc flying gracefully by its side.

“Barnes,” Hokor called loudly.

Quentin blinked a few times, not sure if he’d heard right. He was benched. Yitzhak would be going in, not him.

“Barnes!”

Quentin pulled on his helmet as he ran to the coach. Without being told, he knelt on one knee so he could look Hokor in the eye. Hokor put a pedipalp on Quentin’s shoulder and drew him close.

“Barnes, we’re in a bad spot. We need to play for field position and let our defense win this thing, you understand?”

Quentin nodded vigorously.

“You run the plays that I call, and we’ll win this game.”

Quentin nodded again.

“If we have to pass, they’re going to come hard. That’s why I need you now, Yitzhak can’t scramble the way you can. R-set, dive right, tell Fayed to get that first down.”

Quentin stood and ran onto the field. The crowd roared approval, but he didn’t hear them. A glance at the scoreboard told him Fayed had picked up five yards on the last play, making it third-and-one. He felt like he was floating instead of running. He reached the huddle. It was different this time — all first-string players — dirty, bloody, intense and mean. This wasn’t garbage time. Every one of the ten sentients in the huddle wanted to win. They looked at him, some with suspicion, some with hope. Warburg smiled at him and gave him a quick thumbs-up.

“R-set,” Quentin said, surprised to hear his voice crack like a pubescent teenager. He cleared his throat. “R-set, dive right. We need a first down here! On two, on two, ready?”

“Break,” the huddle called in unison.

Quentin walked to the line, adrenaline racing through his body, making him feel like a vibrating holosign. The Human and Quyth linebackers looked at him like he was a mortal enemy, the Ki defensive linemen looked at him like he was a meal.

The Krakens lined up with two tight ends, Tom Pareless at fullback and Fayed at tailback. Hawick lined up wide left, Wichita only two yards off in bump-and-run coverage.

“Blue, fifteen!” Quentin’s eyes swept the defense. “Blue, fifteen!” The Hydras lined up in a 5-2 with the defensive backs up close — a run-stopping formation. The right cornerback played in tight, and the free safety was cheating up to the line. Like everyone in the stadium, they knew it was a run, that Fayed would get the ball. That was the safe thing to do, the smart thing to do. Quentin’s mind flashed a light-year a minute, calculating the positions and intended directions of each defensive player.

“Hut-hut!”

BLINK

The world around him slowed to half-speed. The ball slapped into his hands and the line exploded into a melee. Quentin pivoted for the handoff, and as he did he saw the free safety drive forward and the right cornerback come in for a run-blitz. The Hydras hoped to jam the off-tackle hole, and the cornerback would keep Fayed from bouncing to the outside. Fayed would have nowhere to run.

Quentin reached the ball back for Fayed — then at the last second, he pulled it just out of Fayed’s reach.

Fayed tried to turn, looking to the ground as if there was a fumble, but his forward momentum carried him into the line. The free safety slipped through the hole and hit Fayed at the waist. The blitzing cornerback came in fast, and saw too late that Quentin still had the ball.

Quentin tucked the ball and drove to his right. The cornerback planted her feet, but he was by her before she could change direction. As soon as he moved past her he cut up-field at an angle. The corner chased him — he’d never seen a player change direction that fast. The strong safety came at him from the defensive backfield, eliminating any cutback. The Quyth Warrior outside linebacker, number 52, Bilis the Destroyer, went into a side-roll, quickly moving back at an angle that put him in front of Quentin. Bilis popped out of his roll, suddenly on all fours, strong pedipalps sticking out and ready.

Quentin threw a head-and-shoulders juke to his left, to the inside. Bilis bought it, and Quentin instantly drove to his right, to the outside, in a cut that would leave the linebacker grasping air.

Bilis the Destroyer instantly matched the move.

No way, Quentin had time to think before Bilis leveled him, catching him under the chin and knocking his head back. Quentin’s feet flew out from under him as his body spun backwards until the back of his head smashed into the ground. He bounced once and rolled to an ungraceful stop.

BLINK

The world rushed back to normal, some unseen force seeming to tap off the “mute” button in his brain — the sound of 185,000-plus hit him like a hammer.

He stood up, energy pumping through every molecule in his body while pain radiated through his brain. He’d thrown that same move at least a thousand times in his PNFL career. It always left the defenders in the dust. But the Quyth Warrior linebacker ... he’d never seen such amazing lateral movement. Bilis the Destroyer had matched his in-cut and his out-cut as if he were Quentin’s mirror-image. On all-fours, their low center of gravity let them move side-to-side far faster than any Human.

The Hydras called a timeout, stopping the clock at 1:36. The ref signaled first down and the chains moved forward. Quentin jogged back to the huddle. He’d picked up eleven yards on the play.

Hokor’s faced popped to life in the holographic heads-up display.

“Barnes, what the hell was that?”

“A first down, Coach.”

“I called a dive-right.”

“That’s what I ran, Coach,” Quentin said as he reached the huddle. “Only I missed the handoff, so I improvised.”

“Well stop improvising!” Hokor screamed so loud Quentin wondered if Quyth Leaders had vocal cords that could rupture.

“Okay, Coach, no problem.”

“Good. Same play. And this time, hand it off.”

First-and-10 on the Krakens’ 43. Quentin turned to the huddle. The Humans were smiling at him, the Sklorno stared at him with newfound reverence, and the Ki just looked at him in their unemotional way.

“Okay, let’s do it again, X-set, dive right, on one.”

“You gonna hand it off this time?” Fayed asked without a hint of irritation.

“Yeah. Get me some yards.”

Fayed nodded once.

The Krakens lined up. He handed off to Fayed: this time the free safety stayed off the line, and the right corner waited, making sure Quentin didn’t have the ball. Bilis the Destroyer came free and swung his arm in a vicious hook that caught Fayed in the throat, lifting the Human off the ground and snapping him back after a three-yard gain. Quentin watched in horror, fully expecting Fayed to lay on the ground with a broken neck. But the whistles blew, Fayed popped up good as new and ran back to the huddle, smiling all the way.

Hydras used their second time out: 1:29 to go.

Hokor’s voice came over the transmitter. “Off-tackle left, tell Fayed to keep that ball covered up.”

Quentin nodded and called the play in the huddle. The crowd roared like a hundred take-off rockets, so loud their combined voices shook the very ground. The ball snapped into his hands. As he turned he watched the defenders — once again they were selling out, coming to stop the run and only the run. Quentin handed off to Fayed, who avoided a would-be tackler that broke through the line. Fayed spun to his left, back inside, but there was nowhere to run. He plowed into the line for no gain.

The Hydras used their last timeout.

Third down and seven on the 46, 1:22 to play.

Quentin reached to his belt and tapped the transmit button. “Coach, they’re bringing everyone to stop the run. I can do a quick slant for the first down.”

Hokor’s face appeared in the heads-up display. “Dive left,” he said.

“Coach, we won’t get a first down! They’ll get the ball back.”

“We chew up another thirty seconds, punt, and make them work the length of the field.”

“But Coach -”

“Hand off the damn ball!” Hokor’s voice was loud enough to make Quentin flinch. The Coach’s fur puffed out and his eye flooded a deep black.

Quentin walked to the huddle. “Okay, okay, we’ve got this in the bag. X-set dive left, on two, on two. Break!”

The Krakens jogged to the line. The Hydras players looked like characters from some war movie, dug-in deep and ready for a heroic last stand against the enemy. The ballgame hinged on this one play. If the Hydras stopped the Krakens here, they’d get the ball back with just under a minute to play. No timeouts, but they’d have a chance to win. If the Krakens got the first down, Quentin would just take a knee on the next two plays and the game was over. If they got the first down, they controlled the win instead of giving the Hydras a chance to snatch the victory.

Quentin stood behind the center and surveyed the defense.

“Red, nineteeeeen! Red, nineteen!”

All the defenders moved up to the line. The free safety and the safety stood only a few yards back from the linebackers, who had lined up just two yards off the line of scrimmage. With the defense packed in like that, there was nowhere for Fayed to run.

As Quentin bent to take the snap, he stole a glance at Wichita, the Hydras’ cornerback: she was only one yard off the blindingly fast Hawick. Too close. Hawick could run a seven-yard slant in less than a second. All Quentin had to do was take the snap, stand and throw as fast as he could, and Hawick would be seven yards downfield.

“Flash! Flash!” Quentin called. Krakens’ heads turned to look at him in amazement. “Blue thirty-two, blue-thirty two!” With the audible, the Krakens players had their new instructions. Heads turned back to face front. He’d win this game and win it right now.

“Hut, hut!”

The ball snapped into his hands. Quentin stood, turned and fired. Hawick was a blur, Wichita a half-step behind. The ball ripped through the air like a laser — but a misguided laser, just a bit behind the target. Wichita closed so fast Quentin’s mind couldn’t even process the movement. Hawick reached back, but Wichita cut in front of her, snatched the ball out of the air, and in the same motion cut to the outside and angled for the Krakens’ end zone.

Quentin turned reactively to pursue, but it was already too late — in the time it took him to change direction and head downfield, Wichita already had a ten-yard lead. Hawick, the only player with a hope of catching her, gave chase, but didn’t have enough time to catch up. Wichita ran the fifty yards to the end zone in less than four seconds.

Hydras 23, Krakens 23.

The Hydras’ kicker, Kash Wallace, and the kicking team ran onto the field. The sandpapery sound filled the stadium, along with other derisive noises from the smattering of other species present. It was the loudest “boo” Quentin had ever heard. He stood there, dumbfounded.

Hokor’s face appeared once again in the heads-up display. His fur was puffed out all the way, but there was nothing cute about it this time. His eye was blacker than even a Ki’s unblinking spot. “Barnes! Get your stupid, inbred face off my field.”

Quentin turned and ran to the sidelines, feeling like a condemned man walking his last mile. Teammates stood on the sidelines, glaring at him, some shaking their heads in disbelief, some pounding the ground in rage.

He said a quick prayer to the High One, but the High One wasn’t listening — Wallace’s extra point sailed through the uprights.

Hydras 24, Krakens 23, 1:13 to play.

Special teams ran onto the field for the kickoff.

Quentin ran to Hokor and kneeled down. Hokor’s eye swirled with colors: blacks and reds, the colors of anger and hate. “What did I tell you to call?”

“Dive left.”

“And what did you run?”

“Slant pass left.”

Hokor nodded and glared. Something about the look said I told you so. Quentin felt his face turn red, and he dropped his head in shame. He’d just cost his team the game.

“You want to prove yourself? ” Hokor said. “Well here’s your chance. We’ve got a minute left to win this game. We’ve only got one timeout left. Your arm is going to do it for us.”

Quentin looked up. Hokor was putting him back in, back in to win the game. Quentin felt a new rush of adrenaline. This is what he was born to do.

“I won’t screw up again, Coach.”

Hokor nodded. “If you do, Gredok will probably have you killed.”

The crowd roared as the kickoff sailed through the air. Richfield caught the ball at the five. She ran up-field, then cut right. The Hydras closed in, weaving through blockers or just running them over. Quentin recognized the Hydra with the number 23 — Wichita — dodge around blockers as if they weren’t even there.

Richfield cut back inside and jumped high to avoid the tackle, but Wichita read the cut and launched herself through the air. She hit Richfield dead-center and at top speed — Richfield’s torso snapped backwards, her legs still moving forward.

First-and-ten on the Kraken’s fifteen.

Quentin led the offense onto the field. Arioch Morningstar, the Kraken’s kicker, could hit from 45-yards out, sometimes from 50. That meant the Krakens had to get at least to the Hydra’s 35-yard line to get into Morningstar’s range, and they had 1:08 in which to do it.

“X-set,” said Hokor’s voice in Quentin’s ear. “Pulse-34, work the sidelines.”

Quentin nodded and looked over his huddle. They all looked at him, expecting him to lead them.

“X-set, pulse-34,” Quentin said. “Make sure you get out of bounds.”

He broke the huddle and came up the line.

The Hydras dug in, knowing it was now their game to lose. Bilis the Destroyer crowded the line, showing blitz. The crowd’s roar grew so loud Quentin could barely hear himself call the signals. Hawick and Scarborough lined up wide to the left, Denver and Mezquitic wide to the right. Wichita again lined up over Scarborough, in bump-and-run coverage. Quentin looked to his right, to Denver. If Bilis the Destroyer came on the blitz, Denver would angle in and run a hook in Bilis’s abandoned coverage area.

“Blue, sixteeeen!” Quentin shouted, trying to be heard over the crowd’s roar. Bilis took another step forward, edging in between his Ki defensive tackle and his heavy-G defensive end.

“Hut-hut!”

BLINK

The ball slapped into his hands as the clock started ticking. Quentin dropped back, ball held high, looking for Denver’s route. Bilis didn’t blitz — instead, he back-pedaled on all fours, scurrying back to cover the short zone, right where Quentin had hoped Denver would run. Denver saw the coverage and angled for the sidelines, but she was covered. Quentin looked left: Scarborough hooked up at the sidelines, but she was also covered. Hawick ran a post — she was wide-open, no defender. Quentin planted, after only three steps of his five-step drop, and started to throw even before he saw the blur of motion coming from his left.

Nothing can move that fast flashed through his head just before Wichita, on a corner blitz, caught him dead in the chest. Two hundred eighty pounds of power moving at blinding speed knocked Quentin back like a rag doll. His helmet popped off, seemed to hang in mid-air as he was driven backwards. A pain stabbed through his mouth, but all he could think about was the fact that the ball was no longer in his hands. He turned as he fell, his naked face sliding across the grass.

He saw the brown ball bouncing on the blue Iomatt, wobbling towards the sidelines. Quentin scrambled to get up, but Wichita was much faster. She popped to her feet.

Quentin’s breath froze in his chest. All players converged on the loose ball.

But the Wichita got to it first.

BLINK

The world returned to normal speed as the whistle blew. The ref flew in and repeatedly thrust a tentacle towards the Krakens’ end zone — Hydras’ ball. Quentin’s heart sank right down out of his chest, through his legs and into the ground. It was all over but the crying. He felt a hard something in his mouth. He spit; a bloody white tooth landed on the blue field.

The game was over. A corner blitz. He’d successfully handled that same defensive tactic more times than he could count, but Wichita had come so fast, arriving perhaps two full seconds sooner than any Human corner could have ever managed. Quentin picked up his helmet and walked off the field, head hung low, the taste of his own blood salty in his mouth.

The Hydras’ quarterback took a knee on first down. The Krakens used up their last timeout. Two more knees, and the clock ticked down to zero.

Hydras 24, Krakens 23.

The sandpaper-bristle sound rose to even new heights, loud enough to make the High One himself cover his ears.

Game over. Quentin didn’t get a chance to be the hero, he was only the goat.

• • •

MANY THINGS HAD CHANGED in the course of eight centuries of football. Equipment changed, rules changed, strategy changed, even species changed. But at least two things remained constant — the feeling of the winners, and the feeling of the losers.

A noise-killing shadow seemed to hang over the Human locker room. There was almost no conversation, only the clicks and clacks of armor being removed and tossed into lockers. The shadow seemed deepest and most oppressive in front of the locker belonging to one Quentin Barnes, who sat on the bench, head hung, his gear still on.

He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. Instead of doing what he was told, instead of giving the defense the chance to win the game, he’d stupidly gone for the kill and wound up losing.

Yassoud came out of the nano-shower dressed only in a towel. His right shoulder was one solid bruise, angry blue and painful purple beneath his light brown skin. He saw Quentin, head hung low, and walked over.

“How you doin’, champ?”

Quentin looked up without lifting his head, then returned his gaze to the floor. His tongue played with the painful spot where his right front tooth had once been. “Leave me alone.”

“Hey, you threw a pick, it happens.”

“It shouldn’t have happened. Hokor called a run play, I au-dibled.”

“So?”

“So? What do you mean, so? I cost us the game.”

Yassoud shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. A lot of factors went into that loss. The defense gave up ten points in the third quarter. You threw an interception. It was a team loss, Q.”

Quentin shook his head. “It was my game to win, and I blew it.”

Yassoud patted him on the shoulder. “That’s nothing a night on the town won’t cure, my friend. Let’s go out and drink away our sorrows!”

Quentin stood and started unbuckling his armor. “No thanks. I’ve got to get back to my room and study some holo.”

“Hey, man, you’ve got to take a break sometime.”

“I’ll take a break after we win.”

Yassoud gave a little smile that seemed to say suit yourself, then returned to his locker.

He was the only one that spoke to Quentin that night. The others simply ignored him.

WEEK TWO LEAGUE ROUNDUP (Courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

Condor Adrienne continued his hot streak, throwing for 342 yards and four touchdowns as the Whitok Pioneers (2-0) notched a 26-12 win over the Bigg Diggers (1-1).

The Sheb Stalkers (1-1) put one in the win column with a 18-16 thriller over the Sky Demolition (0-2). Kicker Bernard Alexander rocked home a 51-yard field goal as time expired to give the Stalkers the victory.

An injury to star quarterback Donald Pine let the Grontak Hydras (1-1) pull out an upset win over the Ionath Krakens (1-1). Defensive back Wichita picked off a fourth-quarter pass from Krakens’ rookie Quentin Barnes and returned it for a touchdown, giving the Hydras a 24-23 win.

Orbiting Death (2-0) continues to look strong, notching a convincing 35-21 win over the Woo Wallcrawlers (0-2). Ju Tweedy rushed for 121 yards and two TDs in the win, but also fumbled three times resulting in two turnovers.

The Glory Warpigs (2-0) remained tied for first thanks to a narrow 17-14 win over the Quyth Survivors (0-2). Keluang, Wellington and Alamo each grabbed an interception as the Warpigs held the Survivors to 102 yards passing, and 182 yards total offense.

DEATHS:

No deaths to report this week.

WEEK #2 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: Ju Tweedy, running back, Orbiting Death. 121 yards on 23 carries, two TDs.

Defense: Wichita, cornerback, Grontak Hydras. 9 tackles, 2 sacks, 1 forced fumble, 1 fumble recovery, 1 INT, returned for a TD.

GAME THREE: Ionath Krakens (1-1) at Whitok Pioneers (2-0)

QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS

HALF-DRESSED FOR PRACTICE and head hung low, Quentin trudged into the center dressing room. Hokor had summoned him to his office. Quentin had never felt like such a failure. He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. Pissed it away because he still didn’t understand how fast things moved in the GFL. Logically, he understood, sure, but subliminally, at that primitive level where thought ceased and instinct took over, where split-second decisions were made, he just didn’t get it.

Quentin’s tongue played against the back of the thin plastic that lined his front teeth. Doc said it would take the rest of the day to finish growing the tooth. The working nanocytes tingled in his gums.

Was Hokor just benching him again, or was he giving him a one-way ticket back to the Purist Nation? Quentin went to buzz the door, but it was already open, waiting for him like an execution chamber. He hesitated a moment, then stepped inside.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

Hokor’s pedipalp waved him in. The coach stood in the middle of the floor, staring into a holo of the Whitok Pioneers 32-14 win over the Bigg Diggers. The holo was set to one-third size, making a six-foot-tall player project at two-feet high, just a bit shorter than Hokor.

“Have a seat, Quentin.”

Quentin did as he was told. A pallor seemed to hang over his soul. He hadn’t felt this way since the orphanage nuns had caught him eating food, eating more than his share by far. He’d tried to lie his way out of it, only making the nuns’ wrath all the more severe. That had been his first public whipping, tied up in the city square, with hundreds watching as Sister Akira gave him fifteen lashes. It was the longest day of a seven-year-old’s life.

Hokor said nothing. On the field, the Diggers lined up in a three wide receiver set with a tight end and a single running back. The defense closed in, showing tight woman-to-woman. Hokor paused the game. He worked the controls so that the field spun until Quentin was behind the offensive line.

“What do you see?”

“They’re showing woman-to-woman, but I think they’re set up for a cover-two.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The right corner’s eyes are in the offensive backfield. If it was pure woman-to-woman, she’d be more concerned with the receiver in front of her.”

Hokor nodded once. “Very good. And if that was you, and I’d called a post-cross, what would you audible?”

Quentin stared at the field. His heart sank in his chest. He started to answer, then stopped, his mind suddenly blank.

“I wouldn’t audible anything. I’ve had enough audibling for awhile.”

Hokor again nodded just once. “If I put you in the game again, will you run the plays I call?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. You’re starting this week.”

Quentin stared, dumbfounded.

“Surely your backwater ears understand what I’m telling you. You’re starting this week.”

“But ... but I lost the game.”

“Yes, you did. And you lost it because you didn’t do what I told you to do. But this week, you will do what I tell you to do.”

Quentin nodded.

“Pine is out this week and next,” Hokor said. “The broken bone ruptured an artery. I don’t think you’re ready, but you give us the best chance of winning. The Pioneers have a good secondary but only a moderate pass rush — your mobility should be enough to keep you from getting sacked. We’re 1-and-1, Quentin, we’ve got to win this game! The Pioneers are 2-and-0 and very tough. I need you to run a tight, ball-control offense so we can get a lead and chew up the clock.”

“Yes, sir,” Quentin said, wondering if a man could die from excitement.

“I need a strong week of practice from you. You’re going to lead this team to a win.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. We practice here today, then it’s a two day flight to Whitok. That gives us two days of practice on the ship, and two days at Whitok Stadium. There’s a big time change, we’ll be playing late at night our time, so we need to be extra sharp. Let’s have a good practice.”

Quentin stood and practically sprinted out of the room. Starting! His first GFL start! He’d thought himself out of a job, but Hokor was giving him the reins. He’d learned his lesson — this time he’d play it Hokor’s way.

As he headed towards the main tunnel, Denver came out of the Sklorno locker room.

“I speak please,” she said.

Quentin started to ignore the Sklorno receiver and keep walking, but something made him stop. “What do you want?”

“I shame myself when we speak last. I only offer help.”

“I didn’t appreciate Pine’s sense of humor.”

“Not understand,” Denver said. “I serve, run routes and catch passes so your greatness increase. Please forgive, I mean no sacrilege, only praise. Praise for Quentin Barnes. I help make you greater?”

She was asking him again, this disgusting cricket was asking him again if he needed her help. Quentin felt the flush of embarrassed rage start to spill over him once again — then something odd happened. His mind flashed back to the Hydras game, to the last play. The sheer speed of Wichita — if he’d just thrown to Hawick the second he saw her open, would he have completed the pass? He’d waited a half-second, and that had been too long. There was no getting around the fact that he’d lost because he still wasn’t used to Sklorno speed.

His anger faded away. Denver wasn’t being rude, Denver was being honest. Quentin’s game wasn’t as sharp as it needed to be. But still, he’d figure it out, and without help from a cricket.

“Thanks for the offer, but no thanks,” Quentin said, surprised to hear his voice come out normal, not snotty and hateful.

Denver backed away, slinking back into the Sklorno locker room. Quentin didn’t know much about alien behavior, but Denver seemed like she’d just been severely rebuked for some untoward behavior.

Quentin turned and ran out the tunnel. He didn’t have time to worry about it. He had a game to win.

• • •

FROM SPACE, Whitok’s upper atmosphere looked a lime green. As the shuttle sliced into the soupy air, Quentin saw the all-encompassing cloud cover was actually a sulphurous yellow. The blazing light of the blue star at the center of the Whitok system reflected off the yellow outer atmosphere, the two colors combining for a peaceful green. That peaceful sensation faded away as the shuttle dove towards the planet: the closer they came to the surface, the darker it became. Miles-long bursts of lightning rippled through the dark sky, illuminating the ubiquitous clouds in milky-yellow explosions of light. Within minutes of the descent, all sunlight faded away, the shuttle coursing through Whitok’s perpetual twilight.

“Is it always this dark?” Quentin asked Shizzle, who fluttered about the small cabin.

“Is, and has been for the last 145 years,” Shizzle said. The little creature fluttered to a stop on Quentin’s shoulder.

“Find your own seat, pal,” Quentin said as he gently brushed Shizzle away. The Creterakian fluttered twice, then landed on the seat’s armrest.

“The Sklorno navy used relativity bombs on Whitok in 2524. They fired about fifty dense projectiles at near-light speeds. At that speed, the projectiles literally punched right through the core and out the other side. The entry and exit points alone were the sources of devastation like nothing the galaxy had ever seen, the shock-waves destroyed surface life for thousands of miles in all directions. But the projectiles also mixed up Whitok’s inner molten nickel core, and the outer layer of molten iron. That caused huge shifts in the tectonic plates. Whitok suffered decades of massive quakes and volcanoes. Gasses from the core filled the atmosphere, killing any life that survived the initial impacts.

“Whitok’s climate was forever changed. It was seventy-five years before the tectonic plates settled into relative stability. The key word is relative, mind you, because the surface is still plagued with volcanoes that reach as high as five miles into the air. Some estimate it will be another five-hundred to a thousand years before the crust settles completely and the volcanoes become dormant.”

“How come Ionath isn’t like that? The Sklorno also sat-bombed Ionath, right?”

“They did, but they didn’t use relativity bombs, which caused so much damage to Whitok that they’ve never been used again. The results even scared the Sklorno, who wondered if such destructive weapons might someday be utilized against their home-world. For future wars, they instead developed the massive nuclear bombs that were used on Ionath and Gritchlik.”

“Wow,” Quentin said. “That was awfully nice of them.”

“They are a one-minded species,” Shizzle said. “They’re part of the reason we Creterakians took over. We feared that if left to yourselves, the warlike races of Human, Ki, Harrah and especially Sklorno might completely exterminate one another.”

Quentin looked out the window at the blank darkness. “Save me the lecture, Shizzle. I’ve heard it all before.”

“The amazing thing is that despite the almost complete destruction of Whitok, and the fact that the planet is among the most hostile places in the galaxy, the Quyth managed to successfully develop permanent cities. Ah, we’re coming out of the clouds now — behold, the Port of Whitok.”

Quentin pressed against the view port, eager to see his second alien city. As the lightless clouds thinned to nothing, however, he briefly wondered if he’d been tricked — it looked like a smaller version of his new home. The domed downtown looked the same, and the roads radiated out in the familiar spoke-like pattern.

“It looks like Ionath City,” Quentin said.

“The Port of Whitok was built well after the success of Ionath and Gritchlik,” Shizzle said. “The Quyth’s first pioneers landed fifty-one years after the relativity bombing, but the planet’s surface was still so violent they could barely survive. It was another fifty years before they built an actual port that allowed large-craft landings, so the city is really only about sixty years old.”

The shuttle swooped down towards the huge dome. Just like Ionath City, the dome’s surface seemed to open just for the speeding shuttle. Inside the dome, right at the city center, sat a perfectly round stadium.

“It looks bigger than ours,” Quentin said.

“EA&M Stadium,” Shizzle said. “Seats 181,500, every game is a sellout. There’s no sunlight on the planet’s surface, which hinders outdoor activities. There’s not much to do, so beings on Whitok take football very seriously.”

“More seriously than Ionath?”

“Last week there were five murders involving tickets for the game against the Bigg Diggers.”

The shuttle banked a landing pad atop a building attached to the stadium. Even the buildings looked very similar to Ionath City’s. As the vehicle lowered for the landing, Quentin stared out the window at the field. Here the surface wasn’t blue, but a pale yellow with black lines and numbers. He had read up on the stadium in his effort to prepare as completely as possible — the plant that made up the field was reportedly a bit oily, making for poor traction and quickly stained uniforms.

How would he run the offense in such poor footing? How would that affect the patterns of his receivers? Shizzle’s history lesson faded away. Quentin’s mind switched into full-out strategy mode, even before the shuttle touched down.

• • •

QUENTIN WALKED OUT of the Holy Light bar and onto the streets of Port Whitok. The Holy Light was similar to the Blessed Lamb back on Ionath, a Purist-only place where you could get heaping helpings of good food, religion, and reasons to hate every being except those that hailed from Purist Nation space. He ate politely, made friends. At the end, he asked if they could help him track down his parents. The people in the Blessed Lamb acted exactly the way Father Harry had, offering to help him unconditionally. Quentin still had trouble believing that Nationalites liked him and wanted to help him, even though he was an orphan. Being an orphan, it seemed, had little meaning to people who had fled the home planets in fear of their lives, leaving behind family, belongings and culture.

Warburg had taken him to the Holy Light. Quentin excused himself shortly after dinner. Warburg meant well enough, but Quentin grew tired of the man’s constant verbal attacks on anyone and anything that was not Nationalite. Quentin hated the sub-races too, sure, but he didn’t need to talk about it every second of every day.

The street outside the Holy Light might as well have been in Ionath City’s Human District, save for the fact that Port Whitok was perpetually under the blanket of night thanks to the huge volcanoes that spilled fumes into the upper atmosphere. Earthquakes, too, were a daily occurrence. But here, he’d learned, every building — even the huge stadium — rested on a mag-grav suspension system. So did the streets and any utilities like pipes, power transmitters or atmosphere processors. Quakes hit four or five times a day: things shook, everyone waited, things stopped shaking, everyone went on about their business. Port Ionath sat in the center of a tectonic plate, so significant ground cracks seldom posed a problem.

The fact that 8.0 quakes shuddered the ground on a regular basis and that poisonous gas filled the air outside the dome didn’t bother the Quyth, 1.2 million of whom lived outside the curved downtown dome. It seemed these beings could live just about anywhere, and therein lay their advantage. For all his countrymen’s talk about being the High One’s “chosen people,” Humans couldn’t survive for ten minutes on the surface of Whitok.

Quentin walked alone down the street, weaving through the crowds of Quyth, Ki, Human and Sklorno. He had a lot on his mind. Practice was going well, although he still had problems adjusting to the speed of his receivers and the defensive backs. His pass release had been slow when he arrived, and he hadn’t even known it. Now he got rid of the ball twice as fast as he had when with the Raiders. That helped, but it didn’t solve the main problem, which was adjusting his eyes to take in the whole field. Back home, he could see a twenty-yard radius and know, instantly, who could move how far within that space. Thanks to the amazing speed of the Sklorno race, now he needed to see a radius of forty to fifty yards, even more if he wanted to throw downfield. He had to drop back, instantly account for every Sklorno defensive back, know how far they could go, how high they could jump and at what angle, then make the decision whether or not to throw and still deliver the ball on target.

What was worse, the Krakens seemed to simply tolerate him as opposed to accepting him as their leader. They were Pine’s players. But why did they follow that has-been? Quentin was a better quarterback, albeit less experienced, and everyone on the team knew it. They followed Pine’s commands without question — when Quentin commanded, he often got glares or bored looks before anyone complied. The Ki didn’t block as well for him as they did for Pine. The Human players were no better. Aside from Warburg, the Humans starters showed little respect — except for Mitchell Fayed, who ran every play as if his life depended in it.

They were obviously all jealous of his talent. They wanted to keep their little status quo with their buddy Don Pine, and they resented new blood coming in to take over. Well, that was their problem, and they’d have to learn to deal with it. It was Quentin’s team now, and they’d all learn that come game time.

He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear the flutter of Creterakian wings right beside him. He didn’t even know the little creature was there until it spoke.

“Quentin Barnes?” asked a small voice.

Quentin turned to look at the bat. It had light yellow skin with mottled brown spots, and wore a plain brown outfit. It hovered near his head, reminding Quentin of a big, noisy hummingbird — a disgusting one with six eyes.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“My name is Maygon, and I’d like a word with you. Or, more precisely, my employer would like a word with you.”

“And who is your employer?”

Maygon handed him a business disc. Quentin thumbed the button at the center, and a small hologram appeared above it: Maygon, talent scout, To Pirates.

Quentin felt his heart beat faster. “You’re really from the Pirates?”

“Yes, but it’s better if we don’t talk here. Your teammates might see. Follow me.” Maygon flew down a side street. Quentin followed him into the street, then into a small door. He had to duck to get through. Once inside he was able to stand, but just barely, his hair touching the ceiling. The place was full of Quyth workers in various states of intoxication. Some danced to strange music, some leaned against numerous three-foot-high poles that filled the room, and some laid on the floor. The smell of juniper filled the air.

“What is this place?”

“A gin joint,” Maygon said as he fluttered down atop one of the poles. He was the only Creterakian in the room. For that matter, Quentin was the only Human.

“I forgot that you don’t know much about the galaxy. Gin, the same thing you Humans distill and consume, has a powerful narcotic effect on the Quyth. Most alcohol doesn’t affect them, but there’s something in gin that really knocks them out.”

Quentin thought back to the time he’d seen an opium den back on Micovi. Human or Quyth Worker, stoners all looked the same.

“It’s pathetic,” Quentin said.

“If you think these Workers are bad now, you should see the ones that are hooked on raw juniper berries. At least the gin is distilled to take out some of the poisons.”

Quentin took another quick look around, then turned to Maygon. “Okay, so what’s this about? What do the Pirates want?”

“They want you.”

The words hit like an injection of pure excitement. His body coursed with eagerness and hope.

“What, they want me now?”

“Not now, idiot,” Maygon said. “At the end of the season. Kirani-Ah-Kollok will give you a three-year contract.”

A three-year contract, with the To Pirates, the greatest franchise in GFL history — his childhood dream come true!

“That sounds great,” Quentin said. “Tell Mr. Kollok I’m very interested.”

“Of course you’re interested, backwater. It’s the To Pirates. Everybody is interested. But there’s one catch.”

“Which is?”

“You have to make sure the Krakens don’t make the playoffs.”

Quentin’s face furrowed. “But why not? What difference does that make?”

Maygon fluttered his wings, a clear sign of irritation. “Because, backwater, if the Krakens make the playoffs and make it into Tier One, all players are protected for two years. That means that the Pirates, or any other team for that matter, can’t touch you unless the Krakens cut or trade you.”

“Oh yeah,” Quentin said, some of his excitement fading away. “Yeah, I forgot about that.”

“But it doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem,” Maygon said. “You guys are already one and one, and there’s no way you’re going to beat the Pioneers, so you’ll be two games out of first place. Just make sure the Krakens lose any games you start, and you’ll be wearing the blood red before you know it. Mr. Kollok thinks there’s big things in your future. If I need to talk to you again, I’ll contact you, but we can’t be seen together. If the league finds out we’re talking, the Pirates will be fined and you’ll be suspended.”

“Suspended?” Quentin quickly looked around the bar, but still saw only drunken Quyth Workers. “Why didn’t you say that before we started talking?”

“Not my fault if you don’t know GFL regulations. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to go. I can’t stand the stink of Humans.”

With that, Maygon fluttered up and flew out the door. Quentin stared after him. The To Pirates. The To Pirates! Winners of five GFL championships, more than any other team. The Pirates, with their legendary blood-red jerseys, they wanted him.

Just make sure you lose the games you start.

Those words pushed to the forefront of his brain, dissipating his excitement. Tank a game or two? Sure, they had one loss, but with a win against the Pioneers the Krakens were right back in the race.

Quentin shook his head and walked out of the gin joint. He’d never thrown a game in his life, but odds were he wouldn’t have to. The Pioneers were the best team in the Quyth Irradiated Conference. They’d probably walk all over the Krakens’ defense. It wouldn’t come down to Quentin tanking the game.

At least he hoped it wouldn’t.

• • •

HE STOOD AT THE FRONT of the pack. The Krakens players crammed into the tunnel. It seemed wider than the one at Ionath Stadium. Wider and newer. In fact, everything about the stadium reeked of newness, from the full wall of multi-race vending machines in the team lobby, to the smart-paint lockers that changed color to suit each player’s preference. The communications equipment was state-of-the-art, but what else would you expect from a stadium sponsored by a telecom company like Earth Ansible & Messenger?

The stadium’s quality, however, faded to insignificance as the game-fever started to overtake Quentin. The Krakens players grunted, and clacked, and chirped, and bounced, and twitched with the anticipation of battle. Pheromones filled the air: the thick scent of Ki aggression combining with the tang of Human sweat. An electrical charge ripped through the unified mass of players, cycling from one end to the other and back again.

“Time to draw the battle line,” Yassoud said from somewhere in the back, his voice muffled by the tight press of bodies packed into the tunnel. Human grunts acknowledged his words.

“We will accept Condor’s gifts,” a Sklorno called out, referring to Condor Adrienne, the Pioneer’s star quarterback. The other Sklornos chirped excitedly, all of them bouncing up and down, unable to contain the energy that filled their bodies.

The sensation built up quickly, thickly, so intense that Quentin couldn’t even think, he could only feel, like an animal waiting to pounce. It was like the last two games, but it was different — this time they were his to command, his to lead. This was the moment he’d waited for all of his life.

The announcer introduced the Ionath Krakens.

“Kree-goll-ramoud!” Mum-O-Killowe roared in his deep, warlike voice, and the team surged out of the tunnel to the deafening sound of boos. Small, hard items plinked off their armor. Bits of wet matter, both cold and hot, spilled down on them as they ran onto the field. Quentin covered his head as he looked up into the stands and saw an endless sea of midnight-blue and neon-green, the colors of the Whitok Pioneers.

He reached the sidelines. The Krakens surged around him like a python, everywhere at once, pressing in, their eyes on him, their breath in his face and on his neck. They bounced and surged and punched and clawed like a tiger in a cage.

Quentin started to speak, but John Tweedy beat him to it.

“This is it,” Tweedy shouted. “This is it! We need this win, we want it more than they do! We must destroy this house!”

The Krakens roared and clicked and jumped and pushed. Quentin felt a rush of anger — he was the quarterback, the team should be looking to him, not Tweedy.

“Pine is out, so we’ve got to pull together,” Tweedy shouted. “This is war. We take the battle to them. Now let’s go kick their asses!”

The team surged even tighter one last time, bouncing Quentin about like a cork in a typhoon. Then the huddle broke and the players wandered away, preparing for the game.

Quentin fumed on the sidelines. They still didn’t give him enough respect. Well, they would all be jealous when he suited up in the blood red for Tier One season, and they were all at home, watching the holos.

The Pioneers won the toss, received the kick, and started with the ball on their own 28. Condor Adrienne wasted no time, dropping back on the first play. His offensive line, a huge wall of Ki averaging 630 pounds, gave him all the time in the world. Adrienne launched a deep pass to a streaking receiver, who sprang high in the air. Davenport, the Krakens’ right cornerback, went up high as well, but she was just a step behind. The ball floated down just an inch away from her outstretched tentacles to drop perfectly into the hands of Bangor, the Pioneer’s receiver. The two players came down as one, but Davenport stumbled on impact. Bangor sprinted the remaining fifteen yards into the end zone.

“Ain’t that a pain,” Yassoud said. The crowd roared like a thousand-pound bomb. Giant pompons and flags, all midnight blue lined with neon green, waved in the air, making the 181,500-plus crowd seem a single, massive anemone.

The kick was good. The first play of the game found the Whitok Pioneers up 7-0.

“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, men,” Mitchell Fayed shouted as the offense gathered to take the field. “Let’s get that one back.”

Richfield returned the kick to the Krakens’ 30. The offense ran onto the field to the sound of concentrated boos. The pompons and banners vanished, like that same anemone pulling in its flowery tentacles at the first hint of danger.

As the players huddled up, Quentin took one quick look around the stadium. “Boy, they love us here, don’t they?”

“We won here two seasons ago,” said Yotaro Kobayasho, the tight end. “The crowd rioted. Twenty-seven beings died before they got it under control.”

“They take this stuff seriously,” said Tom Pareless, the fullback. “You’ve got to love it.”

“Okay boys, let’s take care of business,” Quentin said. He tapped his right ear-hole to activate the heads-up display inside his visor. Hokor had already specified the first twenty offensive plays. Quentin knew them by heart, having re-read the list at least a hundred times to make sure he knew every step of every player for each and every play (fifteen running plays and five short passing plays — not a bomb in the bunch). But he checked again, just to be sure. The first play: Y-set, belly right. He tapped the button and the list of plays disappeared from the visor.

“Y-set, belly right. On one, on one, ready ...”

“Break!”

The Krakens moved to the line. The booing intensified. Pure hate distilled from 181, 500-plus.

He surveyed the defense. The Pioneers ‘D’ had given up 21 points a game — they won games with Adrienne’s arm. The middle linebacker, Kagan the Crazy, was a thickly built Quyth Warrior and the most dangerous player on the team. He loved to blitz, especially delayed blitzes, and already had three sacks in the first two games. The defensive line was nothing special, allowing an average of 168 yards on the ground — hence Hokor’s emphasis on running. Hokor wanted to control the ball and keep Adrienne off the field as much as possible. Quentin scanned the defensive backfield and recognized his opponents for the afternoon: Palatine, the right corner, Tumwater, the safety, Westland, the free safety and Belgrade, the left corner.

The stats and tendencies of all four defensive backs suddenly popped into his thoughts. Information seemed to flood into his brain as if from an outside pipeline. Belgrade had poor speed, she often gave up long passes over the top. Tumwater was playing with a hurt right tentacle, and in the last game she had avoided big hits. Palatine was a good right corner, but lacked the height and jumping ability to match premier receivers. Westland, a five-year vet, built much thicker than most Sklorno, was known for her devastating hits.

“Greeeeen, nineteen!” Quentin shouted, barely able to hear himself over the crowd. “Green, nineteen!”

Quentin turned to the right and handed off to Fayed. The Pioneers’ linebackers came quickly on a run-blitz, knocking Fayed backwards, stuffing the play at the line.

Quentin looked to the sidelines, but Hokor said nothing over the ear-speaker. Quentin tapped his heads-up display to double-check the next play: another run. He sighed and formed up the huddle.

• • •

AS THE FIRST QUARTER wore on, it became obvious that the Pioneers weren’t going to let Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed run wild. They run-blitzed, they stacked linebackers in the gaps. They didn’t use pass-coverage formations like the nickel package, even on third downs. The Krakens’ first two possessions were three-and-out. Quentin didn’t even throw his first pass until the end of the first quarter, a completion to Kobayasho for seven yards. The Pioneers clearly didn’t fear this rookie quarterback in his first start — they practically dared Hokor to beat them with the pass.

Adrienne struck again in the second quarter, hitting Westchester for a 52-yard strike. Quentin burned with jealousy at the Pioneer quarterback’s long TD passes. He knew he could match the performance, especially against the run-oriented Pioneers defense, but he wasn’t going to question Hokor anymore. He’d run the plays that were called.

He felt his pulse quicken when he took the field late in the second quarter and Hokor finally outlined a passing attack.

“Y-set, double-post,” Hokor said. “Test them downfield. If it’s not open, don’t throw, you got it?”

Quentin nodded as he moved to the huddle and called the play. The team seemed a bit listless in the huddle, as if they had already conceded defeat. The only way to get them going, Quentin knew, was with a sustained drive or a big play. He broke the huddle and lined up. The Pioneers still showed a run defense, leaving Hawick and Scarborough covered with only woman-to-woman. Quentin calmed himself, knowing he had to be cool to take advantage of this opportunity.

“Blue, fifteeeeeen! Blue, fifteen ... hut-hut!”

He dropped straight back, eyes following Hawick, over to Scarborough, then back to Hawick again. She already had a step on her defender. Quentin stepped up to throw, but the pocket collapsed almost immediately. A huge Ki lineman bore down on him from the left. Quentin dodged to his right, still looking downfield, but he sensed pressure on that side as well. He stepped up into the pocket, where Kagan met him head-on with a hit that knocked Quentin flat on his back. It was like being smacked with a wrecking ball. His eyes scrunched in pain. Quentin heard the continuing “ooohhh” of the crowd as the holo-monitors in each end zone replayed the hit.

With second-and-long, Hokor called another pass. Kagan blitzed again. Quentin didn’t have time to throw downfield and had to settle for a quick five-yard strike to Warburg. The Krakens tried a draw on the next play, and got nowhere. Defeated once again, the offense ran off the field as the punt team came on.

Quentin took off his helmet and threw it at the bench in disgust. He couldn’t make things happen if he didn’t have time to throw. He’d studied the Pioneers games over and over again — their defensive line wasn’t anything special. He had to get his O-line motivated. He stood and started walking down the bench to where the Ki linemen were huddled in their big ball, but stopped — Donald Pine was already in front of them.

Pine leaned heavily on his crutches, their tops digging into his armpits, leaving his hands free to flail about. He wildly gestured first to the linemen, then to the field, then up in the air, then back again. Pine looked furious, madder than Quentin had ever seen him. Pine was screaming them up one side and down the other, and Quentin didn’t have to wonder what for.

Why is he doing that? Quentin thought. That’s my job.

Why was he doing it? Because the linemen listened to Pine.

Once again, Pine seemed to be helping Quentin, not sabotaging him. Had he done the same thing in making Denver offer help for passing practice?

• • •

AT HALFTIME, the game seemed to have slipped away. The Krakens were down 21-3, their only score coming on a nice 52-yard field goal by Arioch Morningstar. Quentin saw possibilities on almost every play, or thought he saw them, but he wasn’t about to alter Hokor’s calls. Maybe it was like before, like in the Hydras game, and Hokor knew something that he didn’t. He’d made the most out of the few opportunities that came his way, hitting five of his eleven passes for 82 yards. The completions were nice, but he spent most of the first half flat on his back either knocked down after the pass or dragged down for one of the three first-half sacks. That was more sacks than he’d suffered his entire season with the Raiders. No touchdowns, and one interception when a Ki tentacle deflected his pass at the line of scrimmage. He had also scrambled for 22 rushing yards — far more out of necessity than choice. On the Krakens’ home field he could have ran for much more, but the Pioneer field’s slippery footing made it hard for him to make sharp cuts.

The visitors central locker room was filled with beings dressed in orange leg armor with black trim, and orange jerseys stained with streaks of oily yellow. Hokor stood in the middle of the circular room, his fur extended to its full length. He ranted and raved about the offensive line’s poor showing, but much like Pine’s lecture on the sidelines, nobody seemed to care.

• • •

THE PIONEERS WALKED away with the game, winning by an embarrassing score of 35-10. Fayed had managed one big play, breaking three tackles for a 24-yard run and the Krakens’ only contribution to the weekly ESPN highlight reel.

Quentin undressed at his locker, feeling neither happy nor sad about the outcome. He’d played as well as could be expected under the circumstances, the circumstances being that the offensive line didn’t really give a crap about protecting him. He’d finished the day 15-of-35 for 186 yards, with 37 yards rushing. His body felt like he’d gone ten rounds in the octagon with Korak the Cutter. He’d thought he’d taken some blows in practice, but now he knew that his own defenders had been holding back, if only just a bit.

The Krakens changed in almost total quiet. They had one win, two losses, and were already two games out of first. Their chances of moving up to Tier One seemed near nil. Nobody spoke, except for Yassoud, who went from player to player, asking who was up for a night in Port Whitok’s gambling district.

As Quentin pulled off his chest armor, Donald Pine hobbled over, the crutches making him awkward as he slowly sat.

“You played well out there, Q.”

Quentin shrugged. “Not that any of my so-called teammates would notice. Or care, for that matter.”

Pine nodded. “Oh, they noticed. But you’re right, they didn’t care. I told you before, there’s more to being a quarterback than skill and talent.”

“Listen, gramps, I don’t need a lecture. Now take off.”

Pine didn’t move. “You do need a lecture, Quentin. So did the offensive line, but I already gave them one. Several, as a matter of fact.”

Quentin started to speak, then stopped. He remembered Pine on the sidelines, arms waving like a madman, yelling his head off at 3,000-plus pounds of offensive line. No one else had done that. Not Warburg, not Hokor, not Quentin himself. Just Pine.

“Okay,” Quentin said quietly. “Say what you’ve got to say.”

“Q, you’ve got all the talent in the world. It pours off you like stink from a skunk. Your brain works overtime — I see you come up with play adjustments that are almost as good as those of another Krakens quarterback I know.” Pine smiled with the joke. Quentin felt some of his stress fade away — Pine’s smile had a way making people feel comfortable.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, “that Yitzhak is pretty damn creative.”

Pine laughed. “Right, right. So you’ve got all the tools, but as you saw today, the greatest general in the world can’t win if the troops won’t go to war. The Ki linemen are not some random beings from their culture, they are soldiers. I’ve seen normal Ki citizens, have you?”

Quentin shrugged. “Just a few on the streets in Ionath.”

“And did they look violent? Did they look strong?”

Quentin thought back, then shook his head. They didn’t look violent at all, In fact, they were Human-sized, weighing probably 250 pounds or so, half the weight of a Kraken lineman. He hadn’t realized that fact until this moment.

“The difference between citizen and warrior isn’t as dramatic as it is in the Quyth culture, where there’s a completely separate sub-species built for fighting, but it’s there. Ki soldiers are selected from a very young age, like the equivalent of three years old in Humans. They’re trained from that time in how to fight, how to kill, how to endure pain and hardship that Humans couldn’t come close to handling. Most of our linemen have taken sentient life, Quentin, some with their bare hands. So to speak. All of them participated in ground combat at one point or another.”

“And that’s supposed to excuse them for piss-poor blocking?”

Pine shook his head. “No, you don’t get it. They love blocking, they love tackling. Physical combat is a huge part of their culture. But they aren’t in control of this game. They’re not calling the plays, they’re just doing what they’re told to do. Someone has to lead them. And if they don’t respect that someone, they simply don’t try as hard.”

Quentin thought about Pine’s words. “So what you’re telling me, is that the big, mean, deadly Ki are kind of ... sensitive?”

Pine smiled and nodded. “If you don’t respect them, they’re sure not going to respect you. And if they don’t respect you, they’re not following you, they’re just going through the motions.”

Quentin looked off in the distance. Yassoud flitted about Tom Pareless like a big mosquito. Pareless kept pushing him away, but Yassoud just buzzed back again — he obviously had run out of people to go gambling with, and Pareless was his last hope.

“Okay,” Quentin said, looking back at Pine. “So what do I do about it?”

“You really want to know? You’re not going to like it.”

Quentin waved his left hand in an inner circular motion, as if to say come on, come on.

“The Ki are a very tight species,” Pine said. “They send nerve impulses through their skin and vocal tubes. That’s why they cluster up like that all the time, on the sidelines and at night. When they’re touching, they can kind of talk without speaking. That also makes for closeness among them, gives them a sense of tribe, or of family.”

“So they’re not just sensitive,” Quentin said in a deadpan. “They’re also touchy-feely?”

Pine shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t cause their evolution, I just study it. You act like they’re revolting.”

“They are.”

“So what?” Pine said angrily. “So what? So they’re revolting. Do you want to win games or not?”

Quentin nodded.

“Fine. You have to stop acting like they have the plague. Touch them. Hug them the way you would any Human player who did something good.”

“I, uh, don’t really do hugs.”

“You know what I mean, jerk. Get it in your head that you have to stop thinking of different races, and start seeing all of them, Ki, Quyth and Sklorno, as your teammates.”

Quentin’s face wrinkled up in guarded suspicion. “I don’t know, man. This seems a little too, well, like Creterakian propaganda, that we all have to get along as one giant race of sentients. I mean, come on, does this stuff really work?”

Pine smiled and held up his right hand, fingers outstretched. Glittering championship rings adorned his middle and ring fingers.

The point finally clicked home. Quentin nodded. Pine wasn’t his enemy. The man was trying to help him, probably had been all along. Quentin had trouble getting his thoughts around the concept — no one had ever helped him before, not without wanting something in return. And Pine not only wanted nothing, he had everything to lose by helping Quentin. The more Pine helped, the more likely he was to lose his starting job. It just didn’t make any sense.

And Pine was an expert on the subject, proof positive being his two Galaxy Bowl wins. Quentin realized he’d been a damn fool — he had one of the greatest players in the game trying to help him, and he’d treated that help like some kind of underhanded trick.

“Pine, why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Helping me.”

Pine looked confused. “Because you need it, why else?”

“Yeah, but, if you help me, and I get better ... ” Quentin’s voice trailed off.

Pine nodded. “Oh, now I understand. I’m helping you because you’re on my team. You get that yet? I need a backup that can win games. Besides, my career only has a few years left, I know that. It would be nice to, well, have someone to teach. Someone to ... to ... I don’t know.”

“Carry on the Don Pine tradition?”

Pine smiled. “Sure, that works. Someone to carry on the Don Pine tradition.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said. He extended his right hand, which Pine shook. “I’ve got a good idea on how to take your advice.”

Pine nodded and hobbled away on his crutches. Quentin stood and finished removing his armor. He pulled on a robe, then hit the service button in his locker. Messal appeared as if out of thin air.

“You rang, sir?”

“Messal, I’ve had it with these nannite showers.”

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“No problem some steaming hot water won’t fix. Get Shizzle here immediately, then take me to the Ki locker room.”

“YOU SURE you want to do this?” Shizzle asked as he flew small circles around Quentin’s head. “They have been known to eat Humans, you know.”

“Just be quiet until I need you to translate.”

Messal led them into the Ki locker room. “Ki eyes take in a larger spectrum of light than Human eyes. Consequently, only a few purple lights provide any illumination. So watch your step.”

The Ki locker room was dark. And hot. And humid enough to compete with the geothermal steam baths back on Stewart. Goodwill or no goodwill, there was no denying that the place stank. He’d thought pre-game Ki odors were bad, but his nose let him know those were nothing compared to the post-game scents. Smelled like rotten fish mixed in with decomposed chicken guts. Quentin ignored the smell and followed Messal to the back.

Quentin heard the hiss of water jets, and his skin tingled in anticipation. He suddenly realized it had been weeks since he’d had a real shower.

Messal opened a door and bowed as Quentin passed. Steam billowed out of the open door and up onto the ceiling, making hazy purple clouds where it crossed in front of the dim lights. Quentin stood at the open door for one second, swallowed, and walked through.

One step inside the door, he stopped cold. If he had somehow accidentally stumbled upon a scene like this, he probably would have turned and ran. This was far worse than any Holy Man propaganda horror holo he’d seen back home.

A deep pool of water sat in the middle of the circular room. The low lights made the water look black. Dozens of showerheads ringed the ceiling, angling water down to the mass of creatures bundled up in the pool’s center.

They sat there, a giant, entwined ball of worm-like bodies, multi-jointed legs, pinkish mouths lined with black teeth, muscular multi-jointed arms, orangish skin without end and thousands of reddish-brown spots of enamel, each wet and glistening like a black ruby. They looked like a coiled, multi-headed dragon straight out of the Holy Book.

As a kid, Quentin had seen educational movies of snakes. There was a strange mating practice for some snakes, where hundreds of them twisted into a giant, writhing pile of skin and scales and mucus. That’s what the Ki cluster reminded him of, only these snakes were twelve feet long and could bench-press 1,300 pounds.

They didn’t turn their heads to look when he came in — they didn’t have to, their unblinking black eyes let them see everything at once. The ball of bodies seemed to move, to slide just a bit, and one figure slithered out of the pack. The long, thick body splashed water out of the pool and onto the tile floor as it moved slowly towards Quentin.

Oddly enough, he instantly recognized the oncoming Ki. Maybe they didn’t all look alike after all.

Great, he thought. Mum-O-Killowe as the Welcome Wagon. The temperamental rookie walked up until he was only a few inches from Quentin, then barked out words in his guttural language.

Messal translated. “He wants to know what you think you’re doing here.”

Quentin swallowed. There was a whole room of them, and he was dressed in just a robe. He wanted to leave ... but he wanted to win more. Two losses were enough.

“This is the only room with water showers,” Quentin said. Shizzle started translating before the second word was even out of his mouth, and he finished only a fraction of a second after Quentin stopped.

Mum-O-Killowe barked again.

“He says that you should go.”

Quentin stepped to Mum-O-Killowe’s right, gently shouldering past the huge Ki as he did. The boldness of the move seemed to surprise Mum-O, for it was a full second before Quentin sensed the lineman reaching out for him. Quentin avoided the multi-jointed arms by quickly diving into the water.

The water was almost scalding. It felt miraculous against his skin. He arched and swam upwards, his face breaking the surface only a few feet from the giant ball of alien linemen. Mum-O-Killowe roared something and started to splash towards Quentin, but Kill-O-Yowet, the left tackle, barked one short, definitive syllable.

Mum-O-Killowe stopped short of Quentin, stared at him for a second, then slithered back into the ball.

“Kill-O-Yowet says you can stay,” Shizzle said. Quentin kicked back to the pool’s edge. He draped his arms on the tile and his body sank in up to his chest. Water sprayed down on his closed eyes and smiling face. The wet heat felt wonderful on his bruised body. Maybe his effort to bond with the Ki linemen would work, maybe it wouldn’t, but at least he’d get a decent shower out of the thing.

THREE HOURS AFTER the game, the Ionath Krakens began shuttling back up to the Touchback. Yassoud had managed, somehow, to cram in two hours worth of partying. He and Tom Pareless showed up in time for the last shuttle, drunk enough that they could barely walk, but not so drunk that they couldn’t sing “My Girl from Satirli 6” at the top of their lungs.

Quentin felt sore all over, and he knew it was only a harbinger of things to come the next morning, yet the hot soak in the Ki pool had lifted his spirits.

It’s a game, he thought to himself. What goes on off the field is as much of a game as what happens on the field. He’d been thinking about it all wrong. He hadn’t needed to bond with his teammates back in the PNFL, because he’d been good enough to win games almost single-handedly. But in the GFL, even at Tier Two, everyone was good. These players were the best a galaxy had to offer. The game, his new game, would be making them play as a team.

He stood on the launch platform, gazing up at the twilight sky of Port Whitok. He sensed someone approaching. Quentin turned to find himself facing the squat, powerful form of a Quyth Warrior. Shayat the Thick, the backup right outside linebacker. He played behind John Tweedy, which meant that he didn’t play much at all. Tweedy rarely came out of the game, thanks to his skills at defending both the run and the pass.

“You played well,” Shayat said. It was, Quentin realized, the first time Shayat had ever spoken to him.

“Thanks,” Quentin said. “It wasn’t enough.”

Shayat’s carapace was a deep, silvery black. A painted unit insignia adorned his left shoulder. Under the insignia were horizontal lines, each of which, Quentin had learned, represented a combat mission. Shayat’s lines ran from his insignia almost to his wrist. Enameled graphics covered his carapace — the most prominent of which was a Krakens’ logo emblazoned across his midriff. On his back was an Earth crab wearing a crown and holding a football — the logo of the Yucatan Sea-Kings, a Tier Three team. A ring of white surrounded Shayat’s single eye, making him look even more bug-eyed than Hokor or any of the other Quyth. But they didn’t call him Shayat the Thick for nothing: layers and layers of powerful muscles graced his frame. His pedipalps were so heavy they looked like John Tweedy’s arms, and Shayat’s arms were so thick they might have been Tweedy’s huge legs. Shayat wore a backpack that looked to be completely stuffed.

“We need to win next week,” Shayat said.

Quentin nodded. “That we do.”

After a moment of silence, Shayat spoke. “Do you like money?”

It seemed a strange question, but straightforward enough. “I like money just fine.”

“Do you want to make more?”

Quentin said nothing, but he suddenly knew what was coming next. The dark underbelly of the GFL had avoided him — until now, it seemed.

“This is all juniper berries,” Shayat said, his left pedipalp reaching behind him to pat the backpack. “Worth a fortune on Ionath. Human races control gin production. They drive up the price. But Workers will pay big money for raw juniper berries. They crush them and mix them with fermented digestive acids from collowacks, a kind of insect back on Quyth.”

“I thought juniper berries were illegal,” Quentin said.

“They are. Very illegal. But the System Police can’t search us, remember? If they do, the Creterakians might pull Port Whitok’s GFL franchise rights. You know what would happen to the local government if that happened?”

Quentin shrugged.

“There would be riots. Beings love football. Basically, whatever we can carry on our backs is ignored.”

Quentin nodded, wondering what a bulging backpack of processed opium might be worth back on Stewart.

“I’ve got the berries, mesh, weed, heroin, sleepy, conot-root, you name it. Everything that’s selling back home.”

“So why are you telling me this?”

“I’ve got a nice pipeline going,” Shayat said. “Every away game, I bring out a load of money. My contacts bring me a load of juniper berries, which I buy and bring with me when we return to Ionath. On Ionath, berries go for five to ten times what I paid for them, depending on supply.”

Quentin whistled. “At least a five-hundred percent markup, eh? Not bad.”

“I want to make more. If you carry a shipment next time, you’ll get half the profit.”

“Why only half?”

“My contacts, my network.”

Quentin nodded. “I guess that’s fair enough.”

“So you’re in?”

Quentin shook his head. “I’m not in. I don’t want any part of your smuggling ring, you got that? And if you ask me again, you and I are going to go a few rounds.”

Shayat’s pedipalps twitched in laughter. “You think you could go even one round with me, Human?”

Quentin nodded. “Maybe, maybe not, but if you don’t get out of my face we’re sure going to find out.” He stared with cold-hearted disdain at the larger alien. Shayat turned and walked away.

• • •

BACK ONBOARD THE Touchback, Quentin walked through the Sklorno section of the ship. While the Human section was fairly spartan and decorated in subdued tones (when the decor wasn’t Krakens orange and black), the Sklorno section paraded a mind-boggling maze of electric colors. Blues, purples, reds, yellows, greens, oranges ... all ranging from near-black to near-neon intensity. Patterns, colors and pictures covered the floor, the walls and the ceiling. It was intensely beautiful and disgustingly ugly all at the same time. He found it ironic that the species with no color on their bodies decorated with more colors than anyone else.

He checked his messageboard, which displayed a map of the ship guiding him to Denver’s room. Without the map, he’d have quickly become lost in the Technicolor intensity. Like all doors in this section, Denver’s door was oblong, tall and narrow, like the outline of an egg stretched lengthwise. It was different, but a door was a door — it struck Quentin that this was something (minor, but something) that the different races had in common: a need for privacy, or perhaps just a need to put up walls. Except the Ki, that was ... he wasn’t sure if the Ki even understood the concept of privacy.

Quentin pushed the door buzzer. There was a brief pause. The door slid open. Denver stood there for a moment, then started to tremble. Her raspers unrolled, hitting the ground.

“Quentin Barnes,” she said.

Quentin nodded. “Um, listen ... I know I’ve been a bit rude to you.”

Denver simply stared. Stared and trembled. From inside the room, Milford walked up behind her. Milford also began to tremble. They both looked at him like he was some kind of ... well ... alien. To them, he was an alien, probably as weird and disgusting as they were to him.

“So I was hoping that your offer was still good.”

“We participate making you even greater?”

“Yes, I would appreciate that.”

Denver began to bounce lightly in place. Milford did the same. Quentin could see into the room, and noticed that the ceilings were at least twenty feet high.

“When-when-when-when!” Denver said.

Quentin shrugged. “Well, I’m going to be sore as hell tomorrow, so how about we get few reps in right now. I know the VR field is open, and we -”

The two receivers raced out of the room, cutting his words short as they inadvertently shoved him against the far wall. They sprinted down the hall with all their flat-out Sklorno speed, headed for the ship’s center section and the VR field.

Like little kids the morning of Giving Day, he thought, and laughed to himself as he followed them down the hall.

• • •

WITH ALL THE ROOM’S lights turned off, the only illumination came from the row of holotanks. The moving, flashing images cast an uneven and unsteady light onto Hokor’s face. Some of his players were taking the loss very hard, and others didn’t seem to care at all.

Michnik and Khomeni were in the cafeteria, drowning their sorrows in food. The Ki were also about to start their meal. Hokor heard the pitiful bleat of their prey animal. He punched a button on his remote control, turning off that monitor before the Ki started eating. Some players were in the infirmary, Doc tending to their wounds. In a way, Hokor wished more of his players were in the infirmary, as dozens of injuries might be a way to console himself at the humiliating loss.

The Krakens were 1-2, their chances of qualifying for the Tier Two tournament almost completely destroyed. The Glory Warpigs and the Whitok Pioneers both sat at 3-0. The way Condor Adrienne was playing, he didn’t see the Pioneers losing more than two games at most. The Krakens had to win their next six to even have a chance at the playoffs.

The Krakens’ next game against the 0-3 Sky Demolition was the only chance to get back in the race — at least mathematically. A loss ... well, another loss meant the end of the playoff hopes, and the end of Hokor’s tenure with Ionath.

This would be his last season as Krakens’ coach, he knew that. Gredok wouldn’t stand for it. If only Pine hadn’t gone down! That was why he went after Quentin, but the talented young Nationalite needed more time. Time Hokor didn’t have.

“Computer, where is Quentin Barnes?”

[QUENTIN BARNES IS UTILIZING THE KRIEGS-BALLOK VIRTUAL PRACTICE SYSTEM]

Nothing new there. Hokor punched a button to call up a holo of the VR practice room. Barnes was there, as he always was. The Human had taken quite a beating thanks to an offensive line that simply did not want to block for him. Yet he had kept getting up, and kept playing as hard as he could. And now, only hours after the game, he was practicing yet again. Barnes dropped back, stepped up, and threw a hard crossing pattern. The throw was a bit behind the receiver. Hokor expected to see the ball pass through the outstretched holographic arms and go bouncing down the field, but it hit the arms and stuck.

Hokor leaned forward. The VR players faded away, leaving not only Quentin, but Denver and Milford as well. Hokor could scarcely believe his eyes. The two Sklorno receivers ran back to Quentin and lined up for another play.

WEEK THREE LEAGUE ROUNDUP (Courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

Can any team stop Condor Adrienne? Maybe, but that team certainly isn’t the Ionath Krakens (1-2), who let Adrienne throw for 340 yards and three touchdowns on 22-of-32 passing. Adrienne’s Whitok Pioneers (3-0) torched the Ionath Krakens (1-2) for a 35-10 win.

So will Adrienne be stopped? If so, it might be this week when the Pioneers travel to the Glory Warpigs (3-0). The ‘Pigs remained tied for first thanks to a narrow 14-12 win over Orbiting Death (2-1). The Death couldn’t manage a touchdown against the Warpigs’ defense, which ranks first in all of Tier Two.

Finally a win on the home planet as the Quyth Survivors (1-2) defeated the Bigg Diggers (1-2), 29-24.

Sheb Stalkers (2-1) got back into the playoff hunt with a 1914 win over the Grontak Hydras (1-2), and the Woo Wallcrawlers (1-2) notched their first victory of the season with a 42-6 drubbing of the winless Sky Demolition (0-3).

DEATHS:

This week we mourn the passing of two players, Demolition defensive lineman Kok-O-Thalla and Bigg Diggers’ receiver Martinsville. Martinsville died on a clean hit by Survivor’s defensive back Topinabee, and Kok-O-Thalla died during a fumble pileup. The league has not ruled it a clean death, and is still investigating although no Wallcrawlers player has yet been fined.

WEEK #3 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: Condor Adrienne, quarterback, Whitok Pioneers. 22-of-32, 340 yards, three TDs, no INTs.

Defense: Yalla the Biter, linebacker, Sky Demolition. Eleven tackles, two sacks and a fumble recovery.

GAME FOUR: Ionath Krakens (1-2) at Sky Demolition (0-3)

QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS

WITH THE TOUCHBACK hovering in orbit, the shuttle flew Quentin and the other rookies down to Ionath City. This time, however, when they got out, there were Quyth Workers and Quyth Leaders dressed in white uniforms. A red line glowed on the roof of the Krakens’ Building.

“Players line up on the red line,” said a blue-furred Quyth Leader.

Quentin lightly elbowed Yassoud. “What’s this all about?”

“It’s a customs check,” Yassoud said. “Quyth System Police. Don’t worry about it, league rules apply in the Concordia just like they do everywhere else in the galaxy. The customs guys can’t touch you, so whatever you’re carrying, they can’t do a thing.”

Quentin looked down the line and saw Shayat the Thick with his bulging backpack. He then looked at other players, and saw that several of them carried a bag of some sort. Yassoud held a small satchel — Quentin didn’t want to know what was inside.

They stood on the red line with the other rookies. The blue-furred Quyth Leader walked down the line, looking at each one of them in turn. Two white-uniformed workers slid a grav-cart into the shuttle.

“I am Kotop the Observer,” the leader said. “My team will be checking you each time you come back from out-system. I’m sure nobody here is smuggling anything, right?”

Yassoud started laughing, his curly beard jiggling in time.

“Yes, it is all so very funny,” Kotop said. Quentin stared at the little Leader — did he detect sarcasm in the alien’s voice?

Kotop said nothing else, just stared, his one eye a deep shade of black. The workers came out of the shuttle.

“No explosives, no weapons,” one of them said to Kotop.

“You may all go,” Kotop said. He sounded disgusted.

“WE’RE IN TROUBLE,” Hokor said quietly. Despite the fact that every Krakens player was crammed into the central meeting area, Hokor didn’t need volume to be heard. Nobody made a sound. There had been some joking and laughing and boasting as the players filtered out of their respective locker rooms and into the central area, but all of that faded when Hokor used his holopen to decorate the far wall with three large, glowing orange marks.

The marks were the number one, a dash, and the number two.

1-2.

“We’re a losing team,” Hokor said. “A losing team. How does that sound to you?”

No one answered.

“Tweedy, how does that sound to you?”

“Sounds like I’d rather eat a poop sandwich, Coach.”

“Right,” Hokor said. “So why did we allow the Pioneers to throw for 340 yards on us, when we only sacked Adrienne once?”

Tweedy said nothing.

“Berea,” Hokor said to the right corner back, who immediately began to tremble. “What number do you like more, 1-and-2, or 340 yards passing?”

Berea said nothing. Instead, she fell on the floor and lay flat, trembling like a damaged moth.

“And you, Barnes? How does it feel to be on your first losing team?”

“Humiliating, Coach,” Quentin said quietly.

“And you, Kill-O-Yowet?” Hokor’s voice rose in intensity. “I’ve got some numbers for you, too. Which do you like better, 1-and-2, or five sacks. Five sacks.”

Kill-O-Yowet said nothing.

“Do you realize that in one game, we went from allowing the fewest sacks in the conference to allowing the second most? Do you realize that you and your brethren on the offensive line are now the second worst unit in the Quyth Irradiated Conference?”

Kill-O-Yowet let out a low growl, but that was all.

Hokor hit a button, and the “1-2” vanished. He wrote three new symbols.

0-3.

“This is the record of Sky Demolition. They are the worst team in the conference. If they beat us, then, by default, we are the worst team in the conference. If you think you feel bad now, imagine how you will feel if lose to them.”

Hokor paused dramatically. A deathly silence filled the locker room.

He cleared the numbers again. Three names flashed up on the screen: Brady Entenabe, San Mateo, and Yalla the Biter. The holotank flashed two pictures: a tall, blonde-haired Human frozen in mid-throw, and a sprinting Sklorno. Both were dressed in the uniforms of the Sky Demolition: light purple leg armor, deep purple jersey with light purple numbers trimmed in white, and deep purple helmets with three white stripes down the center.

“Brady Entenabe is a second-year quarterback having a surprisingly good year, despite the Demolition’s record. In three games, he has seven touchdown passes and has run for two more. Four of those touchdown passes have gone to San Mateo. Entenabe has also given up five interceptions. He’s thrown for 812 yards, 260 of which have gone to San Mateo. We are going to stop that combination. There is no alternative.”

Hokor hit a button. The pictures faded away, replaced by a moderate-sized Quyth Warrior.

“Yalla the Biter is fast, perhaps the fastest linebacker in the conference. He is faster than John Tweedy. He is faster than Virak the Mean. He has four sacks on the season, along with two interceptions and seventeen tackles. He is the Demolition’s biggest defensive threat. He also has six unnecessary roughness penalties, three for late hits on the quarterback. Last week he was thrown out of the game for fighting. In Week One he killed Princeton, kick returner for Bigg Diggers, on a clean hit. Last week he severed the leg of the Wallcrawlers’ tight end, ending the Human’s career. If the offensive line plays as poorly this week as they did against the Pioneers, I suspect our quarterbacks will be sledded off the field.”

Hokor cleared the pictures. The room remained quiet. “The Sky Demolition is not a deep team — if we stop those three, we win. I don’t care about the Tier Two tournament anymore. All I care about is the Sky Demolition. This game is all that matters to us. Let’s practice like we want to win back our honor.”

Quentin felt the change in the locker room. There was no yelling, no pushing, no testosterone-oriented boasting, but the air had changed nonetheless. Hokor’s quiet speech had affected them all, himself included. Quentin had four days to change the team. Four days to get them playing as a unit.

But was that enough time?

• • •

THE TOUCHBACK was in punch drive, en route to Orbital Station Two, home of the Sky Demolition. Quentin shut down the holotank in his room. He’d looked at the Demolition defensive players over and over again — now it was time to put that study into practical use. He headed for the VR practice field. Last night’s practice had gone well. The repetitive throws to the receivers had started to give him a better perspective on the speed involved. Practicing with holograms was effective, but a hologram couldn’t catch the ball, and therefore couldn’t give him a truly realistic idea of where to put a ball so that a talented receiver could haul it in.

Quentin walked into the VR field, expecting to see Denver and Milford — it shocked him to see not only the two rookies, but Hawick and Scarborough as well. In addition, two reserve defensive backs — Saugatuck and Rehoboth — stood ready to play.

“If Quentin Barnes approves,” Denver said with the Sklorno equivalent of a submissive bow, “these humble players would like to partake in the receiving of your gifts.”

Quentin felt slightly embarrassed to see Hawick and Scarborough, two starting receivers. Yet as soon as that feeling crossed his brain, he chased it away — he was the starting quarterback, and should have asked those two to practice with him from the beginning. The fact that they had come on their own, well, that was both emotionally flattering and strategically encouraging. Now he’d have an even more realistic version of a game situation.

“I approve,” Quentin said. “And thank you.”

All the Sklorno bowed as one. Quentin smiled as he walked to the rack of footballs, realizing that these teammates, at least, had accepted him as an equal.

• • •

FOR QUENTIN, the days blurred past, a run-on sentence crammed with practice and study with little of the punctuation that sleep would provide. He woke four hours before first meal, studied Sky Demolition defensive players, formations and plays, then went to eat with the team. He then sat in position meetings with Pine, Yitzhak and Hokor. Then team practice. Doc had said Pine could dress for the game, but he was not to practice, which meant Quentin took eighty-five percent of all reps. After practice came second meal, which Quentin now took with the rest of the team. He tried talking to as many teammates as he could. He got the impression his teammates knew he was trying, and it seemed to be making a difference.

After second meal, he studied some more. When most of the team went to sleep, Quentin set up shop in the VR field. By the third day, every Sklorno on the team was showing up for the late night sessions: Quentin practiced with three or four receivers, depending on the set, and a full compliment of defensive backs. The extra reps proved invaluable, and his timing started to improve, but it was the defenders that really got him over the hump. He could run whatever play he wanted, as many times as he wanted, gradually building up an instinctive knowledge of how fast the defenders could break on the ball, and how far away they had to be to constitute an “open” receiver.

And he made sure they came at him with plenty of safety and corner blitzes.

It would be a long time before Sklorno-level speed became second-nature to him, the way Human-level speed had been back on Micovi. But as he ran rep after rep, threw pass after pass, he regained the belief that he could handle the offense and throw with total confidence.

• • •

QUENTIN HAD ASSUMED that no construct could be larger than Emperor One.

He was wrong.

Orbital Station Two, or “The Deuce” as it was known across most of the Human worlds, reminded Quentin of an animal he’d seen in his science classes: the sea urchin. The Deuce was spherical, like a moon or a planet, with hundreds of massive, orderly, hollow blue spires jutting up and away from the surface.

He looked around the Touchback’s viewing bay. All of the rookies were there, of course, as they were to see any new planet. All of the Quyth Warriors were present, as was Hokor and at least two dozen Quyth Workers. Quentin hadn’t even known that many Quyth Workers were on the ship. All of them — Warriors, Leaders and Workers alike — stared at the viewscreen with a suffused reverence.

He looked for someone to talk to. Every minute of every day, he tried to find any opportunity to communicate with his teammates, to forge the bonds that Pine said were so critical to winning. He realized he’d spent absolutely no time with Quyth Warriors. He walked across the viewing deck to stand next to Virak the Mean.

“Just how big are those things,” Quentin asked, gesturing to the urchin-spikes that jutted from the space station.

Virak turned and looked at him. A Quyth Leader’s eye is a huge, glassy sphere that looks about as resilient as a Giving Day tree ornament. A Quyth Warrior’s eye, on the other hand, stares out from beneath thick, bony ridges. Even though a Warrior is more than twice the size of a Leader, a Warrior’s eye is about two-thirds the size of a Leader’s. A heavy eyelid, thick as Mason leather and coated with overlapping scales of tough chitin, hooded Virak’s eye from the top. Quentin’s childhood combat training taught him that the eye was the best place to attack a Quyth Warrior, but combat sims with realistic robots were a long way away from facing one in being-to-being combat. Now that he’d seen Quyth Warriors move in person, and on the field, the idea of poking out a Quyth Warrior’s baseball-sized eye seemed much easier said than done.

Virak looked at him with a combination of amusement and disdain. Of all the races, the Quyth seemed to share the most Human-like emotions. When Virak spoke, it was with an air of boredom. “They are about two miles long.”

“Two miles? That’s amazing, they look so thick to be that tall.”

“The spikes are about an eighth of a mile thick. They are beautiful.”

Quentin stared at them, and nodded. The symmetrical placement of the spikes did give the space station an ironically delicate appearance.

“The spikes are a life form,” Virak said. “A silica-based organism that grows in a dense crystalline matrix. They are like bacteria. They grow, feed, and reproduce in numbers beyond comprehension. Only the outside of the spike is alive — the inside is nothing but dead skeletons, but it is incredibly dense and hard. The crystalline structure gives it the strength to reach such massive heights.”

“What are they for?”

“They serve two purposes. They reach down to the core. We can vent energy through them to propel the station in any direction. They are also the main supports of the Deuce’s framework. Crossbeams connect to the spikes. You can see one below the equator, there.”

Virak pointed. Quentin saw another long, green structure, although this one was horizontal rather than vertical. It ran between two spikes.

“Why is there only that one crossbeam?”

“There are thousands of them, but they are buried,” Virak said. “The Deuce is built in stages, and each stage takes several cycles. With that crossbeam in place, workers will add to the station’s mass.”

As Quentin watched, a small, speckle-coated asteroid drifted down below the spike points and towards the surface. It took his brain a second to register the scale involved — the speckles were actually ships, and the asteroid had to be at least ten miles across and five miles thick. As he watched, the speckle-ships (which were each probably larger than the Touchback) drove the asteroid down. About a half-mile from the surface, the speckle-ships broke off, flying away from the asteroid like a slow-moving cloud of gnats. The massive rock continued its descent until it smashed into the surface with a huge, billowing cloud of dust and debris. The cloud seemed to hang in the air, floating lightly, pulled back down ever-so-slowly by The Deuce’s weak gravity.

“That is how it gets bigger,” Virak said. “Every day ships go out and find asteroids. They bring them back to add to the surface. As the mass continues to grow, so does the gravity, and so does the density of the Deuce’s core. Additional matter on the surface compresses the core. The original living levels have long since been smashed flat by gravity. Workers constantly dig new levels creating an exponentially increasing living area to accommodate a high birth rate. Immigration to the Orbital Stations fell to a near standstill after Whitok and Ionath were colonized. Now those seeking to escape the overpopulation of Quyth head to those planets instead of the Orbital Stations.”

Quentin stared at the asteroid, a small pebble in a slightly larger crater. Crater and asteroid both barely a pimple on the surface.

“How long does it take to bring the asteroids in?”

Virak thought for a moment. “It depends on the materials needed. Some trips take only a few months. Others seek out asteroids comprised of rare or vital minerals, such as platinum or iridium. Those missions can take hundreds of years. It is common for a crew to leave The Deuce knowing that they will be long dead of old age before the ship returns, and their children or grandchildren will pilot the vessel home.”

“How many ships are there?”

“Somewhere around a hundred thousand.”

“A hundred ... just how long does it take to build that thing out there?”

“The Deuce has been growing for almost three hundred years, and The Ace is just over three hundred and fifty years old.”

Quentin shook his head in amazement. All his life he’d been told the Quyth were only semi-intelligent beasts. Yet here was an engineering project that rivaled the terraforming of Solomon, a race so unified in purpose that they sacrificed themselves to build a home for future generations.

“It’s not that big,” Quentin said. “I mean, for an artificial construct, it’s massive. But from a strategic perspective, I can’t see how the Creterakians could take over entire planets that were twenty times as large, but not be able to take The Deuce.”

“They took over other planets by swarming across the surface and overwhelming the enemy by sheer numbers,” Virak said. “Here, the surface doesn’t support life. They had to fight their way into the shaft to get at the living levels. They tried the same technique they used against the big ships — launching thousands of landing vessels, trying to overwhelm our shaft defenses. We slaughtered their people by the millions.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you actually fought here or something.”

“I did,” Virak said. “I was born here. “When my time came, I fought not for new breeding grounds, but for defense of my birth-home.”

Virak absently brushed a pedipalp hand across a long list of short, alien words etched into the chitin of his right arm.

“What are those?” Quentin asked, gesturing to the writing.

“Names of Warriors in my fighting pack. Warriors I had lived with most of my life. They died in the battles. I lost everyone in my fighting pack, but the Creterakians paid a terrible price for their assault.”

“How many died?”

“Over two million Quyth,” Virak said. “Including all my family. We estimate around 22 million Creterakians died trying to capture The Deuce. We kept rough count up to 10 million, but they just kept coming, and counting the dead was last on our list of needs.”

Quentin tried to imagine fighting an enemy without number that came in wave after wave after wave. “That many, and they never broke through?”

“They eventually created a beach head on Shaft Two and Shaft Four. We let them bring in troops and resources, then we used nuclear weapons to destroy those shafts before they could penetrate further. Eventually, technologists from Satirli 6 were brought in to engineer a way through the two miles that separated the surface from the living levels.”

“Did they get in?”

“Yes, several times. But we distributed tactical nuclear weapons throughout The Deuce. Citizens were under strict orders — at the first sign of a breakthrough, seal off their section and detonate.”

Quentin’s jaw dropped. “At first sign? But how long did it take to evacuate the sections before you nuked them?”

Virak looked back into space. “There was no evacuation. Citizens sealed their section, then detonated.”

“How many Quyth would that kill?”

Virak thought for a moment. “Depending on the section, anywhere from 150,000 to 250,000. It did not matter — as long as the Creterakians did not establish a beachhead on the living levels, from which they could re-supply and swarm through the entire station, any sacrifice was worth it.”

“But to kill a quarter-million of your own people ...”

“It was necessary,” Virak said. “The Creterakians do not control us. Freedom isn’t free.”

Quentin tried to imagine even the most hard-core Holy Man pulling the trigger on a nuke that would take out not only him, but 250,000 of his people.

“We maintained maneuverability,” Virak said. “As big as it is, the whole station can enter punch-space. We moved towards the home planet, to help defend it. The three Orbital Stations are more than just ships, they are self-contained ecosystems with planetary-level manufacturing infrastructures and resources that are inexhaustible in the short-term. That meant we were moving three full war-factories to defend the homeworld. We left the Creterakians with one choice — completely destroy the orbital stations, exterminating all life, or fight the ships the stations produced for decades to come.”

“So why didn’t they blow up The Deuce and the others?”

“We don’t know,” Virak said. “Maybe they didn’t have the technology. Relativity bombs, like the Sklorno used on Whitok, would have completely destroyed The Deuce, but the Creterakians either do not have them or did not use them. It doesn’t matter anymore. We beat them back once, we’ll beat them back again. The Quyth protect their homelands.”

There was more than a hint of condescension in that comment. The Quyth, who despite their military presence were considered the galaxy’s poor cousin of intelligence, had resisted the swarming Creterakians when all the “superior” governments had surrendered. The fact that most of the Quyth planets were irradiated wastelands seemed irrelevant, at least to them.

The conversation faded away as the Touchback maneuvered towards a massive shaft, perhaps two miles wide. Rows of lights ran down the sides, disappearing into the depths, reminiscent of the mine shafts back home. Ships, large and small, flew in and out of the huge opening. As the Touchback approached, traffic faded to nothing — exit traffic ceased, and entry traffic hovered in place.

“Why is all the shipping stopped?”

“Because they clear everything out when a bus comes in,” Virak said. “They need to prevent possible terrorist attacks. If a ship even gets within a half mile of a team bus, it is destroyed.”

The Touchback descended the shaft, sinking like a pebble into a miles-deep, dark-water chasm. Large ships docked against greenish projections that jutted out from the walls up and down the length of the shaft. He saw thousands of small ships, but many larger ones as well: cargo tugs hauling long lines of hexagonal boxes, space liners sporting sleek lines, bulky freighters loading or unloading payload to haul to other systems, and something that Quentin had never seen — warships.

There were dozens of warships, big and small, bristling with bulky shield generators and the long, thin, unmistakable shapes of weapons. Quentin felt a shiver, thinking of the days when weapon-loaded ships like these had permeated the universe, fighting and killing more often than not.

The Touchback slowed, almost imperceptibly. A light jarring motion indicated they had docked.

[BEINGS ON FIRST SHUTTLE FLIGHT, MOVE TO THE LANDING BAY. FIRST SHUTTLE FLIGHT LEAVES IN FIFTEEN MINUTES.]

“You come with me,” Virak said.

“But I’m on the third flight.”

“I have more to show you,” Virak said. “You come with me.”

Quentin followed the muscular Quyth warrior from the viewing deck down to the landing bay. He boarded — a few of the veteran starters gave him a quick look, but most shrugged (or gave the respective alien equivalent of a shrug) and went back to whatever they had been doing. The shuttle slid out of the landing bay and descended the shaft.

The shuttle finally slipped past the bottom of the shaft and into a cavernous, dome-shaped space. Endless rails of the green crystal ran in curved arms along the dome shell up towards the two-mile wide shaft mouth, which was also ringed by a thick band of green. Ships, probably personal cars judging from their tiny dimensions, flew in every direction like a thick swarm of gnats.

The air looked crowded with vehicles, but not around the shuttle. Off the port side, he noticed a squat yellow and black ship, lethal-looking and bristling with weapons. It struck him as an artistic interpretation of a bumble-bee crossed with an automated factory robot. He didn’t know the reason for its rather un-aerodynamic shape, but there was no mistaking the ship was a fighter.

He watched the fighter out the window. It matched speed and altitude with the shuttle. Then he noticed another fighter, and another, also matching speed. He looked out windows on the other side, and saw many more. Dozens of mechanical bees formed a sort of protective sphere-web with the shuttle at its center.

The Deuce reminded Quentin of Ionath City and Port Whitok — a huge, dome-shaped city. Although this time the dome was twice as large, at least eight miles in diameter and over two miles high. There was no sprawling city playing away from the downtown — here bare rock marked the city’s edge. A winding river, at this height no more than a blue-green ribbon, ran through the center of the city, emanating from one domewall and disappearing into another on the far side.

This place did not have the fine radial symmetry of Ionath City. Rather, it spread outward from the center the way a bacteria colony might grow on a Petri dish: orderly but in a biological fashion, as if it had grown naturally without the guiding hand of a city engineer. Lights glowed from almost every building, adding to the city’s biological feel, as if it were a bioluminescent colonial organism in some deep ocean. Roads wound through the city with little more order than the meandering river.

“How did they put a river in there?”

“Comet harvesters,” Virak said. “Same as the asteroid harvesters. Water is very important for life. Females breed in water. On Ionath and Whitok, we have special water-filled facilities for breeding, but here we can do it naturally, right out in the open like it is done on Quyth.”

The buildings had looked squat from the shaft mouth, but as the shuttle descended, Quentin saw that was just an illusion. The towering, organic-looking hexagonal structures reached to heights of two hundred stories and more. The shuttle banked to the left and followed the line of the river. Buildings seemed to link together, their green crystalline structure branching out like neurons to connect to all their neighbors, several times at several heights. The number of buildings, their densely packed proximity, their height — Quentin’s head spun with one obvious question.

“How many beings live on The Deuce?”

“The last census put us somewhere around 742 million. It’s not as open as Ionath City, but it’s not nearly as crowded as the homeworld.”

All in a space less than half the size of the Earth’s moon. The Quyth homeworld was only slightly larger than Earth — and populated with 72 billion Quyth. The race seemed to have mastered dense-population living.

The shuttle dropped to a hundred feet above the water as the river banked sharply to the right. Around that bend lay Demolition Stadium. A smaller affair than its counterparts on Ionath and Whitok, it had purple seats 500 rows high running parallel to each sideline. Demolition Stadium looked kind of like a freeze-frame sculpture of a thick book being closed. Both end zones were open, free of the towering bleachers which rose at such a steep angle Quentin wondered how anyone could climb the steps. The field surface was a pale, milky white, with yard markers written in a deep blue.

“The surface is Tiralik,” Virak said. “Very springy and giving. Soft surface cuts down injuries, but stains jerseys badly.”

A multi-shaded purple building dominated one end zone, while a platform of some kind dominated the other. The shuttle set down on the purple building.

Virak turned to Quentin and grabbed one arm with a pedipalp. Quentin managed to not wince at the painful grab — he knew the full strength of a Quyth Warrior, and this grab was not meant to hurt.

“You watch yourself,” Virak said. “Orbital Stations are a lot older than Ionath City. Races have mingled here for centuries. This is one of the few places in the galaxy that there are no Creterakian soldiers, so a lot of criminal elements come and go, or just come and stay.”

“So why don’t your people do something about it?”

“For a long time it was difficult to trade with other systems. No one wanted to bother with the Quyth. Smugglers brought in many goods, and they needed a place to hide out. And when the war came, they fought and died right along with us. For that, we leave them be as long as they don’t make too much trouble.”

Quentin noted the phrase too much trouble, as opposed to as long as they don’t make any trouble. As he disembarked onto the roof of the purple building, he wondered what kind of activities might fall under the threshold of too much trouble.

“Just be careful,” Virak said as the races moved to their separate locker rooms. “And you’d do best to keep to yourself.”

• • •

THE DEUCE HAD no haven for Purist Nation ex-patriots, so Rick Warburg decided to stay in the Demolition Building. Quentin had no intention of staying in. He opted for dinner with Yassoud and John Tweedy. The city’s bizarre architecture drew him out into the streets. Ionath City was orderly and new, a highly regimented place built with careful planning and meticulous attention to detail. The Deuce, on the other hand, felt far more organic. Not just streets but entire levels had sprung up over the centuries, many without any official sanction or knowledge. Caverns and tunnels, both rough and smoothly engineered, ran through the artificial planetoid like a giant termite colony.

Like Ionath City and Port Whitok, the football stadium lay in a bustling downtown area packed with many species, noise, grav cars and multiple forms of entertainment. It surprised him to see so many representatives of the different races. Some of the Human families, he’d been told, had lived on The Deuce for eight or more generations, two centuries of life, and considered themselves citizens of the Quyth Concordia with no association whatsoever to the Human systems.

Quentin thought of his own lineage — his ancestors had come over on the first flotilla, some 240 years ago. A great-great-great-great grandfather, supposedly, had come from someplace on Earth called “Dallas.” Quentin only remembered that tidbit because one of the original football teams had played there. He, and his parents, and his parents’ parents before him, thought of themselves as citizens of the Purist Nation, as separate from Earth as the Human citizens of The Deuce were to any Human government. Still, it was hard to think of Humans proudly boasting their citizenship to a nation of radioactivity-proof aliens.

Buildings towered above, some reaching a mile into the air. The green crystalline mass that made up the buildings’ frameworks looked bubbly, almost alive, with the soft ripples and curves of a large icicle. Massive arcs of that same green crystal reached from building to building, across narrow spans, across streets, some across entire blocks. Some arcs reached from a building to another arc, and a few even ran from one arc to another, forming a stringy, organic latticework.

“Bet you never saw anything like this back on the farm, eh Quentin?” Yassoud said as the trio headed to the first building with a holographic football/beer bottle sign.

“You can say that again,” Quentin said. “Virak told me to watch my back in this place. I hear it’s dangerous.”

“Relax, backwater,” Tweedy said with a grin. “We’re football players. Nobody is gonna mess with us. We can beat the tar out of them and no one can send us to jail. GFL immunity is great, I tell ya. Let’s just enjoy the place and tie one on tonight.”

“Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “Let us delve into the seedy underbelly of this strange and alien city.”

As if pulled by some unseen magnetism, Yassoud and Tweedy suddenly turned as one and walked towards a door marked with a familiar glowing sign of a football on top of a Miller logo. Quentin paused before entering. The bar was so packed part of the crowd stood on the street, mag-glasses in hand. Where Ionath City and Port Whitok had “species-specific” areas, this bar seemed to have everything: Humans, Creterakian civilians, female Sklorno, more than a few Ki, Harrah, and, of course, dozens of Quyth Workers, Warriors and Leaders.

The crowd parted for the three men as they walked into the bar, mostly because the ever-scowling Tweedy led the way, head tilted down, eyes peering out from his thick eyebrows. KRAKENS RULE THE UNIVERSE scrolled across his forehead. The bar’s counter was a black, onyx-like surface set at just two feet off the ground, the perfect height for Quyth Workers to sit and relax. Quentin, Tweedy and Yassoud sat at three seats, which seemed to magically open before them as three normal-sized Humans got up and left upon their approach.

“Bartender!” Yassoud screamed as he sat. A wide, white-toothed smile nearly split his face in two. “Bartender! Three Millers!”

A Quyth Worker waddled over. A shriveled stub on his left cheek remained of what had once matched the yellow-and-orange furred pedipalp on his right. He reached under the bar and quickly served up three mag-cans of Miller. Yassoud, still smiling, ceremoniously opened all three cans, passing one to Quentin and one to John Tweedy.

“Tonight we drink to turning things around,” Yassoud said, his can held high. “Here’s to kicking in the Demolition’s face! Oh yep!”

All three men drank as the crowd, obviously Demolition fans, let out low-volume jeers. Quentin noticed how many beings wore Demolition clothing of one type or another; purple hats and jackets and shirts marked with three white stripes.

Quentin took a couple of swallows. When he set his can down, Yassoud and Tweedy were still drinking. Both men drained their mag-cans, hit the decompress button on the top, and set the now de-charged and empty metal ring on the bar top.

“Bartender!” Yassoud screamed. “Another round please.”

John Tweedy poked a finger at Quentin’s can, still three-quarters full. “What’s the matter, rookie. Not thirsty?”

“Um, we have a game in two days.”

“So?” Yassoud and Tweedy said in unison.

“I’m not going to get drunk, we’ve got to be at our best for the game.”

Tweedy waved a hand in front of his face as if Quentin had farted. “Dang, backwater, I thought you were fun, like Yassoud here.”

Yassoud, smiling, just shrugged.

“I’m fun,” Quentin said. “I just don’t wanna mess anything up this week.”

“Yeah, you’re tons of fun,” Yassoud said. “The way you spend all your time in the VR room, man you’re a regular ball of laughs. I wanna party with you, kid.”

Tweedy laughed. Quentin felt his face turn a bit red.

“Hey, I’m out tonight, right?” Quentin said. “Give me at least that much.”

Yassoud nodded vigorously. “Oh yep, you’re right, you’re here so I’ll quit bagging on you.”

The second round hit the bar top. Within seconds, John and Yassoud had knocked that one back as well.

“Bartender!” Yassoud screamed. Quentin slowly shook his head. It was going to be a long night.

• • •

RIGHT ABOUT THE TIME John Tweedy, now eight beers heavier, started challenging anyone and everyone in the bar to a fight, Quentin (only two beers heavier) walked outside. He had a good feeling he’d need a grav-cab to get Tweedy and Yassoud back to their rooms. How they could hope to practice the next day was beyond Quentin’s understanding.

The streets remained packed with grav-cars. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks, moved in and out of bars and buildings. The green tinged buildings soared above, their endless network of arms reaching out to each other like tentacled lovers caught in a freeze-frame.

A pair of Human hand-holding women walked by, one with blue skin, the other with white, both wearing matching see-through body suits that left nothing to the imagination. A month ago, he would have sneered at the two shameless women, both for their sinful dress and for the color of their skin. Now however, something did rise as they walked by, but it wasn’t his lip.

You’re changing so fast you can barely keep score, Quentin thought to himself. Maybe it was being immersed in alien cultures that made even blue- and white-skinned women look alluring. They didn’t seem so different anymore, not like they had back on Micovi, where you only saw colored skin in the holos. The white-skinned girl turned and looked at him as she walked by, her blue-painted lips flashing a seductive smile.

He watched her walk down the sidewalk, his eyes following first her shapely booty, then her legs, then her friend’s booty, then her friend’s legs, then Maygon.

Maygon?

Quentin blinked twice, but there was nothing wrong with his vision. Maygon, the Creterakian representative of the To Pirates, was two buildings down the street, dressed in a fuchsia suit with yellow stripes, and waving at him with one wing. No, not waving, beckoning.

Quentin felt his face flush red. He looked around quickly, but saw no one he recognized, and no one staring at him. Well, no unusual stares — a seven-foot-tall being drew plenty of stares in a city where the average citizen stood just over four feet.

Maygon waved again, this time faster, more demanding.

Quentin swallowed, looked in the bar to make sure Yassoud and Tweedy weren’t watching, then walked to Maygon.

“What do you want?’ Quentin said. “We can’t be seen together.”

“A chance you’ll have to take. Kirani-Ah-Kollok has a message for you.”

“Well, then make it quick.”

“I’ll only be a second, relax. I just wanted to let you know you did a good job last week. Your effort looked very convincing, yet you still lost by twenty-five points.”

Quentin suddenly realized that once he’d taken that first snap, he hadn’t even thought about throwing the game. He felt doubly humiliated — first because he’d considered tanking, and second because he’d played his tail off, lost, and this bat thought he’d lost on purpose. Quentin felt an anger brewing in him like he’d never felt before.

“Just keep it up, backwater,” Maygon said. “One more loss and you’ll be wearing the blood red before Tier One season starts. Just letting you know that I’m here, and I’m watching. Now piss off, I want to chase some tail.”

Quentin stood for a moment, then turned, the rage so thick in his head it was hard to think. One more loss ... the phrase echoed in his mind. The To Pirates, his childhood dream, and all he needed was one more loss. He walked towards the bar. It was time to get those two drunks out of there and go back to the rooms.

He was so mad he didn’t notice the things around him, like the crowd parting before him the way it had for John Tweedy, or the two huge Ki that blocked the sidewalk and weren’t about to part for anybody. Quentin almost walked right into them.

“Excuse me,” he said, but the Ki didn’t move. Quentin looked at them for a moment, their expressionless black eyes staring back, then he tried to walk around them.

They moved to block his path.

“You guys have a problem?”

The Ki said nothing. A Creterakian, this one dressed in lemon yellow with long flowing streamers of dark yellow, flew up and perched on one of the Ki’s shoulders.

“Quentin Barnes,” the Creterakian said. “My boss would like a word with you.”

Did the To Pirates think he was a moron? “I already heard the sermon. Now leave me alone.”

“You haven’t heard anything,” the Creterakian said, “until you’ve heard it from the boss. And the boss wants to speak with you.”

“I’m heading back to my room. Now get these beasts out of my way.”

“The boss wants to talk with you now,” the Creterakian said. The Ki moved quickly, multi-jointed arms reaching out. Quentin immediately started dodging to the left, but they were too close and he’d been caught off guard. Eight strong Ki arms grabbed him and held him concrete-tight. Quentin in tow, they scuttled into a building. It all happened so fast Quentin barely knew what was happening before the Ki tossed him unceremoniously onto the floor. The noise of the street faded away behind a closed door. He stood up with an athlete’s quickness, but the Ki were already off him, backed up against the door to prevent his escape. The yellow-suited Creterakian was also in the room, only now he was perched on the shoulder of a black-and-tan furred Quyth Leader.

This is bad, Quentin thought instantly. This is very bad. He wanted out and he wanted out quickly. He leaned forward and started lunging for the Ki.

They both pulled knives. He stopped short, almost stumbling into the glittering points.

Knives wasn’t the right word. He’d used knives in his military training. Knives were a foot long at most. These blades were three feet long, serrated on one side, gleaming sharpness on the other.

“Stop being a pansy,” the Quyth Leader said in a gravelly voice. “You’re here until I tell you to leave, so stop being a pansy.”

Quentin backed away from the sword-wielding Ki. The room had another door, but it was behind the Quyth Leader. Quentin suspected if he rushed for that way out, the Ki might cut him down before he could get the thing open.

“I am Mopuk the Sneaky,” the Quyth Leader said. He then gestured to the Creterakian. “This is Sobox. If you see Sobox again, know that he is carrying my voice.”

“I don’t care if he’s carrying your nuts in a paper baggie, you want to tell me what this is about?”

“This is about Donald Pine.”

Quentin hadn’t expected that. “What about him?”

“He works for me,” Mopuk said. “You might say he’s a seasonal employee. Donald Pine owes me a lot of money. He pays off his debt by playing the way I tell him to play.”

Quentin felt stunned. “You’re trying to tell me that Pine throws games for you?”

Mopuk’s pedipalps quivered once.

“Well you’re out of luck then, moron, because Pine’s hurt and I’m playing this week.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Mopuk said. “I want the Demolition to win. You will make sure that happens.”

Quentin was getting tired of people telling him to lose. Damn tired.

“There’s cash in it for you,” Mopuk said. He held out one pedipalp, into which Sobox dropped a credit chit. Mopuk tossed it to Quentin. “That’s a chit for a half million. I believe your entire salary for the season is only one million?”

Quentin looked at the small black chit. Indeed, the readout said c500,000.00. The payable button, however did not glow the blue of an active transaction.

“One million, what a joke,” Sobox said. “You need an agent, backwater.”

“Just take care of business, and that light glows blue,” Mopuk said. “Make sure the Demolition wins by at least a touchdown. That’s all you have to do.”

Quentin stared at the chit. Five hundred thousand — that was half of what he made for the whole season. More than half, if he counted in the tithe he had to pay to the Purist Nation. And hell, they’d probably lose anyway ...

He shook his head, trying to clear away such thoughts. He would not throw the game. And besides, if he did, Gredok might find out, and that would be very, very bad.

“Do you know who owns the Krakens?” Quentin asked. “Any idea at all, moron?”

“I know who owns the Krakens,” Mopuk said. “And if you go run and tell him, he won’t be happy. But right now he doesn’t know anything. And if he does find out, I’ll be sure to implicate you in every way possible. I’m protected, gatholi, but you’re not. Who do you think is going to come out of this with their head still attached to their body? You just throw the game and everyone is happy.”

Quentin shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you let me use those pedipalps to clean my toilet? I had some Tower food didn’t agree with me, and it’s a mess. Your furry little things would clean it up good.”

Sobox flapped once, and the Ki were on him. There was no space to maneuver in the small room. Quentin managed one good punch at the first Ki, but didn’t know if his blow did any damage before he went down under a thousand pounds of heavy alien. He felt sudden blows to his ribs, and one to his jaw. The world spun awkwardly around him as the weight suddenly lifted. Quentin slowly stood up, rubbing his jaw, his ribs feeling like someone had jabbed a baseball bat into him handle-first. He felt something in his mouth. He spit — his front right tooth shot out and landed in a loogie of his blood.

Dammit. I just finished growing that thing back.

“Now shut up and listen,” Mopuk said. “I’m done negotiating. The money is off the table, no more deal there, you blew it. The Demolition win. You do it for free. End of story. And they win by a touchdown. Got that? Seven points, at least. If this doesn’t happen, you’re going back to the Purist Nation in a coffin.”

Quentin looked at the two Ki. He was stuck in this room, and if they wanted, they could easily kill him.

“Yeah,” he said, the word coming out stilted from his already swelling jaw. “I got it.”

One of the Ki opened the door and stood aside. Quentin walked out onto the busy street. The door shut behind him.

• • •

RED “NO TOUCH” JERSEY flapping in a light breeze, Quentin dropped back and planted. His feet slid slightly on the white Tiralik. The footing felt like grass — if you covered grass with a light coating of kitchen grease, that is. He was quickly adjusting to the slickness. He looked downfield to his primary receiver and gunned the pass to Hawick. The ball covered fifteen yards in a half-second and hit Hawick dead-on.

“Good job, Barnes,” Hokor called in his headset.

“Thanks Coach.” It was strange to hear a compliment, and this had been Hokor’s fourth of the practice. Everything seemed to be flowing now, the players — both offense and defense — part of a huge dance. More and more he knew where each receiver would move, and where their defensive “dance partner” would move in response. Things were starting to feel natural, the way they had back on Micovi. Still, this was against a defense he practiced with not only daily, but nightly as well. He’d started to subconsciously absorb the aggressive tendencies of Berea and Stockbridge, the one-step-too-late break of Perth, and the too-cautious defense of Davenport. Against the Demolition’s top-rated pass defense, however, it would be a different story.

“You’re looking good, backwater.”

Quentin turned to look at Donald Pine, who was dressed in civy clothes. The crutches were gone, replaced by just a cane. The cane made him look like the old man that he was. How long had be been throwing games? Quentin could barely look at the Pine without feeling sick and angry. One of the best QBs of all time, and he threw games like some punk.

“Bend your left knee more when you drop back,” Pine said. “You’re handling the slickness okay now, but in the second half, the field will be really beat up and way more slippery. You need that extra springiness a bent knee will give you to keep your balance.

Quentin nodded, but didn’t say anything. Once again, he couldn’t trust what Pine had to say. Had Mopuk & Co. told Pine to make sure Quentin tanked? Was Pine going to play subversive mind games to ensure a loss?

A long whistle blew as Hokor’s cart descended to the 50-yard line. The team gathered from all over the field — practice was over, and Hokor had to cover any last important notes before the players headed to the locker rooms. Tomorrow this same field would be filled with 110,000 screaming fans, as well as 44 players wearing the multi-shaded purple of the Sky Demolition.

Quentin turned away from Pine and jogged to the mid-field gathering. Tomorrow was game day. Do-or-die day. One more loss, and the season was shot.

Not under my watch.

The team probably wouldn’t make the Tier Two tournament. But if that happened, it would be because Don Pine threw a game, not Quentin Barnes.

Forget Pine.

Forget Mopuk.

Hell, for that matter, forget the To Pirates.

Quentin wasn’t taking a dive for anyone. He would not let his teammates down.

Live feed from UBS GameDay holocast coverage

“Hello football fans, welcome back to this UBS holocast of GFL football. This is Masara the Observant, here with Chick McGee, the galaxy’s favorite color commentator. Well Chick, despite the score, we’ve seen some good football in the first half. The Demolition is up 14-3, but the Krakens’ defense has played well.”

“You’ve got that right, Masara. Let’s take a look at the Bombay Gin Halftime StatBoard. Nothing eases a Worker’s day like the tasty taste of Gin from Bombay. Hmmm, that’s tasty.”

“Chick, you shouldn’t be drinking that in the booth.”

“Hey, now can I endorse it without sampling the product? Brady Entenabe is showing why he’s one of the top-rated passers in the Quyth Irradiated. He’s 12-of-17 for 203 and a pair of touchdowns, both to San Mateo. The Krakens’ secondary has done a good job of containing the Demolition pass attack, but gave up two big plays, a 68-yard TD strike from Entenabe to San Mateo, and another 27-yard TD that came on a crucial third-and-12 right at the end of the half. If they’d held them there, the Krakens would only be back by a touchdown.”

“Chick, what does the Krakens offense have to do to put some points on the board?”

“Well, Masara, they’ve got to do three things. First, rookie QB Quentin Barnes has to work on his footing. He’s not used to playing on this kind of surface — he’s already fallen twice on his drop-backs, slipping when he plants to step up and throw. Second, the Krakens have to start blocking. The Demo has sacked Barnes three times so far, knocked him down three more, and hurried him another four. Barnes has thrown two interceptions, both caused by heavy pass-rush pressure. If it wasn’t for his running ability, the Krakens would be worse off than they already are. Barnes has twenty-six yards on the ground on five rushing attempts, all of them scrambles. I tell ya, that Human has been chewed up like a Sklorno larvae during a famine.”

“Um, Chick, I hardly think our Sklorno viewers would appreciate that ...”

“Yes you’re right there, Masara. Sorry, folks — sometimes this old game of football gets me so fired up I slip back into cute colloquialisms. No offense intended.”

“So let’s move on. We’ve got better footing, then blocking, what’s the third thing?”

“Masara, the third thing is play calling. Hokor the Hookchest is being very predictable. The Krakens are running first, throwing second, and the Demolition knows it. The only time the Krakens throw is when they have to throw, and then the Demolition brings Yalla the Biter on a blitz almost every time.”

“So why isn’t Barnes changing the plays at the line?”

“You’ve got me, Masara. The kid seems like he knows the offense very well, but either he’s afraid to change the play, or Hokor isn’t letting him audible.”

“Next up we’ll take a look at the first half highlights, brought to you by Ju-Ku-Killok Shipping. Remember, if you’ve got to ship it across the galaxy, don’t you want to ship it with a Ki? Any way you look at it, Chick, it seems something’s got to change if the Krakens are going to get back into this game.”

“You got that right, Masara. Otherwise the Krakens have about as much chance as a naked nun at a Purist Nation rapist convention.”

“Chick! Now come on—”

“Sorry Masara, sorry beings at home ...”

• • •

QUENTIN HISSED ONCE as Doc wrapped the cool blue patch around the right side of his neck. He’d been tackled by the neck on the last sack, a Ki arm tearing away a good six square inches of skin. He thought he’d been in the clear, but still hadn’t accounted for how far the Ki could jump out of a gather. The right side of Quentin’s jersey was deeply stained with his own blood, and he couldn’t swallow without an explosion of throbbing pain. The patch’s sting set in immediately — it only added to his anger. Pine sat on his left, cane in hand, and Yitzhak sat on his right.

“We’ve got to execute better on first down,” Hokor told the assembled players. “We’re not getting off to a good start.”

That’s because all you want to do is hand the ball off to Fayed, Quentin thought.

“And we’ve got to start blocking on the offensive line,” Hokor said. “I don’t care what cultural crap you Ki are dealing with, but block.”

Block, that’s right, Hokor, now you’re really leading aren’t you, you pint-sized idiot.

“Defensively, we’ve got to get our coverages in sync.”

Block, crap crap crap crap this hurts.

“Entenabe is taking advantage of every blown rotation.”

Tired of getting sacked, you scumbags ...

“So let’s get back to our game plan. We don’t -”

“Game plan?” Quentin stood so suddenly his chair shot out from behind him. “The game plan is not for me to spend four quarters getting pummeled like a half-frozen round bug!”

“Barnes!” Hokor said. “Sit down and -”

“I’m sick of it!” Quentin strode towards the Ki linemen. They sat on one side of the locker room, a huge mass of dangerous strength dressed in orange jerseys and multi-legged, orange leg armor stained white from the oily field.

“You call that blocking? You garbage-eating cowardly scumbags! Scumbags!”

“Barnes!”

“Shut up, half-pint!” Quentin flashed a wide-eyed stare at Hokor before turning back to the Ki linemen.

Pine leaned over to Yitzhak. “He’s lost it.”

Yitzhak leaned back. “Yeah. Should we help him?”

Pine shrugged. “Naw, this is kind of fun. They’ll either block for him, or eat him, I’m not sure which.”

“You worthless losers! You’re not fit to clean the toilets in this place, you weak-willed pansys! After this game we’re gonna settle up, salamanders. Settle up with the lot of you!”

The Ki didn’t move a muscle.

Quentin turned and stormed out of the locker room, stopping along the way to kick over a water bucket and smash a chair into the wall. There was a brief silence, broken by an angry bark from Sho-Do-Thikit.

“Don’t talk threats,” Pine said. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried to every ear. When he talked, the entire team turned to look at him. “Yes he insulted you. And you deserved it. All five of you. And you all know it.”

• • •

THE THIRD QUARTER was pure torture. Quentin saw play after play where he could have audibled to a pass that would have burned the defense, but he stuck to the plays that Hokor called. Entenabe, however, didn’t seem to have such restrictions. He struck for a 24-yard TD pass at the end of the third, putting the Demolition up 21-3 going into the fourth.

The blocking, however, seemed somewhat improved. Quentin had time to set up and survey the field. He went 6-of-10 for 34 yards in the third quarter, but couldn’t string together enough passes to constitute a drive. With the extra time to set up, however, he started marking defensive nuances. Slowly but steadily, his mind began to place the Demolition defenders like a chess master marking out his opponent’s likely moves.

With 10:02 to play in the fourth, the Krakens’ “D” forced a punt, which Richfield returned to the Demolition 45. Quentin couldn’t stand it any longer. They had to score and they had to score now. He ran to Hokor.

“Coach,” Quentin said as he kneeled down. “Coach, how about letting me audible out there?”

“Just run the plays I call, Barnes.”

“But Coach, we’re losing!”

“I know that, Barnes. Now shut up, I’m going to turn you loose this time. Just do what I say, and run the plays that I call, got it?”

Quentin felt frustration welling up inside of him, but he nodded.

“We’ve run on seven of the last eight first downs,” Hokor said. “Go deep this time. Z-set, play-action, 42-fly.”

Quentin felt his pulse quicken. He ran onto the field. Z-set put two tight ends in the game, along with Fayed and Pareless, the fullback. The only receiver would be Hawick on the left flank. Bud-O-Shwek snapped it and Quentin turned to the left, stabbing the ball towards the onrushing Fayed. He pulled it away at the last second, putting the ball on his left hip and letting his right hand brush Fayed’s belly. Fayed put both arms together, just as he would if he’d been handed the ball, and smashed into the line. The Krakens hadn’t used play action all day — and the fake drew in the run-oriented defense. Quentin tucked down to hide the ball even as he dropped back. After five steps, he turned and stood ...

... and saw Yalla the Biter, already through the line and coming right for him.

BLINK

Quentin juked left, which Yalla instantly matched. Quentin started to juke right, his patented double-move that always got him out of trouble in the PNFL, but in a millisecond’s time he knew Yalla could effortlessly mirror that move with the amazing lateral movement and reaction time of a Quyth Warrior.

Quentin’s instincts took over. He suddenly saw Yalla’s direction as if there were an arrow pointing forward, like a video game, and sensed the linebacker’s force and momentum like a growing pressure in his thoughts. Timing, it’s all in the timing ...

Yalla leaned far forward to deliver the hit, suddenly coming off all-fours, pedipalps and arms reaching out. At just that instant Quentin spun violently to the right. The quarterback pushed off with his right hand as he spun, the ball in his left hand, his body between Yalla and the ball. He spun so fast he almost fell over from the momentum, but the move worked. Juke moves took too much time against Quyth Warriors, but a spin move, just as Yalla came off all-fours to deliver the hit, that didn’t give the linebacker enough time to react: one millisecond Quentin was there, the next he was two feet right of where he had been.

Yalla’s momentum carried him past the spinning quarterback, but his powerful pedipalps grabbed a double-handful of jersey on the way past. Quentin felt himself sliding backwards on the slick white surface. He instinctively tucked the ball and started pumping his legs with short, quick, jabbing steps. The Quyth linebacker fell to the ground ... Quentin planted his legs and pushed against the weight dragging him down ... a ripping sound, and suddenly Quentin lurched forward, free to move once again.

He instantly stood tall and looked downfield — Hawick streaked down the sidelines, a full two steps ahead of her defender.

Quentin fired the ball downfield high and long — as usual, he had no problem hitting an open receiver. Hawick sailed fifteen feet into the air, caught the ball and landed in full stride. The left cornerback was behind her and didn’t stand a chance ... the safety came over to help, but she’d also lost a step with the play-action fake. Hawick strode into the end zone untouched.

BLINK

The crowd booed, but without much intensity. Quentin flipped them off en masse as he ran off the field, his torn jersey flapping around him. Morningstar knocked in the extra point, cutting the lead to 21-10.

Quentin sat on the bench, his heart racing, a feeling of pure ecstasy coursing through his brain. Teammates came up to shake his hand, slap his shoulder pads, or just grunt some unintelligible alien words of encouragement.

Pine slid onto the bench next to him. “You’ve got to watch Yalla’s feet,” he said. “He’s showing blitz when he’s on his toes. When he’s flat-footed, he’s in run coverage.”

Quentin nodded. He didn’t know if he could trust Pine, but that bit of advice sounded reliable.

Pine smiled and thumped Quentin on the shoulder pad. “Nice pass, kid, you just need a couple more.”

Pine hobbled away. Messal approached with a box held in his arms. He set it down and removed a gleaming metal device that looked like a combination of a small pistol and a pair of pliers.

“What the hell is that?” Quentin asked.

“For your uniform,” Messal said. His strong pedipalps lined up the torn edges of Quentin’s jersey. Messal pinched the bottom edges together and slid them into the opening of the gun-pliers. The machine made a small whirring noise, and Messal expertly slid it up the length of the ripped Kevlar fabric, knitting the shreds into a ugly but neat line.

“Hey, not bad,” Quentin said as he pulled at the new seam. It held tight.

Messal simply bowed and scuttled off to attend to some other managerial duty.

• • •

THEY WERE STILL DOWN two scores, but the Krakens seemed suddenly energized. Entenabe had faced little pressure on the day. Hokor suddenly changed strategy, sending a blitz after the Demolition quarterback on nearly every play. Entenabe managed one completion before Mai-An-Ihkole sacked him on a second down, and Virak the Mean got him on third for a 10-yard loss. The Demolition’s drive chewed up only three minutes. Richfield signaled fair catch on the punt — Krakens’ ball on their own 41, 6:52 to play in the game.

Quentin ran out onto the field, Hokor’s one-eyed face in the heads-up display.

“Now they’re watching out for you,” Hokor said. “This time go X-set, 42-base draw play ... we’ll see if Fayed can finally make something happen.”

Quentin called the play and walked to the line. The defensive backs had moved to five-yard cushions instead of their one-yard bump-and-run. The linebackers had moved back as well. At the snap, Quentin held the ball to his ear, showing pass as he dropped back five steps. The defensive backs and the linebackers immediately backpedaled into pass coverage. At the end of his drop, Quentin suddenly handed the ball off to Fayed, who dashed into the line. He cut left into a big hole created by Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit. Warburg moved to block Yalla the Biter. Yalla tucked his head and drove his right arm into Warburg, crushing the big tight end to the ground. Warburg barely slowed Yalla at all, but it was enough for Fayed to slip by, and suddenly the running back was in the defensive backfield. The d-backs converged on him and brought him down, but not before he’d picked up 23 yards and moved the ball to the Demolition 36.

6:28 and counting ...

Paul Pierson came in for Fayed at tailback. The Krakens huddled up, electricity and momentum filling the small space.

The Krakens players looked tired, but their eyes blazed sharply and their intensity felt ubiquitous.

His earpiece crackled. “We need to score and score quick,” Hokor said. “Y-set, 42-post, look for Pierson on the delayed route over the middle, we may catch Yalla sleeping.”

Quentin called the play and surveyed the defense as the Krakens lined up. The Demolition showed a normal 3-4, which left them with four defensive backs. Quentin’s instincts told him to watch for the blitz, but Yalla’s feet looked flat.

At the snap Quentin dropped back. Hawick and Scarborough streaked downfield then cut inside on an angle, drawing the free safety and safety with them. Pierson ran to the line acting like he would block, then released and sprinted down the field. Yalla tried to cover him, but Pierson’s superior speed carried him past. Quentin feathered a light toss that sailed just beyond Yalla and hit Pierson in stride. Yalla dove, covering ten yards in the leap, and brought Pierson down from behind after a 22-yard gain.

First-and-10, ball on the Demolition 14, 6:02 to play.

Whistles blew as Harrah officials flew to Pierson, who rolled on the ground in obvious pain. The officials waved their tentacles madly to the Krakens’ sidelines. Before Doc arrived with his cart, Quentin saw Pierson roll to his back, his bloody hands clutching at his foot — which dangled sickly from only a scrap of skin and a few strands of bloody muscle. Yalla’s tackle had ripped the man’s leg in half. Blood shot out of his ravaged leg, splashing on the white field, on Doc, and staining the zebes’ black-and-white uniforms.

Fayed came back in as Doc’s medsled rushed Pierson off the field.

“High One,” said a wide-eyed Quentin. “Did you see that? His whole leg almost came off!”

“Give me the ball,” Fayed said. Intensity narrowed his eyes to angry slits. “I’ll show that cheap-shotting motherless fool.”

Fortunately, Hokor called a dive right — exactly what Fayed wanted. The team lined up. Quentin took the snap and pivoted. Fayed nearly ripped the ball out of his hands and drove forward like a tank. Yalla the Biter came at him, and the two hit head-on like a pair of rams. Yalla fell backwards and Fayed stumbled over him, falling for a five-yard gain. Fayed stood and tossed the ball to the ground in front of Yalla, who was slow getting up.

“I’m here all day!” Fayed shouted, thumping his fist against his chest. “Just see if you can tear my leg off.”

Fayed walked back to the huddle. Quentin felt a wave of awe wash over him — Yalla the Biter had just crippled Paul Pierson, and on the very next play Fayed not only carried the ball, but went headhunting for Yalla. The play energized the entire team. If Fayed could show that kind of courage, so could everyone else.

Another running play put the Krakens on the Demolition 5-yard line.

“S-set, double-cross,” Hokor barked. Quentin relayed the play to the Krakens’ huddle. He felt the pure vibe of control now, the rhythm of the game coursing through him, answering to him, obeying his every whim. The huddle broke and he strode to the line, his predator’s eyes sweeping over the defense. S-set was a single-back set: Fayed in the backfield, five offensive linemen, Hawick and Mezquitic split out left, Warburg in the right slot, and Scarborough wide right. It was the first time that day the Krakens used such a setup, and the Demolition scrambled to adjust. They quickly fell into woman-to-woman coverage with a linebacker wide on either side. That left four down linemen and a single middle linebacker — Yalla — in the middle.

Quentin knew what he wanted to do even before he snapped the ball.

“Red, ninety-one, red, ninety-one, hut-hut!”

The receivers drove off the line and cut inside at six yards. Quentin dropped back as Fayed rolled to the right flat. Yalla moved with him, and Quentin made his decision — after just a three step drop, he planted and bounced forward, his 360 pounds hitting top speed almost instantly. The sudden change caught the onrushing defense off-guard, he slipped past them without so much as a single cut. Yalla was already moving to the right to cover Fayed — the linebacker drove back to the left, but was far too late to match Quentin’s quickness.

Quentin strode into the end zone untouched.

Demolition 21, Krakens 16.

Quentin started to run off the field when he saw Hokor signaling to him to stay.

“We’re going for two,” Hokor called calmly over the ear-piece. “I-set, show left dive, naked boot right. Kobayasho blocks inside and releases to the right. Hit him for the conversion.”

Quentin nodded, but his mind raced with possibilities. A two-point conversion would pull them to within three points, one field goal away from tying. With the game on the line, Hokor was calling a naked boot, which meant Quentin rolled to the right with no blockers. It was both an insult and a compliment: an insult, because the Demolition still wouldn’t think Hokor would put the game on a rookie’s shoulders; and a compliment because Hokor was putting the game on his shoulders.

He felt palpable excitement in the huddle. All eyes looked to him, awaiting his words. There was victory in the air, every being felt it. All they had to do was reach out and take it. Warburg and Kobayasho, the tight ends, were in the huddle, as was Pareless the fullback. Scarborough and Mezquitic were back on the sidelines — it was a two-tight end set with a fullback, clearly a running formation.

“I-set, show left dive, and Fayed make it count. Naked boot right. Kobayasho, block in and release deep. If I have to run, I don’t want the guy covering you able to stop me from scoring, got it?”

Kobayasho nodded, as did the other players.

“Break!”

The Krakens lined up. The Demolition dug in. Quentin surveyed the defense, and saw Yalla drifting to the offense’s right. Quentin’s instincts screamed at him to call an audible, change the play to a dive left to take advantage of the cheating middle linebacker.

Run the plays I call, Quentin heard in his mind.

“Hut-hut!”

The ball slapped into his hands and he pivoted to the left. He put the ball in Fayed’s stomach and turned with the running back, guiding him to the line. Just before Fayed crashed into the mass of bodies, Quentin pulled the ball out and pivoted hard to his right. He sprinted to the sidelines. The defense had bought the fake, all were converging on Fayed ... all but Yalla the Biter. The monstrous, pitch-black-eyed Quyth Warrior linebacker went into a side-roll, staying flat to to the goal line as he matched Quentin’s horizontal movement. Kobayasho bounced to the outside, but he was covered by the Demolition cornerback.

Quentin thought about the pass for one more second, then tucked the ball and sprinted for the corner of the end zone. Kobayasho instantly reacted to the situation, turning and blocking his defender, taking her out of the play.

That left only Quentin and Yalla the Biter.

Yalla popped out of his roll and sprang forward, hitting Quentin at the two-yard line.

You wanna mess with me? Quentin thought as he switched the ball to his right hand and threw his left forward in a vicious, snarling upper-cut. His fist slammed into Yalla’s chest, bounced up, and nailed the Quyth Warrior right between the pedipalps. Yalla reached out and grabbed at Quentin’s jersey as sharp teeth slashed Quentin’s left hand. Yalla’s full weight slammed into him — Quentin stumbled, but recovered and drove forward. His momentum pushed Yalla backwards, just a touch, but it was enough. They both started to fall ... Quentin managed two more powerful strides on the way down, and landed after the ball just crossed the goal line.

Demolition 21, Krakens 18.

Flags flew. Unnecessary roughness on Yalla the Biter, to be assessed on the kickoff. The Krakens offense ran off the field to the boos of the Demolition faithful. Yalla’s bite had torn open the skin on the back of Quentin’s left hand, a bloody gash running from the knuckle on his index finger to the middle of his forearm. Blood poured from the wound, leaving an intermittent trail on the white playing field. Pine met him halfway, his cane doing a double-time that barely kept up the pace.

“Quentin, you idiot, why didn’t you audible out of that? I could see from here that Yalla knew the play, and I know you saw it!”

“I run the plays that are called,” Quentin said as he jogged back to the bench, leaving the crippled Pine behind him.

“Doc!” Quentin shouted, oblivious to the shoulder pad and helmet slaps his appreciative teammates threw his way. “Doc get over here!”

The Harrah doctor glided over, his tentacles immediately grabbing Quentin’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Sit still,” Doc said firmly. “This is a deep cut, we’ve got to get you to the locker room for the healing tank.”

“Forget that!” Quentin yanked his hand away. Blood flew in all directions. Teammates stopped what they were doing and stared at him, but he saw nothing except Doc, who was now no more than another obstacle trying to stop him from winning.

“You fix this up right now!” Quentin’s face twisted into a mask of challenge and fury. “I’ve got to put another three on the board.”

“You’re out of the game!” Doc yelled back.

Quentin’s eyes widened to giant white balls spotted with flecks of pure black. He suddenly rushed Doc, grabbing his floating body, finding it surprisingly light. He started to shake Doc when Yitzhak and Yassoud grabbed him, pulling him away.

“Jesus Christ, Quentin, stop it!” Yitzhak shouted as he stepped between Quentin and Doc.

Quentin ignored him, looking over Yitzhak’s shoulder and shaking his blood-dripping finger at Doc. “If you don’t fix up my hand, I’ll bounce you off the ground like a damn toy, you got that? I don’t care if you have to cauterize it with a damned branding iron, stop the bleeding.”

Doc hung there for a second, then reached into his bag and pulled out the now-familiar blue strip. He wrapped it around Quentin’s shredded skin. Yitzhak and Yassoud let Quentin go, cautiously, as if he might snap again at any second. Quentin hissed as the acid-like sting spread through his hand. Blood pooled up around the edges of the blue strip and dripped to the trampled white plants below. He looked down, seeing that his blood had stained his orange jersey with stripes and splotches of bright red.

Doc held Quentin’s hand tight as he removed the blood-soaked strip, now a deep purple, and applied another.

Yitzhak, leaned in to examine the extent of injury. “Hey won’t that put too many nanocytes in his body? Can’t that cause liver damage.”

“Shut up,” Quentin growled at Yitzhak. “And don’t bother getting warmed up, I’m going back in.”

The second strip also turned purple with blood. Quentin felt as if his hand was being cooked from the inside out.

“It’s not working,” Doc said. “The lacerations are too large, and you’ve got an arterial tear. The nanocytes can’t bind it up. We need to put your hand in the healing tank, Quentin. The gel in the tank is programmed to hold your skin together long enough for the nanocytes to do their work.”

“I don’t have time for the damned tank!” A string of spittle flew from Quentin’s mouth to dangle from the bottom bar of his facemask. He looked up at the scoreboard: 3:12 to play, the Demolition with the ball, second and three on their own 32. As soon as the defense stopped them, the Krakens would have a chance to win the game. He wanted to be on that field, and he wanted to win. He quickly looked around the sidelines, searching for an answer.

Then he saw Messal.

“Messal! Get your box and get over here, now!”

The manager turned at the sound of Quentin’s bellowing voice, quivering as if a Quyth Leader had done the yelling. He scrambled to grab his box off the bench, then ran to Quentin.

“Get that thing you used to fix my jersey,” Quentin said.

Messal pulled out the gun-pliers. Doc took one look at the device, then looked at the ugly stitch running up the front of Quentin’s jersey.

“Absolutely not!” Doc said. “We will not use stitches on Human flesh!”

“Do it, Messal,” Quentin said.

“Use that on him and I’ll have Gredok fire you,” Doc said. “I mean it, Messal.”

Messal started to put the gun-pliers away. Quentin reached down with his right hand and grabbed the short Quyth Worker by his left pedipalp.

“You use that thing on this,” Quentin said, holding up his bloody left hand, “or I will kill you, cook you, and eat you.”

Messal quivered like a tuning fork. He reached out and gently pinched together the skin on both sides of the cut. Yassoud moved in and wrapped his arms around Quentin’s left arm, holding it still. Quentin felt Ki arms snake around his chest, their strength holding him immobile. He looked over his shoulder — Kill-O-Yowet’s black eyes stared at him, only inches from his own.

Messal looked up, the obvious question burning in his one eye.

“Do it,” Quentin said through clenched teeth.

Messal pulled the trigger. Quentin’s eyes grew wider still as a new level of pain seared through his arm. He tried to pull back, but Yassoud and Kill-O-Yowet held him still. Messal slid the gun-pliers up the cut in a smooth stroke, and it was over. Quentin stared at his arm — the edges of the skin pursed out a quarter inch from his arm, smeared with blood and roughly stitched together with Kevlar thread, like the seam of his jersey. Echoes of the needle-and-thread pain ripped through his arm, but through that he still felt the burning of the nanocytes. That burning intensified on the stitch itself — the tiny machines were trying to do their job.

“That’s going to leave a horrible scar,” Doc said angrily. “And it’s not going to heal the arterial tear. You’ve got ten minutes, tops, before you pass out.

Quentin heard boos from the crowd. He looked up at the scoreboard, his heart leaping when he saw the magic words “4th down, 6 to go, ball on the Demolition’s 44.” The clock counted down ... 1:12 ... 1:11 ... 1:10 ...

“Barnes, get your lazy butt up here,” Hokor’s voice said in his helmet. Quentin ran to his Coach and knelt. Hokor stared at him, and Quentin saw his own reflection in Hokor’s big eye: jersey torn and stitched up the chest, making the left side of his number “10” slightly higher than the right; the orange fabric stained bright red with blood; his arm a bloody mess with an ugly, black-threaded stitch running from his hand to his elbow.

“You sure you can make it?” Hokor asked.

Quentin nodded and smiled. “Just give me the ball, Coach.”

Hokor’s pedipalps reached out, each one lightly touching Quentin’s shoulder pads. “We’ve pulled a lot of new strategies on them this quarter, so they’ll be ready for anything, but at the same time they won’t focus on any one area. We’re going to spread it out, so you’ll have room to move — if you’re in doubt, tuck it and run, but no more head-to-head battles. I can’t have you getting hurt. When you run, you slide before they tackle you, you got it?”

Quentin nodded quickly. Hokor called the first play.

The Demolition punt sailed through the air. Richfield signaled a fair catch at the Krakens’ 17-yard line. Quentin looked at the clock, then nodded again, to himself this time — he had his work cut out for him: he needed to go 83 yards in 56 seconds.

The Krakens offense ran onto the field. In the huddle, the players seemed different, staring at him with near reverence. Quentin noticed that blood streaked all of the Ki linemen jerseys. Red blood. But Ki blood was black ... it took him a second to realize that Kill-O-Yowet had rubbed blood, Quentin’s blood, on each jersey. The pain in his arm faded away as a new dose of adrenaline pumped through his veins.

“We’re going to get back in the hunt for Tier One right now,” Quentin said. “We’ve got 56 seconds to put these motherless losers away. A field goal ties it, but I want a win. X-set, 21-base. All routes break off at twenty yards.” Quentin reached up and grabbed Hawick’s facemask, but when he spoke, it was to another receiver.

“Scarborough,” Quentin said, his eyes still locked on Hawick. “Their nickel back will be on you. She can’t handle your speed.” Scarborough quivered once, then stopped and stood stock-still. “You sprint downfield on a post and when I throw you the ball you damn well catch it. Let’s step on their throats right now and put this one away. Ready?”

“Break!”

The crowd roared as Quentin’s team stepped to the line. He moved up with a step left, a half-bounce left, a step right, a half-bounce right. He stood behind Bud-O-Shwek, his hands tapping out a quick left-right-left ba-da-bap on the Ki’s carapace. As he suspected, the defense moved to key on Hawick.

The ball snapped into his hands and he dropped back five long steps. He planted, left knee bent deep, and slid two yards across the oily white surface before his cleats caught and he bounced forward a half-step. Standing tall at the six yard line, he locked his eyes on Hawick. She drove downfield and suddenly broke off at the 37, cutting back on a hook route. The motion was enough to freeze the safety, only for a moment, but in that moment Scarborough turned on the afterburners.

Wait for it ... Quentin thought as the pocket started to collapse around him.

She sprinted past the 40 ... the 50 ...

Wait for it ...

She sprinted past the 40 ... the 30 ...

Kill-O-Yowet lost his fit on his defender and fell to the ground. The defender’s body gathered for a vicious blow even as he ran forward, multi-jointed limbs reaching out like those of a hungry, long-armed spider.

Quentin reared back and launched the ball just before the defensive lineman extended and smashed into him at full-force. Quentin was knocked ten yards to his right, the wind whuffing out of his lungs. He hit and rolled. The ball was in the air so long he actually stumbled to his feet before it finished its long parabola.

Scarborough leapt into the air, the safety a good three feet behind her. At the 12-yard line, 81 yards from where he’d released it, the ball landed in Scarborough’s tentacles. Her feet touched down at the 7-yard line, and she strolled into the end zone standing up.

Krakens 25, Demolition 21.

Quentin stumbled off the field, his mind still fuzzy from the devastating hit he’d taken just after releasing the ball. Morningstar added the extra point to put the Krakens up by five. The hit had also opened up the cut on the back of Quentin’s hand, although most of the rest of the gash remained sutured shut. From there on, things were a bit of a blur. Someone guided him to a medsled and sat him on the back edge. The medsled moved down the sidelines and into the tunnel. The crowed seemed a massive blur of colors and shapes and sounds. The medsled cruised into the visitor’s locker room — Quentin had an impression of someone (or something) helping him off the sled before his legs gave out, and everything went black.

WEEK FOUR LEAGUE ROUNDUP(courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

With a thrilling 28-24 win over the Glory Warpigs (3-1), the Whitok Pioneers (4-0) took sole possession of first place in the Quyth Irradiated Conference.

Rookie QB Quentin Barnes kept the Ionath Krakens (2-2) in the playoff hunt with an 83-yard TD pass to Scarborough, giving the Krakens a 25-21 win over the win-less Sky Demolition (0-4).

The Grontak Hydras (2-2) edged out a 35-31 win over the Bigg Diggers (1-3).

Orbiting Death (3-1) is only one game out of first thanks to a 28-7 drubbing of the Quyth Survivors (1-3).

The Sheb Stalkers (3-1) shutout the Woo Wallcrawlers (1-3) 17-0.

DEATHS:

No deaths to report this week.

WEEK #4 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: Condor Adrienne, quarterback, Whitok Pioneers. 31-of-42, 334 yards, three TDs, no INTs.

Defense: Arkham, cornerback, Bigg Diggers. Six tackles, one sack, three interceptions, including one returned for a TD, her second of the year.

GAME FIVE: Sheb Stalkers (3-1) at Ionath Krakens (2-2)

QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS

QUENTIN WALKED SLOWLY from his locker to the central meeting room and to Hokor’s office. Two days of rest hadn’t completely removed the pulsing, dull-nova ache that lived inside his skull. “Concussion-proof helmets.” Right.

He’d notched his first GFL win as a starter, but he’d paid a price. The concussion had him puking his guts out the rest of the night, and well into the next day, even though there was nothing left to puke. And with each stomach-clenching burst, his breath locked up and his muscles tightened — when he finally breathed and the muscles relaxed, the sudden rush of blood to his brain elevated his omnipresent headache to new levels.

While his teammates celebrated the win, Quentin spent the rest of that night in bed, which was where he spent the next day, and most of the day after that. He tried to get up and run through VR practice, but Hokor himself came to his room and told him to stay put, on Doc’s orders.

Now, two days later, he didn’t feel one ounce better. But pain or no pain, he wasn’t going to miss one single rep of actual practice. He wasn’t going to let his teammates down, not when this week’s game put them up against the 3-1 Sheb Stalkers.

Quentin walked through the door to Hokor’s office.

“You wanted to see -” he ended his sentence when he saw Pine in the room, fully dressed for practice.

“Come in, Barnes,” Hokor said. “Shut the door.”

Quentin did as he was told, a double-sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Double-sick: once because he couldn’t stand to look at Pine the Tanker, and once because he instantly knew the reason for this closed-door meeting.

“Barnes, you did an amazing job last week,” Hokor said. “You put us back on the board. If we can beat the Sheb Stalkers this week, we’re 3-2 and back in the running.”

Quentin nodded slightly.

“You’ve generated a lot of respect,” Hokor continued. “The team is now confident in your abilities. There’s a new feeling in the locker room, that we have a guy who can come off the bench and play big-time ball.

“Come off the bench,” Quentin said quietly.

“The bench,” Hokor echoed. “Pine is our starter, and he’s healthy.”

Quentin breathed deeply through his nose. That tanker was starting again.

“I just wanted to let you know in person,” Hokor said. “I know your goal is to start, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. You’re the future of this franchise, but right now it’s Pine’s team. You understand?”

Just run the plays that are called. The throbbing in his head suddenly kicked up a few notches.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I understand. Can I go now?”

Hokor nodded. Quentin turned. He meant to just tap the door-open button, but his fist hit it so hard the red plastic plate cracked. The door hissed open, and Quentin walked out into the meeting room.

Forget this team. They can all go straight to hell.

Quentin stormed out of the locker room and through the tunnel. He had just about reached the field when a hand grabbed his shoulder and gently stopped him. Quentin turned violently, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and looked into the surprised eyes of Donald Pine.

“Hey, kid, take it easy,” Pine said with a smile. “Try to relax a little.”

“Screw you,” Quentin said, pushing Pine’s chest to emphasize the last word.

Pine stumbled back a step. His tone changed and his smile faded away. “Why don’t you just simmer down. I know you’re pissed, I would be too, but you’ve got to play your role on this team.”

“And what’s my role? Just what, exactly, is my role? Sit on the bench?”

“If you have to, yes!” Pine’s expression had faded from smile to blankness, now it twisted into a mask of frustrated anger. “Sit on the damn bench, Quentin, and pay your dues. I know you think you’re hot stuff, but I’ve about had it with your attitude that you’re better than me. I’ve tried to help you, you stubborn moron, but you better pull your head out.”

“Oh is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Pine’s voice dropped to a whispered shout. “You’re going to be great, but right now you’re not as good as me! Just relax and learn the system ‘til your time comes.”

“And when will that come? The next time you throw a game for Mopuk?”

Pine blinked rapidly and his breath stopped short, as if a knife had slid noiselessly into his heart. He took a small step back, then looked to his right and left, seeing if anyone had heard. The two quarterbacks were alone on the field.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pine said.

“Your party friends paid me a visit the day before the Demolition game,” Quentin said. “Mopuk said you were his property, Pine. That you throw games whenever he wants.”

Pine looked down, and in that instant Quentin knew it was true. He felt a part of his childhood die, right there on the spot — a man he’d idolized was a tanker.

“Why?” Quentin asked. “Why the hell do you do it?”

“Because he’ll kill me if I don’t,” Pine said quietly. “I ... I gamble, a bit. I’ve gotten in over my head.”

Quentin spat on the ground, then looked into Pine’s shame-filled eyes. “How much do you owe?”

Pine looked away and shrugged. Quentin grabbed him by the shoulder pads, shook once, and pulled Pine close until their eyes were only inches apart.

“How much?”

Pine paused, then answered. “Four million.”

“Four million?” The number seemed staggering, but then he remembered that a Tier Two QB of Pine’s caliber made three or four million a year. On top of that, he had the endorsement deals that put his picture on almost as many ads as Yitzhak.

“So why don’t you pay it?” Quentin asked. “You’ve got that much, don’t you?”

Pine slowly shook his head. “Already went through everything I got. Savings, my salary ... I’m still four mil in the hole.”

“How long has this been going on?”

Pine looked away again. Quentin gave him a quick, single shake. Pine looked at his feet. “Since ‘79.”

Quentin’s eyes widened as he did the math. “Since ‘79? You’ve been tanking for four years?”

“I bet a lot of money on the ‘77 semi-final game with the To Pirates,” Pine said. “That put me in the hole. I’ve been working my way out ever since, and I’m almost out.”

“Four mil in the hole and you think you’re almost out?”

“I just need to win a couple of bets, that’s all, and I’ll be out!”

Quentin pushed him away. The two men stood in silence.

“You going to tell Hokor?” Pine asked.

Quentin thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“Why not?” Pine asked. “That would give you the starting position.”

He met this comment with a shrug. Pine was right, but Quentin didn’t want to win it that way. He wanted to earn it. The first players started to filter out of the tunnel for practice.

“Don’t do it again,” Quentin said quietly. “You do and I’ll take you down.”

Pine looked at him with the eyes of a haunted man, a man hunted from all directions for far too long. “You’ll take me down if I don’t do what you want? Hey, welcome to the club.”

Pine walked to the sidelines. Quentin stormed to a ball rack on the 30-yard line, anger and frustration whipping through his head. Without saying a word to them, Denver, Milford and Richfield lined up, waiting for Quentin to call out patterns.

“Deep,” he said, the word coming out as a bark. Denver shot down the field. Quentin dropped back to the 20, then threw the ball with a grunt. He’d put all of his strength into the throw. It sailed so far past Denver she didn’t even bother jumping — the ball arced through the air, sailing past the end zone, past the grass at the back of the end zone and bounced off the empty seats twenty rows up.

“Dang,” Quentin said quietly. He grabbed the next ball, oblivious to the fact he’d just thrown the ball over a hundred yards in the air.

From the Ionath city Gazette

Pine leads Krakens to second-straight win

By Kigin the Witty

IONATH CITY (Associated Press) — You can’t keep a good veteran down.

At least that’s what Ionath fans are thinking following a 21-7 Krakens’ win over the Sheb Stalkers, a win that might as well be named “The Donald Pine Show.”

Pine missed two games with a broken femur, but showed that the time off didn’t affect him in the least. He went 21-for-34 on the day, throwing for 312 yards with two TDs and no interceptions. The Stalkers (3-2) came into the game with only one loss and were favored by nine points, but couldn’t find an answer for Pine’s accurate short-passing game.

“We did everything we could,” said Stalkers middle linebacker Brian Badrocke. “If we blitzed, he hit us short. If we didn’t blitz, he hit us long. It was a really long, frustrating day.”

The Krakens’ offensive line, which has given up eight sacks in the last two games, offered Pine laser-proof protection the entire game. It was the first time the Krakens didn’t give up a sack since Week One.

“Anyone could have thrown well with that much time,” Pine said after the game. “All the credit goes to the offensive line. They’re true warriors.”

Following Ionath’s come-from-behind win over Sky Demolition in Week Four, many Krakens fans saw a potential quarterback controversy between Pine and rookie Quentin Barnes. Pine, however, put those thoughts to rest with his flawless performance against the Stalkers.

The Krakens’ defense was a key factor in the win, holding the Stalkers to just 68 yards rushing while snagging four turnovers. Aleksandar Michnik notched three sacks, and Berea grabbed two interceptions.

WEEK FIVE LEAGUE ROUNDUP (Courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

The big story this week is the Whitok Pioneers (4-1) 24-21 loss at the hands of Orbiting Death (4-1). The Death’s win puts them in a three-way tie for first with the Pioneers and the Glory Warpigs (4-1), who put another mark in the win column with an easy 42-17 drubbing of Sky Demolition (0-5). The Pioneers’ loss is even more devastating considering the injury to league-leading quarterback Condor Adrienne, who suffered severe damage to his right elbow. Adrienne is out for three to four weeks.

The Bigg Diggers (2-3) defeated the Woo Wallcrawlers (1-4) 22-6. The Quyth Survivors (2-3) edged out the Grontak Hydras (2-3) in a 23-20 overtime thriller.

DEATHS:

Chicago, wide receiver for the Sky Demolition, was killed by a gang-tackle involving Glory Warpigs defensive backs Keluang and Wellington. League officials ruled it was a clean hit.

WEEK #5 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: Donald Pine, quarterback, Ionath Krakens. 21-of-34, 312 yards, two TDs, one INTs.

Defense: Sven Draupnir, linebacker, Quyth Survivors. Sixteen tackles, one interception, one forced fumble.

GAME SIX: Ionath Krakens (3-2) at Orbiting Death (4-1)

QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS

QUENTIN WALKED into the central locker room to find the place already half-full of players, and buzzing with excitement. The players crowded around the holotank in the center of the room.

“What’s going on?” Quentin asked.

“Oh yep,” Yassoud said, making room for Quentin. “Check out our first break of the season.”

The holotank showed two Human broadcasters, Christoff Berman and Dr. Mary Warwick, reviewing a holographic replay projected on the desk between them. The ESPN GameDay logo circled above them.

“The Orbiting Death’s upset win over the Whitok Pioneers puts the Death in a three-way tie for first,” Berman said. “But the bigger story is this injury to the Pioneers’ money-man, Condor Big-Playdrianne. Just how long is Adrienne out for, Mary?”

The replay froze. She poked the tip of a plastic pointer into the holographic display. In the display, Condor Adrienne had his right hand on the ground, obviously trying to keep himself from going down. A defensive lineman for the Orbiting Death, dressed in a white jersey with black trim and metalflake-red helmet, was also frozen in mid-fall, leaning against Adrienne’s arm. Quentin suddenly realized that Adrienne’s arm was bent the wrong way.

“As you can see here, the elbow is badly hyper-extended,” Dr. Warwick said. The replay moved forward another second, then froze. Adrienne’s arm bent further, and a bone poked out of his skin accompanied by a freeze-frame flash of blood. A groan of disgust rippled through the Krakens players.

The holo started to move forward, then backward in re-wind, then forward again, over and over to show the injury.

“Like a chicken wing!” Yassoud shouted joyfully.

Dr. Warwick continued. “Here we see severe bone and ligament damage to Adrienne’s arm. This will require major reconstructive surgery. He could be out three to four weeks while they rebuild the joint.”

Quentin felt bad for the man, but also felt a surge of excitement. With him gone, the Pioneers were no longer the unbeatable machine they had been for the first four weeks. The Pioneers’ win over the Krakens meant that even if the Krakens won out, and the Pioneers only lost one more, both teams would finish at 7-2 and the Pioneers would win the conference on the head-to-head tiebreaker. But if the Pioneers lost two games, the Krakens had a chance to win the conference outright. The Orbiting Death was also 4-1, but they only had to lose one more game — that week’s game, against the Krakens.

If the Krakens prevailed against the Orbiting Death, both teams would hold 4-2 records. However, that same head-to-head tiebreaker would this time favor the Krakens. Even though the Krakens’ shot at a conference title meant they had to win their last four games, the injury to Adrienne and the upcoming match with the Death made all things seem quite possible.

To Quentin, it felt like a shroud had lifted. In a two-game span, the team had gone from falling to 1-2 and losing its starting QB to crawling back to 3-2 with an outside shot at a title.

Two days of practice on the Touchback, then two days at Orbital Station One, home of Orbiting Death. Orbital Station One, “The Ace,” was even larger than “The Deuce.” Even the fact that Quentin was about to see yet another new world was not enough to offset his rage.

He was still on the bench, backing up a tanker.

• • •

IT WAS ONLY A FEW minutes after breaking out of punch space that Quentin found himself in the observation deck, looking out at another massive, mobile, artificial world. The Ace was an order of magnitude larger than The Deuce. Where The Deuce had seemed like a spherical sea urchin, complete with long, tapering spines, The Ace looked more like a medieval mace. Short, blue, stubby points dotted its spherical shape — the remnants of framework spikes, like on The Deuce, but with the area between filled in by harvested space debris.

Quentin walked up to Virak the Mean. “Just how big is that?”

“Largest artificial construct in the galaxy’s history,” Virak said. “Much larger than Emperor One.”

Quentin let out a long whistle. “I bet the Creterakians don’t like that.”

“They hate it.”

“How many beings live on that thing?”

“One-point-one billion.”

Quentin shook his head. That was more beings than all the Purist Nation’s outlying colonies combined. Hell, it was more than two entire planets, Allah and Stewart. The Ace wasn’t a station, it was a whole world. Still, while Allah and Stewart, especially Stewart, looked alive and vibrant, The Ace looked like a rock studded with blue metallic points.

“Not much to see from space,” Quentin said.

“Inside it is amazing,” Virak said. “Even better than Orbital Station Two.”

Quentin didn’t have to wait long to see the inside. The Touchback locked into orbit near an entrance shaft. Quentin rode down on the first shuttle. He wasn’t starting, yet he was listed on the starters’ shuttle. He didn’t know what that meant — what he did know was he didn’t want to talk to Donald Pine on the way down.

Pine couldn’t even meet Quentin’s eyes. The older quarterback spent most of the trip staring out the window, ignoring the hateful glances Quentin couldn’t help but shoot his way.

If Pine tanked a game, the Krakens were out of the playoff hunt, plain and simple. But if Quentin told anyone, it would destroy not only Pine’s career, but the man’s reputation and legacy as well. Maybe Pine was a moron for getting himself into trouble, but he was also a two-time Tier One champion. Did Quentin have the right to ruin that?

Pine wasn’t the only one acting odd. John Tweedy sat in a chair, left fist methodically punching into right hand. Whap. Pause. Whap. Pause. Whap ...

MOM ALWAYS DID LOVE YOU BEST scrolled across his forehead.

Quentin nudged the massive Khomeni, then gestured at Tweedy.

“What’s his deal?”

“This is the biggest game of the year for him,” Khomeni said in a voice that sounded like a deep well full of gravel. “The Death’s running back is Ju Tweedy, John’s brother.”

Quentin had read about “The Mad” Ju Tweedy, Tier Two’s leading rusher, in the weekly reports and seen him run on the highlight reels, but he had never connected the last name.

“John looks like he’s about to kill someone,” Quentin said. “He and Ju get along?”

Khomeni laughed as he pulled a large sandwich out of his duffel bag. “Yeah, they get along.” He took a big bite, then spoke around a mouthful of ham on rye. “They get along about as well as the Purist Nation gets along with the League of Planets.”

Quentin left Khomeni to his sandwich as the shuttle slid into the entrance shaft. At The Deuce, the crystalline growths had been mostly straight, like green quartz crystals. Here, they curved in all directions, like crystals of blue gypsum, sometimes spiraling outward like a ram’s horn. Curls grew off of curls that grew off of curls, until the walls of the shaft were like a tangled jungle overgrowth of translucent blue. There were also smooth facets, their polished surface matching the contour of the shaft’s outer diameter.

“Why isn’t it as orderly as The Deuce? This looks like crap.”

Virak seemed to wince at the comment, and before Quentin could ask why Choto the Bright slid out of his seat and stormed over. Choto’s eye flooded a deep green. His strong pedipalps reached for Quentin. Quentin felt a blast of adrenaline rip through him in response to the oncoming 400-pound linebacker. Without even thinking, Quentin’s fists balled up and he started to look for an opening.

Before either he or Choto could take a swing, however, Virak stepped between them.

“Back off, Choto!” Virak said, catching the bigger Quyth Warrior in mid-step. Choto’s one eye peeked around Virak’s shoulder. It was a scene identical to one Quentin had witnessed Humans perform more times than he could remember — one being holding another one back to prevent a fight.

“Human rookie said my world looks like feces!” Choto said. He tried to swing a pedipalp over the top, the Quyth Warrior equivalent of the Human “swim technique” used to get past an offensive lineman, but Virak effortlessly matched the move.

“He did not mean it,” Virak said. “Quentin, tell him you did not mean it.”

Choto pushed again, and Virak had to take a step back to keep his balance. Suddenly two Ki lineman, Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, grabbed Choto and held him tight. Choto’s pedipalps quivered violently, and his eye flooded a deep black.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said quickly, stepping around Virak to place a hand on Choto’s chest. “I did not mean to offend.”

The words and the touch seemed to stop Choto cold.

“You called my home feces.”

“A figure of speech on my world,” Quentin said quickly. “I was not actually calling your world feces. I apologize if I offended you.”

Choto’s eye quickly fade from deep black to crystal-clear. His body relaxed, and the Ki linemen cautiously released their holds.

“Apology accepted,” Choto said.

“So why does this shaft look so different from The Deuce,” Quentin asked.

“Orbital Station One is older than The Deuce,” Choto said. “About fifty Human years older. The crystal growth technology was not as developed.”

“It looks like it grows great.”

“Yes, but too fast,” Choto said. “That was fine when The Ace was small, a population of about two hundred million beings. But the larger the crystalline matrix grew, the more silicate organisms there were, and growth rates increased exponentially. Engineers cut it away when it grows into populated areas, but it grows unchecked through the non-living areas. It is a problem we’ve been trying to fix for over a century.”

The shuttle dropped through the entrance shaft and into a brightly lit underground city.

“High One,” Quentin murmured. He now understood why larger ships weren’t allowed in the shaft.

If the entrance shaft had resembled overgrown underbrush, the city was a full-out wilderness. Sprawling blue-tinted crystals reached out from every part of the domed ceiling, curving up and over so that the city seemed to exist within a living-but-artificial jungle canopy.

“We have over a million beings employed just to remove overgrowth,” Choto said. “It is our biggest tax burden.”

The shuttle slowed considerably and angled for a large gap in the arching crystalline canopy. As it slid past, the crystal growths seemed so close that Quentin unconsciously gripped a bulkhead to steady himself.

The ship slipped past the upper canopy and into an open space between the canopy and the city buildings. A ship off to the left had dozens of long legs and clung to a crystalline growth like an insect clinging to a plant stem. At the base of the ship, a long, multi-jointed arm held a concentrated beam of white-hot energy. The beam moved back and forth across the blue crystalline growth, until suddenly the growth snapped free trailing thick globs of molten crystal. Growth and ship together plunged downward, but only for a second before the ship’s engine caught and it hovered, newly-cut prize still clutched in insectile legs. The ship flew up, carefully threading its way through the crystalline canopy.

“They will send that off into deep space,” Choto said. “There is no use for it.”

“Why don’t the city engineers just replace this growth with the more successful variety from The Deuce?”

“It has been attempted. The original growth is much more aggressive than the new. New growth has been introduced several times — it is either choked out, overgrown, or actually converted into original growth.”

“Couldn’t you just come up with a virus or something?”

“The planet is now some sixty percent original growth,” Choto said. “Any virus might spread to the core and destroy the structural integrity. We would be killing our own planet.”

“So you can’t kill it, you can’t replace it, and you can’t stop it,” Quentin said.

Choto’s pedipalps quivered. He seemed oddly proud of the growth. “Much like the Quyth themselves.”

The shuttle banked to the right. Here Quentin could discern no “downtown,” because all of the huge buildings reached up into the crystalline canopy. Three centuries had given the buildings plenty of time to grow to towering heights. Like The Deuce, thick tendrils connected the city’s buildings. Unlike The Deuce, however, wherever the shuttle flew, Quentin could see hundreds of the insect-like ships cutting away at unwanted growths. Thousands of small curls spiraled out from every possible place — the start of new growths that also would eventually need thinning.

“How many beings live here, in this city?”

“This is the city of Madderch, with fifty million residents in the city proper, which you see before you, and another hundred million in the underlying tunnels. It is the biggest city on The Ace, because it is the only one that supports life for non-Quyth. All other cities were completely irradiated when the Creterakians attacked.

Quentin shook his head in amazement. Such numbers. Fifty million in what he saw before him, in a space only a few miles across. The same amount of space in New Mecca housed only ten million, and he had thought that impossibly overpopulated.

Another bank to the right ended the conversation as Beefeater Gin Stadium, home of the Orbiting Death, came into view. It was a round stadium, set deep in the ground. The first two decks were actually below the city’s surface level. The next two decks towered high above, both sets connected by steeply sloped seats. Long, thick, curved buttresses arced out from four equidistant spots around the curved stadium, reaching up to support the upper decks. The playing field looked impossibly tiny and distant, a testament to the stadium’s size. He’d seen several colors of playing surface, but this was the most unusual yet — jet-black. So black that the white lines and numbers popped out in contrast, so sharp he could read them from the shuttle. The fact that the translucent blue stadium sat deep in the ground had caused some witty Human of years gone by to dub the stadium “The Ace Hole.” The name had stuck.

Where all other parts of the city seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the slow-but-wild growth of crystal, the stadium seemed to be a perfect, shimmering, symmetrical jewel. Quentin saw several dozen insectile ships working away on the stadium, carving away even the smallest budding protuberance.

The shuttle banked over the stadium, then actually flew inside a hole in one of the huge buttresses. Once the ship set down, Quentin stepped out into a massive crystal room as elegant as an imperial palace. A short hallway, decorated with holoframes and memorabilia of the Orbiting Death, led the team to the visitor’s central locker room.

As the races filed into their respective dressing rooms, Quentin stopped to look at the back wall, painted metal-flake red with a ten-foot high flat black circle.

“What the hell does that mean, anyway,” Quentin asked Choto.

“That is the Quyth symbol for death,” Choto said. “The circle. No beginning, no ending — a fighting death for one Quyth means life for many others.

Quentin nodded to himself as Choto walked to the Quyth Warrior locker room. The Orbiting Death wanted to die fighting? No problem, because Quentin Barnes aimed to please.

• • •

QUENTIN JUST WANTED to be alone. He didn’t want to see his teammates. He didn’t want to think about riding the bench. But that was all he could think about.

He sat in a mixed-race bar, hiding in a shadowy back-corner booth, a Galaxy Sports Magazine messageboard in one hand and a magcan of Miller in the other. His eyes merely glazed over the words and pictures. His mind couldn’t get around the fact that he was backup to a tanker.

“Hello, Quentin.”

Quentin looked up to see Mitchell Fayed and Virak the Mean.

“Are we disturbing you?” Fayed asked.

Quentin shrugged. “Just wanted some time to myself, you know?”

Fayed nodded. “We saw you and wanted to invite you to join us for dinner. We’re going to discuss ways to keep our winning streak alive. But if you want to be left alone, we understand.”

“Thanks.”

Fayed put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. It made Quentin uncomfortable, but he didn’t knock it away. “Stay strong,” Fayed said. “Keep working hard and good things will come.”

With that, Fayed walked away and Virak followed. Quentin stared after them, hating Fayed for his positive attitude. He finished his Miller. Then another. Then another. He lost count — it wasn’t until he stood to leave some four hours later that he felt the effects. The room spun around him, and he had to put a hand on the table to keep his balance.

A Creterakian civilian flew up and perched on his table. Quentin stared for a second, then recognized him — Sobox, the voice of Mopuk the Sneaky.

“You messed up, Human,” Sobox said.

“What are you talkin’ bout,” Quentin said. His words sounded slurred — his balance wasn’t the only thing failing him.

“Mopuk told you what to do, and you didn’t do it. Now you’ve got to pay.”

Quentin saw two large shadows move towards him. Not shadows — Ki, so big they blocked out the bars’ lights. He saw a blur before something smashed into his face and the room twisted wildly. He fell back into his booth. Hot blood coursed out of his nose and onto his upper lip.

“You’re never going to play again,” Sobox said. “My boys will see to that.”

A blow to his stomach. Air shot out of him — he tried to breath in, but couldn’t. His mouth gasped open like a fish out of water. Strong arms lifted him up out of the booth and held him up.

“You’re going to pay,” Sobox said quietly.

“Put him down ... now.” The voice was quiet, but carried deadly authority.

Quentin finally drew a gasping breath. The two Ki enforcers held him by his armpits. Sobox was still on the table. All three faced Virak the Mean and Mitchell Fayed.

“I said, put him down,” Virak said.

Sobox glared at the Quyth Warrior. “Mind your own business, you grunt. You don’t want to mess with Mopuk the Sneaky.”

Virak turned from the Ki and stared directly at Sobox. “You insignificant worm. Gredok is my Shamakath. He is also the Shamakath of Mopuk the Sneaky. Quentin Barnes is Gredok’s property. Now you put him down, or this will get ugly.”

Sobox stared hatefully for a moment, then gestured to his enforcers. “Put him down. Let’s go. You haven’t heard the last of this, Virak.”

“Yes I have,” Virak said. He turned to the two Ki enforcers. “You two face me again, in any capacity, and I’ll kill you.”

The Ki grunted some kind of return threat, then scuttled away, Sobox hovering over their heads as they left the bar.

“Quentin, are you okay?” Fayed said as he grabbed a napkin and held it to the bleeding nose.

“Yas, fine,” Quentin mumbled.

“What was that about?” Virak said. “What are you doing associating with Mopuk the Sneaky? What did he want with you?”

“Beats me,” Quentin said. “Maybe he didn’t like my hair.”

“Stop lying,” Virak said, his voice a dark growl. “I have to tell Gredok about this.”

“No!” Quentin said, feeling his buzz suddenly fade away. “You can’t do that.”

“I have to,” Virak said. “He is my Shamakath, and I must tell him.”

“Virak, don’t,” Quentin said, a pleading tone tingeing his voice.

“Why not?” A shade of light purple colored Virak’s eye.

“You ... you just can’t, okay?”

“That is not okay. It is my duty. Mopuk is in Gredok’s organization.”

Quentin groaned inside. “Mopuk works for Gredok? Oh this sucks.”

“If Mopuk is making a move, Gredok has to know about it.”

“He’s not making a move, it’s ... something else.”

“I must tell Gredok, and you must tell him also, everything about this.”

Quentin stood and looked Virak in the eye. “You have to trust me. If you tell Gredok, it will destroy our season.”

“Why?” Fayed asked. “Why would it destroy our season?”

“It just will,” Quentin said. “Virak, please, you have to trust me on this. Do it for your team.”

“For ... my team?”

Quentin nodded. “I’m telling you, we have to keep this quiet. I can’t tell you why. Just trust me.”

Virak stared for a long moment. “It is a sign of disrespect to not tell Gredok. He does not take disrespect lightly.”

Quentin stayed quiet. He’d said his piece.

“Virak,” Fayed said, “we can’t let anything ruin our season. Don’t tell Gredok.”

Virak looked at Fayed, then back to Quentin.

“I will not say anything,” Virak said. “I will ... trust you, Quentin. But do not betray that trust.”

Quentin nodded, a grateful smile crossing his face.

“Thank you, Virak. And thanks yous guys for helpin’ me out. I would have got my face kicked in.”

“We will return to the rooms,” Fayed said. “Will you join us this time?”

Quentin nodded. The three teammates left the bar together.

• • •

THE BUG-SHIPS WERE nowhere to be seen. There wouldn’t have been any room for them anyway — the Ace Hole had been transformed into a living sea of flat-black clothing, flat-black banners and flat-back flags, surrounded by the shimmering beauty of ice-like blue crystal with a playing field of pitch-black grass.

The residents of Orbital Station Two didn’t call the stadium the Ace Hole — they called it the Black Hole. Four decks of seating provided a capacity of 132,000. Attendance for this game stood at 133,412.

The crowd roared and surged and whistled and chirped as the Krakens gathered in the tunnel. Battle scent rolled through the orange-and white-and black-clad warriors. Another week, another war. This war they would win, this war they had to win.

“This is our chance to make up for lost time,” Pine said in his ringing tone of command. “This is our chance to get back in the hunt.”

The team let out primitive barks of agreement, yet the veteran’s words held little sway over Quentin. Was the fix in for this game?

The loudspeaker called out a welcome to the visiting Ionath Krakens, and the team swarmed onto the field. Yet as soon as they did, a sound hit Quentin’s ears like a thunderbolt.

Or rather, a lack of sound.

The Black Hole instantly lived up to its name as over 133,412 fans fell stone silent. There were a few thin cheers from Krakens’ faithful, but even those sounds quickly ended, as if the fans felt suddenly self-conscious about making noise in the midst of funeral-like quiet. The transition from cacophony to total silence made Quentin stop in his tracks — the players behind him nearly ran him over. Regaining his wits, he jogged to the sidelines with his teammates.

Quentin looked across the silent fans, head whipping from one side then to the next. His brain could barely process the phenomenon. He walked to Yitzhak. “What the hell is this all about?”

“The silent treatment? That’s what the Death fans do for every home game. Kind of cool, isn’t it?”

Quentin nodded absently. “Yeah, kind of cool.”

“Well it doesn’t last long, so get ready -”

Yitzhak’s words were cut off by an instant and all-encompassing roar from over 133,000 fans, a roar so abrupt and total it felt like a physical blow. The Orbiting Death players took the field, resplendent in their flat-black uniforms with metalflake-red numbers and blue trim. Stadium lights gleamed off their metalflake red helmets, each decorated with a flat black circle.

“Wow,” Quentin said. “That’s pretty impressive.”

Yitzhak nodded. “They really put on a show. It’s all a head game, and they’ve got over a hundred-thousand fans playing along perfectly with the script.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “Just a head game.” He hoped Yitzhak didn’t see that the “head game” had registered an impact. The roar-to-silence-to-roar definitely unnerved him. For a second, he was happy that Pine would be taking the first snap and not him.

But it was a brief second.

• • •

THE ORBITING DEATH wasted no time showing why they were tied for first place — that reason being running back Ju Tweedy. At 6-foot-9, 385 pounds and with a 40-yard dash time of 3.6, John Tweedy’s younger brother was a Human wrecking ball. Add to those stats a few more: he had a vertical leap of 64 inches, could squat 1,500 pounds and could knock out 47 reps on the standard 300-pound bench press test.

Virak the Mean, Choto the Bright and, of course, John Tweedy, had been waiting weeks for this moment, waiting to show the league their mettle, but Quentin wondered if they now wished they’d just stayed home. The three linebackers brought the house on every tackle, but through the first quarter he had yet to see Ju knocked backward. “The Mad Ju,” as he was called in the papers, rumbled into the hole, lowered his thick head like a medieval battering ram, and plowed forward with great pain and suffering to all those that stood in his way.

Death quarterback Ganesha Fritz wasn’t the greatest signal-caller in the galaxy, but he provided exactly what the Death needed — short, accurate passes to keep the linebackers from constantly keying on Ju. The Death utilized a simple strategy: hold onto the ball, pass when the linebackers cheated up, and keep giving the rock to Ju.

By the end of the first quarter, The Mad Ju had racked up 52 yards on 7 carries, with one phenomenal 12-yard TD run in which he broke tackle attempts by Mai-An-Ihkole at the line of scrimmage, John Tweedy at the 9, Choto at the 6 and Berea at the 1. Well, Quentin couldn’t exactly call that last one a “broken tackle,” because all Berea really did was get in front of Ju and then get run over. That last hit drew roars of approval from the crowd. It also broke Berea’s left leg. Tiburon filled the cornerback spot while Doc tended to the wounded Sklorno defender.

“They’ll keep pounding on him,” Yitzhak said, referring to the linebackers’ never-ending suicide assaults on Ju. “He’s got one weakness — he can’t hold onto the pellet.”

Quentin nodded at this wisdom, but wondered that if a fumble ever did occur, would there be anything left of Choto, Virak or John Tweedy to jump on it?

Ju’s performance seemed to inspire Mitchell Fayed, who ran like a man possessed. Fans of the running game were not disappointed by the Krakens vs. the Orbiting Death. And it was a good thing that Fayed ran so well, because Donald Pine was simply not his usual self. By the end of the first quarter, the two-time champ, the King of the Short Game, was 5-for-12 for 27 yards.

Quentin watched him. Watched him carefully.

Is he tanking, or just playing bad? Quentin found himself trying to give Pine the benefit of the doubt, but his eyes told him a different story. The Death’s defensive secondary just didn’t seem that impressive. Hawick and Scarborough looked open several times, but Pine’s passes either fell short, or were never thrown at all.

With each possession, Quentin’s anger grew.

Possession #1: A run, one incomplete pass, a sack — three-and-out.

Possession #2: Sacked on third-and-long.

Possession #3: Two completions, three incompletions, punt.

Possession #4: Three straight completions, then an interception.

Possession #5: Two strong runs, then a sack and a fumble — Death’s ball.

“Jesus,” Yitzhak said quietly. “Three sacks already. Pine never gets sacked. And he never fumbles. We’re in some deep doo-doo, my friend.”

Quentin kept watching. If it was a tank, as soon as the Death got up by two or three scores, Pine would strike to make it close.

As the second quarter dragged on, The Mad Ju ripped off a 28-yard TD run, putting the Death up 17-0. Richfield returned the following kick to the Krakens’ 12, but Quentin had eyes only for Pine.

If he’s tanking, he’ll come back strong to make it look good.

Pine dropped back on the first snap. He planted — no busy feet this time, he stood tall in the pocket like some heroic statue.

“She’s open!” Yitzhak’s excited voice called to Quentin’s right, but Quentin just watched Pine. A defensive lineman, the same one who already had two sacks, closed in, gathering up for a perfect blind-side blast on Pine’s back.

“Take them deep!” Yitzhak screamed.

Pine cocked back and let the ball fly — he didn’t have Quentin’s strength, but there was nothing weak about the throw. The ball shot downfield ...

But Quentin watched Pine. The lineman closed in, only a half-second behind the throw, expanding violently for a blindside shot.

Pine took one small step forward. The lineman shot past to fall in a clumsy, sliding heap on the ground.

Pine, you tanking jerk.

That same lineman, making that same blindside approach, had earlier racked up two sacks. Yet this time, Pine had slipped by as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

Not eyes in the back of his head, Quentin thought. He just knows where every player is at all times. After watching Pine up close and personal for six weeks, Quentin knew the veteran was letting those sacks happen. Pine was so good, so unbelievably in control of this game that he could choreograph a tanking without anyone suspecting. After all, what quarterback can dodge a blindside sack, right?

Donald Pine. That’s who.

The crowd booed deeply as Hawick crossed the goal line for an 88-yard touchdown. Yitzhak ran onto the field for the extra point as Pine ran off. Quentin’s anger rose another ten degrees, then popped, almost audibly.

Quentin met Pine on the sidelines.

“Nice pass you piece of garbage,” Quentin said.

Pine just nodded and kept walking towards the bench.

“Hey, loser, I’m talking to you!” Quentin grabbed Pine’s shoulder pad and whipped him around. Pine’s eyes went wide with surprise, then narrowed with anger.

“Leave me alone,” Pine said.

“You throw two more TDs and I’ll leave you alone, you coward.” Quentin pointed his finger straight at Pine’s nose. Other players turned to watch the confrontation.

“Shut up, kid,” Pine said. “I’ve got a game to play.”

“A game? Is that what you call it?”

Pine stepped forward, going chest-to-chest and nose-to-nose with Quentin.

“You wanna make a move, rookie? Then make it now!”

Quentin cocked his left fist and started to swing, but was jerked away by strong Human hands. Quentin’s anger soared to a new level. He twisted and threw a hard left cross at this new foe. His fist smashed into Mitchell Fayed’s jaw. Fayed’s head snapped back and to his left. He slowly turned his head back to look into Quentin’s eyes, working his jaw from side to side.

“Are you finished?” Fayed asked. “Or do I have to hit you back?”

Quentin felt his anger seep away. His face felt scaldingly hot.

“Aw, Mitch, I’m sorry.”

“I said, are you finished?”

Quentin nodded.

“Good. This is not the place for this behavior, Quentin. Now calm down. You’re disturbing the team.”

Quentin nodded again. He’d never felt so embarrassed. Once again, his temper had got the best of him. Maybe he could make it up to Fayed later. Then again, maybe not — he’d just hit the man in front of 133,000 fans, and probably another three billion watching at home. He walked down the sidelines, away from Pine. Anger returned, but this time it was a cold, calculating anger.

Not now. Not now, Pine old kid, not when we can climb back into the hunt.

Quentin had to think. He looked around the sidelines, searching for an answer. He couldn’t tell Hokor, not now, the coach wouldn’t believe him. Even if he did, Pine’s career was over (not to mention, when Gredok found out, probably his life).

Quentin didn’t know what he was looking for until he saw it.

Shayat the Thick.

The drug dealer.

“Holy crap,” Quentin said to himself. “We might win this game after all.”

“YOU WANT DRUGS now,” Shayat said in a whispered hiss. “It’s the middle of a game. What do you want sleepy for?”

“Just give it to me,” Quentin said. “I know you’ve got it in your locker. I know you wouldn’t let your shipment out of your sight. Now you either give me enough to knock a Human out cold or you and I are going to hook right now.”

Shayat’s eye went from clear to light translucent green.

“I would kill you, Human.”

“Maybe so,” Quentin said. “But if you and I go, I’ll make sure I hurt you enough to keep you out of the game. And you don’t want that today, do you?” Quentin gestured to Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright — both Quyth Warriors were on training tables, Doc and Quyth Leader trainers tending to their wounds. Choto’s right pedipalp quivered sickeningly, even as he lay perfectly still on the table. The pedipalp looked broken, a very painful injury, from what Quentin had heard. John Tweedy might have been hurt, but no one knew, because he stood in front of his locker, bashing his forehead into the metal grate. His tattoo scrolled nothing but gibberish, his lips were frozen in a permanent snarl, and tears of rage trickled down his cheeks.

“But I get to start the second half,” Shayat said. “You wouldn’t do that to me, I haven’t had a chance to play first-string all year.”

“Sure,” Quentin said. “You’ll start, if you give me what I want.”

Shayat looked back at Quentin, and the eye slipped back to clear.

“I will give you the drug.”

Quentin smiled a malicious smile. He was halfway home.

• • •

HOKOR WORKED the holoboard, outlining a new defensive strategy designed to shut down Ju. The defensive players, except for Virak and Choto, crowded around the board, pointing excitedly and offering suggestions. The Krakens were down 17-7, yet the defense showed no sign of letting up. They couldn’t wait to get back on the field and take another crack at Ju. Especially John Tweedy. The Human linebacker’s eyes were as wide as wide could be, his nostrils flared in and out, and every word was a guttural scream. HATEYOUHATEYOUHATEYOU scrolled across his sweaty forehead tattoo — he couldn’t concentrate on it long enough to make a message. John looked like a man infused with the living, hunting energy of an entire special forces platoon.

Hokor had already finished with the offense. There wasn’t much to talk about, really — everyone knew that to get back in the game, Donald Pine had to stop getting sacked, start completing passes, and hold onto the ball. Everyone knew this, yet there wasn’t one evil eye cast his way. The team knew that if it could be done, Pine would do it. If Pine couldn’t do it, well, than neither could anyone else. Pine was the kind of quarterback who could throw five interceptions in a game, yet never be pulled, because his next three passes might hit for touchdowns.

That was, of course, when he was trying.

Pine sat in front of his locker, reviewing defensive sets on a portable holotank. Holding a water bottle, Quentin walked up and sat down. Pine glared at him with a look that combined hate and shame.

“Come to yell at me some more, kid?”

Quentin shook his head. “I came to apologize.”

Pine raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Apologize? You?”

Quentin shrugged again. “Look, you’ve got some stuff to deal with, I shouldn’t have lit into you on the field. We can talk about it later.” He handed Pine the water bottle. Pine took it, his eyes never leaving Quentin’s face.

“This isn’t my choice,” Pine said quietly. “I just want you to know that.”

“I know,” Quentin said, and walked away.

Pine took a long drink from the water bottle, then turned back to the holotank.

• • •

THE ORBITING DEATH received the second-half kickoff. Choto the Bright lasted only three plays, until he tried to “arm-tackle” The Mad Ju. Trying to take down Ju with a broken pedipalp was a bad idea at best. Ju ripped through Choto’s valiant effort, leaving the Quyth Warrior writhing on the ground.

Shayat the Thick ran onto the field to take Choto’s place. Samuel Darkeye was Choto’s normal backup at outside linebacker, but Hokor needed Shayat’s size to try and stop The Mad Ju. The Krakens “D” kept hammering at the Ju, and the Ju kept hammering back, yet the fumble-fruit of his so-called slippery hands never seemed to materialize. At the end of the drive, to quite literally add insult to injury, Ju crossed the goal line with John Tweedy on his back.

Extra point: good.

Orbiting Death 24, Krakens 7.

Richfield returned the ensuing kick. The Krakens offense took the field, starting from their own 34. Quentin watched carefully. He’d given Pine enough sleepy to knock out a Ki lineman. If he gave too much, the overdose could easily cause brain hemorrhaging. Quentin hoped that wouldn’t happen, but he had a game to win.

The huddle broke and Pine walked up to the line. He seemed to walk slower than normal. He looked around a few times, then shook his head violently and lined up under center. A handoff to Fayed picked up four yards. The team returned to the huddle, but Pine stayed where he was, staring down at the grass as if it were the most interesting thing in the known universe. A blast of anticipation adrenaline shot through Quentin’s body — it was working.

Fayed walked up to Pine, who continued to stare at the ground. A Harrah ref floated up to both Humans. Pine stared at the zebe as if he’d never seen such a thing before. A steady murmur burbled through the capacity crowd: like most of the players, they wondered what was going on. Pine turned to Fayed and said something. Fayed instantly signaled for a timeout.

“Barnes!” Hokor called. “Let’s go!”

Quentin followed Hokor onto the field. They ran up to Fayed and Pine.

“What in the name of the Mother of All is going on here?” Hokor barked, his fur fluffed up with anger.

“Um ...” Fayed said. “I, uh, think Pine was hit in the head, or something.”

“Heyyyyy,” Pine said with a smile, never looking away from Fayed. “I can see right into Fayed’s brain. Right inside!”

“Pine!” Hokor barked. “Pine snap out of it!”

“Fayed is thinking about a ham sandwich.”

“No I’m not,” Fayed said.

“Pine, you okay?” Hokor asked.

“Ham sandwich with Texas mustard,” Pine said. “Don’t deny it, you liar. I can see your thoughts!”

“Pine!” Hokor said. “You’re going to have to sit out a few.” Hokor signaled to Doc for the medsled.

“But I’m not lying,” Fayed said. “I don’t like mustard.”

Hokor turned to Quentin. “Okay, Barnes, it’s up to you now. We need some points on the board. Just run — ”

“The plays that are called, yeah, I know, Coach.”

“Ham and you are a beautiful thing!” Pine screamed. “Don’t fight your urges, Fayed!”

Doc flew up to Pine, the medsled right behind him. Pine pointed a finger in Fayed’s face. “You know how many pigs die every year? Their lives are on your conscience! Swine-eater!”

“I kind of hate mustard,” Fayed said.

Quentin sat Pine down on the medsled. “Doc, get him out of here, now.” Doc led the sled off the field — Pine carefully watched the grass go by.

Quentin and Fayed walked back to the huddle. The team looked at Quentin with a new expression.

Like I’m the savior, he thought. They think I can pull this one out. The thing was, he thought he could pull it out. They’d spent a half-game of futility and had only seven points to show for it. Quentin knew he needed to get these guys some momentum, and he needed to do it quick.

“Okay, they’ve been blitzing all day. Let them come. We’re going quarterback draw on two, on two. Just give them a good fit and let them come on by.” The huddle seemed revived with electricity.

“Dive right to Fayed,” Hokor called in his ear-piece. Quentin nodded, then broke the huddle. Hokor’s plays would have to wait — he knew what his team needed. They needed a burst of excitement, not a methodical ground game.

Quentin surveyed the defense as he lined up behind center. He’d guessed right — they showed blitz all the way. Orbiting Death ran a 5-2, and both Quyth linebackers leaned forward on all-fours, weight on their arms.

“Red twenty-one! Red, twenty-one!” The linebackers leaned farther forward. Quentin waited a second to give the Ki linemen a chance to pick their targets.

“Hut!” The Death linemen and linebackers surged forward with a metal-plastic crash against their backpedaling offensive enemy. Quentin dropped back three steps, planted and sprang forward. The blitzing defense didn’t even have a chance to slow down before Quentin was past them, moving like a tall, strong wind. His first five steps took him ten yards downfield, leaving seven defenders behind him. The defensive backs reacted instantly, but the three-step drop had given Hawick and Scarborough a chance to move into blocking position. The two receivers danced with the safety and free safety that tried to avoid them — they weren’t good blocks by any means, but with Quentin’s speed they were more than enough for him to shoot past.

BLINK

Everything moved in slow motion. Quentin suddenly saw every last detail the field had to offer. The left cornerback came from his right side — she dove for his legs. Quentin planted and spun outside, a whirling blur, the cornerback grasping only empty air as he straightened and moved downfield. The right cornerback closed on him and he bounced outside. He saw everything, her raspers hanging out just a bit from her chin-plate, her flat-black uniform flapping slightly with each powerful thrust of her long legs. She moved in, reached out.

Quentin felt a blast of something primitive. His lip curled up of its own accord. He felt the strength of a supernova in his limbs. He switched the ball to his right hand and reached out with his left, grabbing the cornerback by the neck just as she tried to wrap around his waist. He squeezed and lifted — she was so light. Like a tribesman carrying a spear, he ran another five yards with her neck in his hand, her feet dangling uselessly, her eyestalks showing sudden pain and fear. He casually tossed her away as one might discard an apple core. She flew threw the air, landing heavily on her head, tumbling in a rolling heap.

He felt something grab at his back and try to pull him down. The extra weight slowed him, but only for a second, his legs pumped with the power of an entire universe. The weight fell away and he was once again free. He distantly heard the roaring booo of the crowd, a faraway noise that was none of his concern.

He crossed the goal line, and the world blinked back to real time with a rush of deafening sound. He tossed the ball to the floating Harrah ref, then knelt and plucked a few blades of black grass. He sniffed deeply — smelled like a sappy pine tree. Hawick and Scarborough arrived suddenly and leapt on him hard enough to knock him over.

“Touchdown, Krakens, 62-yard run by Quentin Barnes,” the loudspeaker blared amidst the crowd’s boo and the hiss of Quyth Workers scraping in derision. Quentin laughed and pushed aside Hawick and Scarborough. He stood, only to be knocked down again, this time by Fayed and Kobayasho.

“What an excellent run!” Fayed screamed at him, his facemask smashed against Quentin’s. “A much better use of energy than punching me in the face!”

Quentin managed to stand amidst friendly-but-hard slaps to his head and shoulder pads. He ran to the sidelines and was engulfed by teammates. They seemed energized as if they were up by four touchdowns instead of down 24-14.

“Barnes!” Hokor screamed in his headset. “What was that? I called a dive!”

“Sorry Coach,” Quentin said. “I thought you said QB draw.”

“You dirty, lying Human! Run the plays that I call!”

“Yes, Coach. Got ya.”

The long touchdown run was like the harbinger of doom for Orbiting Death. Two plays later, John Tweedy came free on a linebacker stunt and put the first really solid hit on his brother Ju. The ball popped free, wobbled on the ground, where Shayat the Thick smothered it. The Death had the lead, but something intangible had changed hands. After a pair of passes to Kobayasho, Fayed scored on a 15-yard run to cut the lead to 24-21.

In the fourth quarter, Quentin dissected the Death secondary as he knew Pine should have done, hitting Scarborough for two TD passes. Ju fumbled one more time, setting up the second TD strike to Scarborough, but the wrecking-ball running back couldn’t be completely stopped. He scored on a long 44-yard run that left John Tweedy on his rear and put Shayat on the sidelines for the rest of the game.

When the final gun sounded, Quentin had led the Krakens to a 35-31 win — 28 of those points coming in the second half.

• • •

THERE WAS A NOTICEABLE difference between a 1-2 locker room and a 4-2 locker room. Players laughed and joked and shouted. The Pioneers had lost again, were now 4-2, and still had two games to go without their star quarterback. The Glory Warpigs had soundly whipped the Woo Wallcrawlers 24-6 to move to 5-1 The Krakens were now only one game out of first had to go head-to-head with the ‘Pigs in Week 8.

A conference title was no longer a fantasy — they were three wins (their own) and one loss (by the Pioneers) away from winning the championship.

Every Human took their turn coming up to Quentin and giving their respects.

“You’re a stone-bred monster!” John Tweedy shouted, hugging Quentin with his powerful arms.

“Huge comeback, kid!” Yitzhak said with a massive grin, tousling Quentin’s hair as if he were a little boy. Quentin pushed Yitzhak’s hand away, but laughed along with him.

Everyone wanted to congratulate him. Everyone, it seemed, except Donald Pine. Pine’s ham-sandwich fixated buzz had worn off just as the fourth quarter ended. He sat alone in front of his locker, still dressed in his soiled uniform, his head hanging in his hands. Quentin felt a pang of pity for the man, but he chased that thought away — Pine made his own bed, and if sleeping in it sucked, then that was the breaks. Quentin had kept his secret, and even that was more than Pine deserved. It didn’t matter, the Krakens were 4-2 and almost — almost — in control of their own destiny.

WEEK SIX LEAGUE ROUNDUP (courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

The Quyth Irradiated Conference standings saw a major shakeup this week. The Ionath Krakens (4-2) crawled another thin notch higher in the standings with a 35-31 upset win over Orbiting Death (4-2). The Krakens continue to show no continuity at quarterback, as this week veteran Donald Pine was ineffective while rookie backup Quentin Barnes led the team to a come-from-behind win.

The Whitok Pioneers (4-2) seemed to be walking away with the conference title, but without star quarterback Condor Adrienne they lost their second straight game, this time 24-8 to the Grontak Hydras (3-3).

First place now belongs solely to the Glory Warpigs (5-1), who thrashed the Woo Wallcrawlers (1-5) by a score of 35-3.

The Sheb Stalkers (4-2) remained in contention with a key 1714 win over the Bigg Diggers (2-4). Arkham, All-Pro cornerback for the Diggers, notched her tenth and eleventh interceptions of the season. She leads the Quyth Irradiated in interceptions for the season, well ahead of the Warpigs’ Toyonaka, who has eight picks so far this year.

Sky Demolition (0-6) still can’t find a win, this time losing 3210 to the Quyth Survivors (3-3).

DEATHS:

Shak-Ah-Tallo, offensive guard for Quyth Survivors, was killed on an illegal hit by Yalla the Biter. Yalla has been suspended for two games.

WEEK #6 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: St. Petersburg, wide receiver, Glory Warpigs, hauled in 12 catches for 162 receiving yards and three TDs.

Defense: Kitiara Lomax, linebacker, Bigg Diggers. 9 tackles, 1 interception.

YASSOUD, OF COURSE, wanted to drag everyone, non-Humans included, out to the nightclub district. Quentin put a stop to it, saying the team had to stay sharp in a dangerous place like The Ace — and after beating the Orbiting Death, many of the city’s residents would have been most happy to mess with an Ionath Kraken. Instead, most of the team headed to “The Dead Fly,” a laid-back bar owned by Choto the Bright’s family. Choto’s family shut the bar down for the impromptu private party. Quentin wanted the team to stay together — most came along, although Pine wanted to be alone, and Quentin wasn’t going to argue with him.

Liquor flowed, which Quentin didn’t mind as long as everyone stayed inside. The quarantine angered Yassoud and Tweedy, but Choto backed up Quentin’s desire to keep the team off the streets. Quentin started feeding Yassoud and Tweedy beers, and after six or seven the two stopped complaining and started enjoying the night.

While drink was in plentiful supply, food was another story.

“But you are hungry,” Virak said to Quentin. “There is nothing wrong with this food.”

Quentin worked hard to keep a straight face as he stared down onto a tray covered with fried critters that looked a lot like foot-long centipedes, only not quite as appetizing.

“I don’t think so, those look like ...”

His voice trailed off as Choto the Bright walked up, a gin-and-tonic in hand, his eye a hazy shade of orange. Choto’s family had made the food, and Quentin could only imagine Choto’s reaction if he called it “crap.”

“It’s fine to eat,” Yitzhak said. He reached out and picked up one of the fried critters by a long front leg. He dangled it over his mouth, biting off a two-inch chunk. “Just bio-mass, perfectly digestible. Quyth and Human digestive physiology are quite compatible, you know.”

Virak and Choto stared at Quentin, obviously waiting for him to eat. He gingerly reached out and picked up a critter by its leg, as Yitzhak had done. He held it in front of his eyes, his stomach simultaneously growling with hunger and churning at the thought of that thing in his belly.

“Eat!” Choto said. “Is good!”

Quentin lifted the thing to dangle over his lips. He opened his mouth and started to lower it, when Virak’s phone buzzed loudly. Pretending to be polite, Quentin set the critter down as Virak answered the call. The Quyth Warrior’s eye changed from orange, the color of happiness, to pitch black almost instantly.

“What’s the matter,” Quentin said as Virak put the phone away.

“Donald Pine is in the hospital. He has been attacked.”

• • •

QUENTIN WALKED into the room not knowing what he’d see. He didn’t want to feel guilty — he hadn’t been the one to gamble up a huge debt and start throwing games, after all — but when he saw Pine in the hospital bed he couldn’t stop waves of the nasty stuff from washing over his soul.

Pine was resting at a 45-degree angle, his bandaged head up high, both legs immersed in the pink liquid of a rejuvenation tank. A large, enamel-white, tube-like machine hid most of his left arm. Light-blue bandages covered his forehead and his right cheek.

The hospital room would have seemed large were there fewer beings in it. With three Ki linemen, John Tweedy and Mitchell Fayed present, Quentin could barely see the walls.

“Hey, kid,” Pine said. “Great game.”

“Thanks,” Quentin said automatically.

“I watched it on tape. Seems I wasn’t in much of a condition to watch it live.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said. He didn’t know what else to say.

Tweedy’s brow seemed larger than ever. SOMEBODY’S GOTTA PAY scrolled across his forehead in black letters. “We’re gonna find the sentients that did this,” he said in a low growl. “Nobody messes with our quarterback and lives.”

The Ki linemen — Sho-Do-Thikit, Kill-O-Yowet and Bud-O-Shwek — grunted in monosyllabic agreement. Quentin had a brief image of wandering into a dark alley and facing Tweedy and the linemen. He shivered at the thought, then pushed it away.

“Virak, Kopor the Climber and Shayat are out looking for the culprits,” Fayed said. “They think it was someone from the Bigg Diggers, trying to soften us up for next week. Virak thought it could be the Glory Warpigs, seeing as it might be us or them for the championship, but the doctors say your injuries may be healed by that time.”

“Too bad for them,” Tweedy said. “Our number two can win games just like our number one, eh boys?”

Fayed nodded, the Ki’s made their one grunt, they all looked at Quentin with pride.

“I need to talk to Quentin,” Pine said. “Alone. You guys give us a minute?”

The five Krakens players filtered out of the room, leaving Pine to stare at Quentin.

“I haven’t had a hit of sleepy since my Tier Three days,” Pine said. “I’d forgotten what a great trip it is. You ever hit that stuff?”

Quentin shook his head.

“I didn’t think so,” Pine said. “Wonderboy would never touch a drug like that, eh? Well, at least he’d never take a drug like that. But I’ll bet that if he wanted to, he could get his hands on an extra-large dose.”

“It’s not my fault you’re in here, so don’t try and guilt me out,” Quentin said, although he was about as guilted-out as one could get. He should have known better than to leave Pine alone when Mopuk’s goons would be looking for revenge.

Pine nodded. “I know it’s not your fault, kid.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “They messed you up pretty bad,” Quentin said finally.

Pine shrugged. “Not so bad, really. They didn’t want to mess up their investment. Notice they didn’t touch the right arm, and they didn’t touch the eyes. Hell, if rehab goes well, I’m back in the lineup in two weeks.”

Quentin looked up and down Pine’s body. The man had been in surgery and then in a hospital room for three hours. With the speed of modern medicine, the fact that he still looked so rough was a testament to the beating he’d taken. Mopuk’s men had probably cut on him for quite a while.

“Don’t think this guilt trip is going to go over on me,” Quentin said, mustering far more conviction than he felt. “I’m keeping the starting spot this time.”

Pine nodded slowly. “Maybe. Maybe, kid.” He looked away. “I guess I’ve messed things up pretty bad. If I don’t start ... well ... I guess I’m not much use to them anymore.”

Pine wasn’t begging for his starting spot, just talking out loud. Yet the sentence hit home to Quentin, even more than the injuries, even more than his own run-ins with Mopuk. Pine owed money. As long as he could throw games, he was an asset to Mopuk. If he wasn’t starting, if his career was on the way out, well, Mopuk would have to do something about the debt. Quentin had seen Stedmar Osborne deal with enough fixers and loan sharks back on Micovi to know what would happen. If Pine wasn’t playing ball, he was a good as dead.

“I’ll take care this,” Quentin said.

Pine looked hard at him for a few seconds. “Stay out of it. This ain’t your business. You did the right thing, taking me out of the game. We’re still in the playoff hunt, thanks to you. I brought this on myself. You get involved, you’re just going to get messed up.”

“I can’t let you go alone on this, Pine.”

The veteran laughed. “You can’t? Why not? You hate my guts. You’ve wanted me out of the picture since your first day with the team. Well, now you’ve got what you want, so just let it be. I don’t want to destroy two careers with my stupidity.”

“Can we go to Gredok?”

Pine looked away. “He’ll kill me faster than Mopuk would. Gredok finds out I threw his games, I’m dead. Hell, I guess it doesn’t matter, I’m dead one way or another.”

Quentin nodded once, then walked out of the room. Outside, Tweedy, Fayed and the linemen were waiting. They started to talk, but Quentin held up a hand, silencing them.

“Call a team meeting, immediately. Get everyone, especially Shayat. Tell Choto to clear out the Dead Fly, we’ll meet there. No coaches. Hokor and Gredok can not know.”

“What’s this about?” Fayed asked.

“Just trust me,” Quentin said.

“What about Virak?” Tweedy asked. “He’s one of Gredok’s bodyguards, totally loyal to him.”

“Get him, too. And tell him not to say a word to Gredok, that I’ll explain later. Tell him our playoff hopes hinge on his silence.”

• • •

QUENTIN WALKED into the Dead Fly bar. He saw a sea of familiar faces (or what passed for faces) looking back at him. There were no other patrons in the place, only Krakens.

“This better be good,” Virak said. “Gredok does not like secrecy.”

“He’s not going to find out,” Quentin said. “No one is going to tell him. No one is going to say a word about this ... this stuff, to anyone. That’s the way it’s going to be. Got it?”

Quentin looked around the room. There was no sign of dissent. He’d called all these players together, and they’d come. They looked back at him, waiting to hear what he had to say. Quentin realized that his on-field performance had elevated his status amongst his teammates. At this moment, he was their leader.

“Shayat,” Quentin said. “How much merchandise can you get your hands on?”

“I’ve already got my load,” Shayat said. “All I can carry.”

“I didn’t ask that. What if you had more carriers? Say, forty-three other carriers, how much could you get then?”

Shayat looked at Quentin, then around the room, his eye shifting to a translucent red of surprise. “A lot. Enough for everyone.”

“What is this?” Virak said. “You want us to smuggle drugs?”

Quentin nodded. “That’s right. All of you. As much as you can carry.”

A cacophony of shouting questions filled the room. Virak and Choto’s eyes turned deep blackish-green.

“Shut up!” Quentin’s voice exploded in the small room, creating instant, stunned silence.

“Pine owes money,” Quentin said. “That’s why he was beat up, because he can’t pay. We’re his teammates. We’re going to pay off his debt. Everyone does it, no exceptions, and no one talks.”

The statement left a sea of stunned faces.

“This is serious,” Virak said. “Gredok ignores individual efforts. It’s one of the benefits of being a player. The amount is insignificant compared to what he ships on the team bus. But the whole team smuggling? That’s not something you ignore, Quentin. That’s not being enterprising, that’s being competition. Gredok doesn’t like competition.”

“We don’t do it, Pine’s a dead man,” Quentin said.

“That’s no reason to lie to Gredok,” Virak said. “He is our Shamakath.”

“He’s your Shamakath,” Quentin said. “Donald Pine is the Shamakath for the rest of us. He’s the team leader. So you’ve got to make a choice.”

Virak’s eye swirled from blackish-green to purple, a visible mark of his confusion.

“Virak,” Quentin said, “do you want to be a bodyguard or a Tier One football player?”

Virak said nothing. Quentin continued. “Without Pine, our chances of making the playoffs are pretty dim. Even if we don’t make it, it doesn’t matter, he’s our teammate and we’re going to help him. We either do this, all of us, together, or Donald Pine is dead. We can’t go to Gredok, you all just have to trust me on this. Now, does anyone want to back out?” He asked the question, but his eyes and demeanor clearly said that no one would be allowed to back out.

And no one did. Except Rick Warburg.

“Forget this,” Warburg said. “I’m not putting my career on the line for Pine.”

Quentin glared at him. “Yes you are, Warburg. You’re in.”

“No way. I’m not going through this for a blue-boy, and neither should you. It’s a sin to help Satan’s children.”

“He’s not a blue-boy, you idiot. He’s your teammate.”

“I collect a paycheck. I don’t have teammates, not from other races. I thought you were my teammate, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “I guess you were.”

Warburg stared at him for a few seconds, then walked out of the bar, head held high.

“Anyone else?”

None of the other players said a word. Maybe it was their love for Pine. Maybe it was Quentin’s will. Maybe it was both.

“Good,” Quentin said. “We’ve got three hours before the Touchback leaves. Shayat, make it happen.

GAME SEVEN: Bigg Diggers (2-4) at Ionath Krakens (4-2)

QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS

THE SHUTTLE BANKED DOWN to the customs platform and into the express lane reserved for diplomats and foreign dignitaries. The team filed out and stood single-file on the yellow waiting line. Three Quyth Workers dressed in the white uniforms of the Quyth System Police slid hoversleds into the shuttle. The hover-sleds were loaded with the typical weapon- and explosive-scanning suites.

Kotop the Observer walked down the line of Krakens players. It was a performance they went through each time the shuttle returned from out-system.

“The food must be very good on Orbital Station One,” Kotop said with disgust. “You’ve all gained weight.”

Quentin, like the other Human players, wore a baggy sweat suit — with a bulging, rounded belly. All the players had some new bulky area on their body: the Ki linemen had bulging backs, Sklorno tails were fatter and longer, and even the Quyth Warriors thighs seemed far thicker than normal.

Kotop stood in front of Virak.

“This must be a very proud day for a warrior like yourself,” Kotop said. “I wonder who will be hurt by your newfound wealth.”

Virak said nothing, simply stared straight ahead so he didn’t have to look down at Kotop. His eye showed no color. Moments later, the technicians exited the ship.

“No weapons, no explosives,” one of them said to Kotop. The Quyth Leader clapped his pedipalps together once, then gestured to the ship.

“You football players think you’re so special,” Kotop said. “You flaunt the law right in front of us, and there’s nothing we can do. Someday ... someday things will change.”

“YOU SURE THIS IS the right way to do this?” Quentin sat in the back of a cramped hovercab. Virak the Mean sat on one side, Choto the Bright sat on the other.

“Do you want Pine’s debt cleared?” Virak asked.

Quentin nodded.

“Then we have to show strength. A Leader like Mopuk will not let go of a choice debtor like Pine. Not easily. You need to convince Mopuk it’s in his best interest.”

Quentin nodded again. He’d started this, and he’d finish it, but he hadn’t expected anything like what was about to go down. Virak, Choto, Shayat and John Tweedy were well versed in violence. Real violence, the kind where beings died. Quentin could hold his own in any fight, but this was something different.

He looked out the side of the open cab. They were in Ionath City’s club district, a seemingly endless row of bars and dance halls, the street lit with brightly colored holosigns. Beings of all shapes and sizes crowded the streets. At least two fights were already in progress, one down the street to the left, one just off to their right. Quyth Warrior constables casually worked their way through the crowd to break up the altercations.

“We move now.” Virak slipped over the cab’s edge and onto the street. Choto hopped out the other side. Quentin followed suit, walking behind the two Quyth Warriors towards a club called the Bootleg Arms. A holosign above the bar showed a Quyth Worker using his pedipalps to repeatedly pour a gin & tonic. A line of beings, mostly Quyth Workers although all kinds were represented, extended out the door and down the street.

A Quyth Worker and three Ki — large, but not as large as GFL linemen — stood near the door. The Quyth Worker instantly recognized the three Krakens players and gestured for them to walk past the line. Virak and Choto entered first, moving in front of Quentin like the blades of a snowplow. They ignored the Quyth Worker and the Ki.

“Elder Barnes,” the Quyth Worker said, perfectly pronouncing the respectable Purist Nation title. “Welcome to the Bootleg Arms. If there is anything you need, I am Tikad the Groveling, and I assure you I will tend to your needs.”

“We want to see Mopuk,” Quentin said.

Tikad bowed. “Mister Mopuk may be busy, Elder Barnes.”

“Go get him,” Quentin said. “Right now.”

Tikad bowed lower, said something to the Ki guards, then walked through the door. Virak and Choto followed Tikad, Quentin only a step behind them. They walked through the door and onto a lighted floor that swayed with dancers of all species. He wondered how anybeing could dance to that crappy Tower Republic music, but it was all the rage in the clubs.

Floating flashbugs gracefully avoided the swirling dancers. The bugs emitted bright colors in time to the music’s beat. The floor shook with the song’s low bass tones, frequencies that seemed to vibrate every atom in Quentin’s body. Smells filled his nostrils — like most clubs, designer pheromones permeated the air, guaranteed to put an erotic edge on every patron regardless of their species. He kept his eyes on Virak and Choto, doing his best to ignore the sensory assault.

The crowd parted before the two Quyth Warriors. Quentin couldn’t help but feel important. The two of them moved like walking statues that radiated confidence mixed with lethality. They followed Tikad to a back wall that seemed to vibrate slightly, in time to the bass beat — a hologram. Two Quyth Warriors stood by the wall, not-so-gently pushing back any dancers that moved too close. Tikad walked between them and right through the holographic wall.

As soon as they were through, the music dropped off to a distant thud of bass and nothing more. Soft lighting seemed a direct contrast to the dance floor’s garish flashbugs. Thick couches, some for all species but mainly tailored for the small bodies of Quyth Leaders, lined the walls of the small room. A large oval table sat in the middle, a clear glass top revealing a tank of swarming insectlike creatures.

On a chair behind the table sat Mopuk. His Ki bodyguards flanked him, one on each side. Quentin recognized them — they’d beaten the crap out of him back on The Deuce, and had tried to rough him up on The Ace. That was when Virak the Mean told the bodyguards that if he faced them again, he’d kill them. Quentin wondered if the two guards remembered the threat.

Tikad stood nervously, his pedipalps repeatedly cleaning his eye, which glowed a neon pink. Mopuk’s eyes, of course, remained perfectly clear. Sobox, Mopuk’s Creterakian lieutenant, perched comfortably on Mopuk’s small shoulder.

Virak and Choto each took a small step to the side. Quentin walked between them and sat down on a Human chair, directly across the table from Mopuk.

“Quentin Barnes,” Mopuk said quietly. “You saved me the time of coming to find you again. You’ve cost me a lot of money this season, money you will have to repay.”

“I owe you nothing,” Quentin said. “But I am here about money. He pulled out a contract box and slid it across the table. As the box crossed the glass, the insect-like creatures swarmed towards it, pressing hungrily against the glass top’s underside.

Mopuk picked up the contract box. “What’s this?”

“Four-point-one million. Every penny that Donald Pine owes you.”

Mopuk’s eye instantly changed to translucent black. He slid the contract box back across the glass. The bugs vainly tried again to eat it.

“That’s not enough,” Sobox said. “Mopuk the Sneaky does not accept your offer.”

“He’d better,” Quentin said. “Pine’s debt to you is paid. Now you stay away from him, and everyone else on the Krakens.”

Mopuk’s eye shifted to an even deeper shade of black.

“You come in here and tell me what to do? I say that’s not enough money.” Mopuk gestured to the glass table. “Get out of here before I feed you to my pets.”

“You will accept this,” Quentin said, leaning forward. “You don’t have a choice.”

Mopuk leaned back, seemingly speechless, then looked to his left and gestured a pedipalp at one of the Ki. The two big creatures started to move forward, but hadn’t even managed two steps before Virak and Choto launched into action.

Virak moved forward at blinding linebacker speed. He touched his pedipalps together once — when he pulled them apart, a thin glowing silvery line ran from one to the other. He looped this line around the first surprised Ki and then yanked it tight — black blood exploded like a water balloon as the Ki’s upper torso fell away from the lower body.

Choto moved almost as fast, producing a fat blade from a hiding spot inside the carapace of his right arm. He jammed the blade into the second Ki’s hexagonal mouth, bent it downwards, and thrust it right down the Ki’s throat.

Sobox flew up in alarm and reached into his tiny vest. Quentin didn’t know if they made entropic accelerators that small, but he wasn’t waiting to find out. He threw the contract box like a missile. It smashed into Sobox, knocking the Creterakian backwards. Sobox hit the wall and fell to the floor, limp.

Just before Choto’s opponent hit the floor, Tikad pressed a button on his belt. The holographic wall vanished and an alarm screeched through the bar. The music kept playing, joined by noises of fear and surprise from the patrons. Flashbugs started filtering in, pre-programmed to diffuse evenly through any open space.

The two Ki bodyguards were not Mopuk’s only protection. Two Quyth Warriors sprinted towards the back room, each pulling a small pistol as they ran. Before the guns cleared their concealed holsters, flashes of black cloth hit them like phantasms. Both guards went down under the weight of a pair of Sklorno females: Hawick and Scarborough on one, Mezquitic and Denver on the other. As soon as the Quyth Warriors hit the ground, John Tweedy slid out of a booth, head down, hateful eyes up, moving like a silent tiger. DON’T MESS WITH DON PINE scrolled across his forehead. With a growling snarl, he put his fist clear through the first Quyth Warrior’s eye and deep into the brain. Clear liquid splashed up and out, covering Tweedy’s psychotic face.

The second Quyth Warrior kicked out, knocking Denver on her back. The Warrior’s pedipalps whipped like snakes, wrapping around Mezquitic’s slender neck. Tweedy flew through the air, dropping all his weight on the prone Warrior.

As John Tweedy and the Warrior grappled, deafening roars erupted, far louder than the bass-driven music. Five sets of waving, multi-jointed arms drew all eyes as the Krakens’ offensive line, who had been quietly dancing only moments earlier, stood tall on their rear legs, twelve-feet high and more imposing than a rabid Mullah Hills bull-cat. Bar patrons needed no further urging — they ran for the door, a stampede of every species moving as one panicked mass.

Tweedy rolled on top of the Quyth Warrior, grabbed his thick head in both hands and jerked to the right. A loud crack marked the end of the conflict as the Quyth Warrior quivered once, then fell still, motionless save for a quivering pedipalp.

“Touch my quarterbacks, you loser,” Tweedy said in a growl. “Losers don’t get to make that mistake twice.”

Black blood spread across the floor like a giant amoeba. Quentin had never imagined Ki had so much blood in their tubular body. He felt his lunch rising up in his stomach, but he steeled himself against the sickness. The game was on, and he’d stick with it.

Tikad cowered on the floor, his body already covered in black gore as he rolled about, quietly begging not to be killed. Mopuk was still in his chair, his eye now the pure blue of total fear. Streaks of black blood covered him, even on his eye — he was too stunned to clean it off. Virak and Choto stood rock still on either side of him, awaiting Quentin’s orders.

Quentin picked the contract box up off the ground. He walked back to his chair and sat, then slid the contract box across the table once again. The insects seemed angrier than ever, but the glass still held them at bay. The contract box slid off the glass and onto Mopuk’s lap.

“Last chance,” Quentin said. “You get your money, Pine is free and clear. Do you accept?”

Mopuk picked up the contract box. He slid the tip of one pedipalp finger inside. The box’s light switched from red to green, signifying a completed transaction.

“That’s that,” Quentin said. “Now that you’re paid, I don’t have to worry about you coming after us. I don’t want to see you again. And don’t think of letting it slip to Gredok as a way of getting back at Pine. You know what will happen to Pine if Gredok finds out, but you also know what will happen to you if Gredok finds out you were messing with his team and his players, right?”

“Yes,” Mopuk said. “I agree. We will keep this to ourselves.”

“And what about them?” Quentin asked, gesturing to the two dead Ki that took up half the floor, and the two dead Quyth Warriors.

“An accident,” Mopuk said. “You will not be involved.”

Quentin nodded again. The music continued to blare, but over the horrible noise he heard the high-pitched rhythmic chirp of constables approaching.

“Tikad,” Quentin said. The Quyth Worker didn’t seem to hear. Quentin reached out with a toe and kicked him.

“Yes Elder Barnes!” said Tikad the Groveling. “Please is there anything I can do for you?”

“You got a back door in this place?”

“Yes Elder Barnes! Right this way!” Tikad scrambled to his feet, his body trailing dripping black strands of thick Ki blood. He ran deeper into the club. Quentin followed, Virak and Choto in front of him once again, the rest of his teammates behind. As the first constables ran into the Bootleg Arms, Quentin and the Krakens were nowhere to be seen.

• • •

IN LESS THAN twenty-four hours, the bandages were gone, the rejuv bath had been removed, and Don Pine’s healed arms crossed over his chest as he lay back in his hospital bed, staring incredulously at Quentin.

“So you paid it?” Pine said. “Are you kidding me?” While his eyes showed doubt, they also showed just a flicker of hope.

“Yes,” Quentin said. “The debt is paid.”

They were alone in the room. Teammates sat outside. Not a moment had gone by when there weren’t at least two Krakens players guarding their veteran quarterback.

“But they’re not going to just let me go,” Pine said, shaking his head. “They make more on one game than my debt is worth, easy.”

Quentin shrugged. “It’s taken care of.”

Pine looked away. “Those Ki scumbags that broke my legs, cut me up ... they’ll be after me again, I know it.”

“They won’t be after anyone, ever,” Quentin said. “Virak and Choto saw to that.”

Pine’s expression relaxed into wide-eyed amazement. “But why, Quentin? Why would you do this?”

“I didn’t do it, the team did it.”

Pine nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure of that, but off the field most of these guys can’t even stand to look at each other. Someone had to make them work together, and I know it wasn’t Virak and Choto. It was you. So why did you do it? All you had to do was stay out of it, and the team was yours.”

Quentin looked at the floor. “I don’t know. You needed help, and I helped. That’s it.”

Pine extended his blue-skinned hand. Quentin had shaken the man’s hand before, but this was different. Quentin stared at it for a second. Ten weeks ago, to think a blue-boy would be a true friend, well, that was simply unthinkable.

Quentin shook Donald Pine’s hand.

“I won’t forget this,” Pine said. “Not ever.”

• • •

QUENTIN ROLLED to the left as the rest of the team moved right. Hokor had held the naked boot in reserve all day, but played that card late in the fourth quarter. The Krakens held on to a slim 2019 lead, and they needed to put the Bigg Diggers away.

Surveying his options, Quentin kept the ball on his left hip as he started turning upfield at the Diggers 28. Kitiara Lomax, the Diggers’ all-pro linebacker, saw the naked boot and gave chase, but he was the only one. Quentin looked downfield — Rick Warburg had blocked down then bounced left on a 10-yard out, and Denver was angling for the end zone’s back left corner, covered closely by Arkham.

Run or pass. With the speed of a supercomputer, the options flashed through Quentin’s brain. He had three or four steps on Lomax. Arkham already had three interceptions on the day, and had kept her team in the game by preying on Quentin’s passes like a piranha on raw meat. Rick Warburg was open — but he was also a racist jerk.

BLINK

Quentin tucked the ball under his left arm and angled for the sidelines. He sensed everything: the home Krakens crowd jumping and roaring, the missing patches of Iomatt where cleats had torn up the turf, the smell of dirt and sweat and blood, Lomax’s desperate efforts to cut him off, Warburg’s look of fury when he realized that Quentin wasn’t going to throw.

Quentin leaned into the run, his legs chewing up the yards. Lomax was faster than he’d calculated, and dove for Quentin just as the young QB reached the sidelines and turned upfield. But Warburg was there, coming free and fast, and blindsided Lomax with a devastating, head-snapping hit.

Quentin’s long, graceful strides belied his speed. The yards slid by like water on glass. Denver tried to block Arkham, but the cornerback effortlessly pushed the receiver aside and came up the sidelines at Quentin. It would be a head-to-head battle.

Intercept me? Payback time, lady.

Arkam’s legs blurred as she kamikazied her way forward. At the eleven, Quentin screamed and lowered his head, smashing into Arkham, more a linebacker delivering a concussive blow than a quarterback scrambling for yards. Arkham was bigger than most Sklorno, and faster, and she carried a devastating amount of force.

Quentin ran her right over.

He stumbled after the hit, legs pumping high to avoid a trip. Arkham crashed to the ground, defeated, crushed. Her raspers reached out at the last second, scraping long strips of skin from the backs of Quentin’s hands.

BLINK

The world slammed back to reality as Quentin crossed the goal line trailing a stream of his own blood. He chucked the ball into the stands, then stood with both arms outstretched, redness dripping to stain the blue lomatt, his tilted head looking at the roaring, adoring crowd.

That’s right, he thought as he turned, surveying his fans. You do not mess with Quentin Barnes.

From the Ionath city Gazette

Backup leads Krakens to fourth straight win

By Toyat the Inquisitive

It seems that the Purist Nation finally has an export that interests citizens of the Quyth Concordia.

That export is Quentin Barnes.

The rookie quarterback once again came to the Krakens’ rescue, filling in for oft-damaged starter Donald Pine who was out with unspecified injuries. Barnes led the Krakens (5-2) to a 27-19 win over the Bigg Diggers (2-5), and put on a showcase that combined unstoppable talent, rookie inexperience and more speed than any Human has a right to possess. Barnes threw for 305 yards and two touchdowns, as well as running for 82 yards and adding another touchdown on the ground. This all-pro caliber performance was marred by inconsistent passing — Barnes was 19-for-35, including three interceptions.

“They (the Diggers) threw some coverages at me I hadn’t prepared for,” said Barnes. “Arkham robbed me blind all day long.”

Arkham, the Digger’s crafty veteran cornerback, repeatedly disguised her coverage and capitalized on Barnes’ inexperience. Arkham notched all three interceptions, but was knocked out of the game late in the fourth quarter with a crushed right thorax and torn upper right tentacle. She will be out for the rest of the season.

WEEK SEVEN LEAGUE ROUNDUP (courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

Woes and misery continue on Whitok, where the Whitok Pioneers (4-3) dropped their third straight game, this time to the previously winless Sky Demolition (1-6) on a last second field goal that gave the Demo a 21-19 win. Even though starting QB Condor Adrienne returns to the lineup this week as the Pioneers travel to the Woo Wallcrawlers (2-5), Whitok is basically out of the running for the division title.

The Wallcrawlers notched their second win of the year by topping the Quyth Survivors (3-4) 28-24.

The Ionath Krakens (5-2) made it four in a row, topping the Bigg Diggers (2-5) 27-19. Ionath rookie Quentin Barnes’ showed that the Krakens may be the team to beat in the future, but are they good enough to prevail in this week’s showdown against the Glory Warpigs? It’s winner-take-all at Warpigs Stadium — the ‘Pigs (6-1) are in sole possession of first place thanks to this week’s 32-10 drubbing of the Sheb Stalkers (4-3).

Orbiting Death (5-2) remain in the running for the title, but need the Warpigs to lose their last two games and the Krakens to lose as well. Death hung a 17-7 defeat on the Grontak Hydras(3-4).

DEATHS:

Percy Gaines, tight end for the Woo Wallcrawlers, died on a clean hit by Topinabee, the head-hunting defensive back for the Quyth Survivors.

WEEK #7 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: Quentin Barnes, quarterback, Ionath Krakens. 19-of-35 for 305 yards, 2 TDs, 3 INTs. Also ran for 82 yards on 12 carries, 1 rushing TD.

Defense: Arkham, cornerback, Bigg Diggers. 8 tackles, 3 INTs.

GAME EIGHT: Ionath Krakens (5-2) at Glory Warpigs (6-1)

QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS

“BARNES, YOU’RE PLAYING much better, but you’ve got to improve your passing.”

“Come on Coach, I was the offensive player of the week! Can’t you lighten up a bit?”

“There is no lightheartedness in interceptions.”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, that throwing for 305 yards and two TDs, that’s pathetic.”

Hokor’s fur fluffed, then settled. “Sure, those stats are great, but you threw three interceptions!”

“Come on, Coach! We won the damn game.”

Hokor’s fur ruffled again, and this time stayed ruffled. “The season hangs in the balance this week, Barnes. We win, we take over first place. The Warpigs have the best secondary in the league — they’re only allowing 150 passing yards a game!”

Quentin waved a hand dismissively. “Big deal,” he said. “They haven’t faced us yet, we’ll light ‘em up.”

“Pine’s well enough to dress this week.”

Quentin suddenly sat forward, eyes narrow. “I got us to this position, and you know it.”

Hokor’s eye turned translucent black.

“You’re not in charge here, Barnes, I am. You’re starting, you’ve earned it for this game. But I’m letting you know that if you keep throwing interceptions, I’m going to have to sit you down. I would have pulled you last week, but Yitzhak couldn’t have done any better. Pine can.”

Quentin felt his temper boiling up to the top, but he concentrated, holding it in check. “I’ve studied like mad for this game, I’ve worked the holo-sim over and over again. I know those defenders. I just won’t throw interceptions, how’s that?”

“Ball control,” Hokor said. “That’s what we need. We turn it over against them, we lose. You’re doing a great job, Quentin, but you’re still a little rough around the edges. Don’t take it personally.”

“Oh I don’t,” Quentin lied. “Not at all.”

He stood and walked out of the office.

Transcript from the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan & Akbar & Tarat the Smasher”

CALLER: I’m glad Barnes gets the start. Pine is washed up.

AKBAR: You moron! How can you say he’s washed up?

CALLER: He’s always hurt.

AKBAR: He got mugged, for crying out loud. Mugged. This wasn’t some on-field injury.

DAN: Well, there was the injury earlier this year.

AKBAR: Hey, you don’t recover from a broken femur that quick if you’re fragile, you know.

CALLER: But he can’t win the big games!

AKBAR: What, two Galaxy Bowls aren’t big enough for you?

TARAT: That was years ago, Akbar.

CALLER: Ancient history.

AKBAR: Well I can’t believe you people. Aside from Condor Adrienne, Pine is still the best quarterback in Tier Two.

DAN: But that’s Tier Two! The fans are sick of Tier Two, I’m sick of Tier Two, and so are you. Barnes is the key to Tier One, like I’ve been saying all along.

AKBAR: He’s too young.

DAN: Too young? Who cares! Look what he’s done so far. His come-from-behind win over the Orbiting Death kept the Krakens in the playoff hunt, and he dusted the Bigg Diggers.

AKBAR: Dusted? What game were you watching?

DAN: The one where he threw two TDs and ran for another, racked up 387 all-purpose yards.

AKBAR: Oh, that game. Is that the same one where he three interceptions? Why yes, I think it is. Three interceptions against a mediocre defensive secondary that gives up an average, an average of 280 yards a game? Are you kidding me?

TARAT: Well when I played the game, all we cared about was the win. Barnes got the win.

DAN: That’s right, he wins games.

AKBAR: Well, he’s not going to win against the Warpigs, I’ll tell you that for free. They’ve got the best secondary in all of football, not just Tier Two.

TARAT: One could easily argue that the Bartell Water Bugs or the Hullwalkers have the best secondary.

AKBAR: Am I in a house of morons, here? Am I? Those are Tier One teams contending for the championship this year. The best of the best. And the Warpigs’ secondary is right up there. Look at the stats: left corner Keluang, four interceptions; safety Wellington, three interceptions and a pair of sacks; free safety Alamo, two interceptions; and let’s not forget right corner Toyonaka, all-pro two years running, eight interceptions on the season, averaging more than one a game.

DAN: Look, Quentin Barnes is the future of this team. I said it before, I’ll say it again, I’ve said it all along, Barnes needs to start.

AKBAR: You’re crazy and stupid, Pine needs to start this game.

DAN: Well, we’ll see what happens at game-time. Caller, thanks for the call. Next we’ve got Amos from Jones 2. Hello, Amos, you’re on the space ...

• • •

QUENTIN RUBBED SWEAT from his eyes. He’d never faced a secondary like this one.

Arkham had robbed him blind last week, but the rest of the secondary had been mortal. The only reason Arkham had intercepted him three times was he wanted to go after her, he wanted to complete passes to her side of the field. Hokor had told him to avoid her, but Quentin hid from no one. You just don’t give up a whole side of the field. If he’d have stayed away from Arkham, gone to the easy side of the field, he probably would have come out with no INTs at all.

But the Warpigs were different — there was no easy side of the field. The Warpigs didn’t have anyone as good as Arkham, but they had four players who were almost in her ballpark. Four. Every time Quentin dropped back, every receiver seemed covered. And if they looked open, they probably weren’t. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, throwing two interceptions in the first quarter, including one that Keluang, the Warpigs’ corner, took to the house for a 33-yard touchdown. The secondary switched from woman-to-woman to zone in the same play, zone to woman-to-woman the next, two-deep with zone under the next. The ‘Pigs linebackers were also damn good, covering passes over the middle and in the flat, trying to take away dump-passes to the tight ends and running backs.

His arm hadn’t done anything for the Krakens. What had worked, however, were two pairs of Human feet — his and Mitchell Fayed’s. Late in the second quarter, Fayed already had 80 yards on the ground and a TD. Quentin had added a rushing TD and another 40 rushing yards, mostly from scrambling because there was no one to pass to. Those two touchdowns put 14 on the board that matched the Warpigs’ two TDs.

Second-and-4 on the Krakens’ 22. Quentin looked to the sidelines as the Krakens huddled up.

“Keep it on the ground,” Hokor said into his ear-piece. “Forty-six sweep right.”

Quentin breathed a sigh of relief, then felt a wave of anger swarm across his thoughts. What kind of a pansy was he turning into? He’d felt happy because Hokor called a run play? Quentin called the play in the huddle, then walked to the line, marveling at how this defense had taken him right out of his game.

“Red, twenty-one ... red, twenty-one, hut-hut!”

The ball slapped into his hands. Quentin stepped to his left, planted his left foot and pivoted backwards all the way around in a smooth motion. Holding the ball in front of him with both hands, he gently flipped it to Fayed, who moved left, five yards back and parallel to the line of scrimmage. Right guard Wen-E-Daret pulled to lead the block, taking a few steps back and then scuttling right, horizontal to the line. The big Ki lineman got in front of Fayed, leading the running back to the outside as they both looked to cut upfield. The Warpigs’ outside linebacker picked up the play and drove straight at Wen-E. The two collided, and Fayed slipped past the block, trying to find open space. Keluang, the Warpigs’ left cornerback, came up fast, a streaking blur of black jersey with teal numbers and a teal helmet. Fayed tried to cut outside, but Keluang dove and tripped up the running back, taking him down for a four-yard loss.

Third and 8.

Quentin’s stomach churned with butterflies. He had to pee. Tie game, passing down.

“Spread right, twenty-two post,” Hokor said. “Look for Kobayasho’s out-cut. Don’t go deep, Quentin, we need to hold onto the ball and play for field position.”

Quentin watched his team gather in the huddle. He looked back at the Warpigs, who were gathering in their own huddle.

Was Keluang limping? Was she hurt?

Quentin’s mind raced. If she was hurt, he had to go after her. He called the play and the Krakens lined up for the snap. Twenty-two post held a couple of options — Hawick on a deep post down the left side, Kobayasho on an out-cut, and Scarborough on a flag right, which would put her head-to-head against Keluang, deep down the field.

“Bluuuueeee, sixteen, hut-hut!”

Quentin dropped back, ball held high, eyes watching the entire field at once.

BLINK

The receivers sprinted downfield in that weird real-time slowmotion dance. He saw Kobayasho cut out to the right, where he already had a step on the linebackers. Hawick was covered like stink on a skunk. Quentin planted and stepped up — at fifteen yards, Scarborough broke right on her flag cut, a half-step ahead of Keluang.

Quentin fired the ball on a rope. The brown missile streaked through the air at eighty miles an hour, so fast that Keluang never had a chance at it. Scarborough turned back, the ball hit her in the chest so hard it knocked her over. She slid out of bounds twenty yards downfield.

First-and-10 on the Krakens’ 42. Three minutes to play in the half.

Keluang turned and ran back to her huddle. She was limping, just a bit. Her stats flashed through his head: four-year veteran, played two seasons of Tier Three ball with the New Orleans Saints of the Earth League. She’d clocked a 3.1 forty in full pads, while Scarborough’s best was 3.2. She could also jump twenty-two feet into the air. And, she’d missed two games last season with a fissured left lower leg.

The same leg she seemed to be favoring now.

“Nice pass,” Hokor said in his earpiece. “Now back to the ground-attack. Basic package, sweep left.”

Quentin looked to the sidelines. Hokor stood there, clipboard in hand. Pine stood next to him, helmet under his arm like a picture off of a Wheaties box. “But Coach, Keluang looks hurt, let’s go after her.”

“Keluang looks hurt?” Hokor said. He turned to Pine, who viciously shook his head no.

“Stick to the ground,” Hokor said, turning back to look onto the field. “Pine says Keluang is faking it.”

“Faking it?”

“Just run the plays that I call, Barnes!”

Quentin jogged back to the huddle, his eye on the play clock. He had to get this play off in fifteen seconds or suffer a delay-of-game penalty.

Faking? What defensive back would fake an injury and allow a twenty-yard pass? She wasn’t faking, she was hurt.

“Okay, kiddies,” Quentin said to his huddle. “Let’s get this play off quick. Y-set, roll out left, double post. Scarborough, does Keluang seem slow to you?”

“Yes,” Scarborough said. “Not as fast as before.”

“Then you bust your little rear end downfield, got it? We’re going to take the wind out of their sails right now.”

Quentin broke the huddle and sauntered up behind center. A quick ba-da-bap on the center’s carapace.

“Red, twelve, red, twelve, hut-hut!”

The trenches clashed as Quentin, a lefty, dropped back and rolled out to his left, eyes constantly scanning downfield. Hawick looked open for a second, but the free safety came over to help out the right cornerback, taking away that option. Fayed ran a five-yard out pattern, staying in front of Quentin, while Tom Pareless shuffled to his left, looking to block the first defender that broke through the offensive line. The right defensive end slipped past Kill-O-Yowet’s block, then Pareless undercut the multi-legged Ki with a nasty head-first dive. The Ki crumbled clumsily to the ground, leaving Quentin completely free of pressure.

Scarborough was already forty yards downfield.

And Keluang was a full-step behind.

Quentin launched the ball, a deep, arcing, perfect spiral.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered as the ball started its descent.

Suddenly, Keluang’s small limp vanished. Her legs moved perfectly as she strode downfield, her eyes turned back to the ball.

“No,” Quentin whispered as the ball continued downward.

Keluang and Scarborough simultaneously leapt upwards, but Keluang leapt higher.

She picked the ball out of the air. The two Sklorno fell to the ground, just as Quentin dropped to his knees.

“Crap-crap-crap-crap!” He screamed, leaning forward until his helmet touched the ground. “Crap-crap-crapcrap!”

“Barnes!” Hokor screamed in his earpiece. “Get your worthless face off my field now!”

Quentin stood, ignoring the crowd’s boos as he ran off the field. He didn’t bother stopping to talk to Hokor, he just ran to the bench and sat.

He wasn’t going anywhere else for the rest of the game, and he knew it.

Pine jogged over and sat next to him. “Q, you’ve got to stop going for the home-run on every play!”

“Go somewhere else and die,” Quentin hissed as he pulled off his helmet. He wanted to blame Pine, blame anyone, for that matter. Wounded duck ploy, and he’d fell for it hook, line and sinker.

“I warned you,” Pine said. “But as usual, you don’t listen.”

“Scarborough couldn’t catch a ball if I shoved it right down her throat.”

“No you don’t,” Pine said. “Don’t go blaming her. You threw to a covered receiver, against a defender that has four interceptions this season.”

“Six,” Quentin said morosely. “That was her second of the day.”

“Right, six. I told you all week you can’t play home-run ball against the Warpigs, so don’t you dare blame your teammate for your mistake.”

“Didn’t I tell you to go somewhere else?” Quentin said, turning and snarling at his friend.

“No,” Pine said with a smile. “You told me to go somewhere else and die. Big difference.”

Quentin wanted to knock those smiling teeth into a little pile on the ground. Pine started laughing, and Quentin wanted to tear his head right from his shoulders.

“Take it easy, Q,” Pine said. “You’ve bailed me out enough this season, let me bail you out this time.”

“Oh sure,” Quentin said. “Like you can just go in there and tear up their secondary!”

Pine nodded. “Just watch me. You’re playing their game. Now I’m going to make them play mine.”

• • •

THE WARPIGS MANAGED to add insult to injury by marching downfield for a touchdown before the half, making the score 2114. That made Quentin’s stats perfect — three interceptions, all three resulting in touchdowns. Crap-crap-crap.

His mind hunted for someone to blame, but this time the blame fell on only one being.

Himself.

It was his second start in a row, his fourth start of the season. He’d had starter’s reps in practice for two full weeks. He couldn’t blame lack of practice time. He couldn’t blame poor coaching — for crying out loud, he’d been warned right before the play that took him out of the game.

No one to blame but himself. It was a new feeling, and one he didn’t like at all. Not one bit. It occurred to him, suddenly and savagely, that for most of his problems he’d really had no one to blame but himself all along.

• • •

IN THE SECOND HALF, Pine wasted no time. He opened up with an entire series of X-set, which put four wide receivers on the field. The Warpigs started out in woman-to-woman, which left the slower free safety covering either Mezquitic or the blindingly fast rookie Denver. Pine showed his repaired legs were as good as new, rolling out to escape inside blitzes and giving Denver more time to make long crossing routes where her superior speed gained her a couple of steps.

His first three plays were three completions, for seven, sixteen, and nine yards. He scrambled on the fourth play, a very un-Pine thing to do, picking up a first down before sliding to the ground to avoid a hit. The home crowd ate it up. After a half of interceptions and incompletions, they screamed their heads off for anything positive.

Quentin watched as Hawick drove deep downfield against Toyonaka, the two speedsters a combined flash of orange and black, white and black and teal. The ball was in the air before Hawick even stopped, and when she turned it hit her dead in the chest. Toyonaka was faster, but at such speeds her reaction time wasn’t enough to match deadly pin-point passing on a timed route.

Fifteen yards.

Pine ran the same play again for twelve yards.

He was merciless — he ran the same play a third time, but pump-faked when Toyonaka anticipated the throw. Hawick shot downfield as Pine launched a soft fade pass. Toyonaka tried to catch up, but Hawick brought the ball in as delicately as a mother holding her new baby.

The crowd roared so loud Quentin wondered if the anti-radiation dome might collapse on their heads. Morningstar knocked in the extra point.

Krakens 21, Warpigs 21.

Quentin shook his head in amazement. Toyonaka was an all-pro, and Pine had gone right after her, victimizing her in just three plays.

Jealousy burned in his chest as Pine put the Krakens on the board two of the next three possessions, one a 21-yard field goal by Morningstar, and the other a lucky break when Keluang fell while trying to tackle Denver. The stumble turned a short out pattern into a 67-yard TD: you only got one chance to tackle Denver.

The Warpigs came back, but the Krakens’ defense showed new energy in the second half. Two fumbles killed critical Warpig drives. The momentum steadily dripped over to the Krakens’ side of the field. Fayed broke a long 52-yard run, his longest of the season, to put the final nail in the coffin.

The clock ticked down to 0:00.

Krakens 38, Warpigs 28.

The team ran off the field and into the locker room, the feeling of elation running rampant through their hearts and minds — they were now in sole possession of first place, one game away from the Tier Two Tournament and a possible Tier One berth.

WEEK EIGHT LEAGUE ROUNDUP (Courtesy of Galaxy Sports network):

The impossible comeback now looks probable, but which quarterback will lead the Ionath Krakens (6-2) into their final game against the Quyth Survivors (3-5)? The Krakens’ musical-chairs quarterbacking continued this week in a 38-28 win over the Glory Warpigs (6-2). Rookie QB Quentin Barnes started the game, but couldn’t handle the pressure of the Warpigs’ top-rated defensive secondary. Veteran Donald Pine led the Krakens to the win. After a 1-2 start, the Krakens have won five straight, and now need to beat the Survivors to win the Quyth Irradiated Conference title.

Orbiting Death (5-3) pounded the Bigg Diggers (3-5) 31-17, the Grontak Hydras (4-4) topped the Sky Demolition (1-7) 21-12, the Sheb Stalkers (5-2) defeated the Quyth Survivors (3-5) by a score of 17-10, and the Whitok Pioneers (5-3) trounced the Woo Wallcrawlers (2-6) 52-3.

DEATHS:

No deaths to report this week.

WEEK #8 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: Mayville, receiver, Glory Warpigs. 12 catches for 191 yards, 3 TDs.

Defense: Sven Draupnir, outside linebacker, Quyth Survivors. 12 tackles, 2 sacks.

GAME NINE: Ionath Krakens (6-2) at Quyth Survivors (3-5)

QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS

THEY MIGHT AS WELL have been preparing for a gladiatorial fight to the death, or perhaps a pitched battle to save their own families. That’s how intense it felt as the Krakens practiced for the final regular-season game against the Quyth Survivors. There had been smiles and jokes and hard work and intensity as the Krakens crawled from 1-2 and fought their way to first place. The smiles and jokes were gone.

The Krakens had fought too long and too hard to grab sole possession of first place. They weren’t about to take a team lightly simply because of a 3-5 record.

Hokor gave the starting job to Pine. Quentin was mad as could be, jealous, enraged and dejected, but after his performance against the Warpigs he couldn’t blame Hokor. The difference this time, however, was that Quentin and Pine evenly split all practice reps.

After the second practice, with two more to go before game time, Quentin was glad he was not a Quyth Survivor. Later that night they’d take the shuttle up to the Touchback and depart for the planet Quyth, seat of the Quyth Concordia and home of the Survivors.

As he peeled off his armor after practice, Messal waddled over to him. The Quyth Worker stood there, waiting to be addressed.

“What is it?” Quentin asked. He hated how the Workers were so subservient they wouldn’t speak unless spoken to.

“Gredok wishes to see you,” Messal said.

Quentin’s blood ran ice-cold. Gredok hadn’t talked to him since that first shuttle trip from the Combine to the Touchback. “What does he want?”

“As I said, Gredok wishes to see you.”

Quentin nodded. “Tell him I’ll be right up as soon as I finish dressing.”

“He is not here,” Messal said. “He is in town. I am to take you to him immediately.”

Quentin took a deep breath. In town. Had he found out about the team-wide smuggling effort? Or, far worse, found out about Pine?

“Come on, Messal, give me a hint. What’s this about?”

“It is not my place to say,” Messal said with a little bow.

“Okay, let me shower up first.”

“If I may be so bold, I suggest you skip the shower and come with me immediately. Gredok seemed ... agitated.”

“Agitated,” Quentin echoed. That couldn’t be good. He’d never seen Gredok upset, let alone agitated. He quickly finished removing his armor, then threw on pants and a Krakens sweatshirt.

• • •

THE HOVERCAB STOPPED in front of the Bootleg Arms.

“Uh-oh,” Quentin said.

Virak the Mean was waiting by the front door. He walked forward as soon as the cab stopped. Virak’s eye showed a thin coloring of translucent pink.

“Gredok is inside,” Virak said. “Come with me.”

Quentin thought of running for it, but where would he go? He was in an alien city. He knew only his teammates and a handful of diehard Purist Nation citizens. He could easily outrun Virak. But where after that? This was Gredok’s city. Virak was also apparently in trouble — pink was the color of fear.

“Okay,” Quentin said. “Let’s go.”

They walked inside. Quentin couldn’t help but think of the parallels to the last time he’d been here. Messal led the way this time instead of Tikad the Groveling. Virak was with Quentin once again, but this time they were side-by-side.

The bar was empty. Somehow Quentin knew it would be. They walked past the dance floor and into the back room.

Gredok sat comfortably in Mopuk’s chair. Two Quyth Warriors Quentin didn’t recognize stood on either side of him, each holding a gun.

“Hello, Quentin,” Gredok said. “I think you remember Mopuk.” Gredok gestured to the table. The strange, insect-like creatures filled one half of the table, separated from the other end by a glowing force field. The bugs kept running at the force field, and were constantly thrown backwards by some small shock. After every blast, they ran forward again, only to be shocked again. Inside the other end lay Mopuk, bound tight. His eye glowed the bright, neon pink of pure terror.

“Of course I remember him,” Quentin said.

“I’m not happy with you, Quentin,” Gredok said. “You or your teammates.”

Quentin just looked at Gredok. He wasn’t about to volunteer any information.

“You used my team to smuggle a large shipment of goods,” Gredok said. “I don’t want that to happen again.”

Quentin nodded.

“I’ve learned that Donald Pine was throwing games. My games.”

“I doubt it,” Quentin said. “He’s a great quarterback.”

“Don’t lie to me. Your body heat and pulse tell me when you’re lying.”

Gredok’s fur raised slightly. Quentin had seen Hokor angry, all puffed up like a fur ball, but Gredok’s fur had always lain flat and smooth.

“The problem has been solved,” Quentin said calmly. “We took care of it as a team.”

“You solved nothing.” Gredok pointed to Mopuk. “This, this yakochat caused my team to lose.”

“I’m sorry, Shamakath!” Mopuk screamed. “Please, give me a chance to make it up to you!”

“Be quiet.”

“But Shamakath, I swear, it was a mistake — ”

Gredok’s pedipalp reached for a small button built into the tabletop, Mopuk instantly fell silent.

“This weak one has already told me everything,” Gredok said. “So do not lie to me again, Quentin. Was Pine throwing games?”

Quentin thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Was this one responsible for that?” Gredok asked, his other pedipalp tapping on the glass, right next to the button.

Quentin nodded again.

Gredok pressed the button.

The force field dissipated. The ever-attacking bug-like creatures swarmed over Mopuk, covering his legs and stomach in the blink of an eye. He started to scream as the living carpet swept up his chest and onto his face — but the scream choked as dozens crawled into his mouth. His jaws clamped shut, sending quirts of yellow bug blood against the inner glass. His mouth stayed shut only a second — he opened it to scream again, and more poured into the opening. He jerked and thrashed against his bindings, his body lurching against the strong glass, smashing more of the creatures against the smooth surface, streaking it with blobs of dripping yellow and bits of crushed body parts. The table shook with his jerking pain, but did not break.

He’s shrinking, Quentin thought for a second, then realized the bugs were draining Mopuk of fluid, like a swarm of demonic mosquitoes.

His kicks and lurches slowed.

He had one more panicked burst of twitches, then he slowed again.

And finally stopped.

The bugs kept swarming over him, a shimmering bodysuit of living death.

“That is what happens to those who betray me,” Gredok said. He looked quite satisfied with himself. “If you keep information from me again, I will be angry. But for now, I am pleased with your resourcefulness. I think you handled the situation much as I would have. You will be the starter this week against the Survivors. I am not happy with my bodyguard, who abandoned his main duties in favor of his place on the team. Virak will perform ghiris as an example to others in my organization.”

“Ghiris?”

The pinkness deepened in Virak’s eye.

“It is a ritualistic suicide,” he said. “I will kill myself while the others watch to prove my loyalty to my Shamakath.”

“Kill yourself? Are you nuts? Come on Gredok, he didn’t know you’d be this mad, he was just trying to help the team!”

Gredok said nothing.

“I knew exactly what would happen if we were discovered,” Virak said quietly. “I knew the consequences, and I am prepared to pay the price.”

Quentin stared, first at Virak, then at Gredok, then back. Virak had known helping Pine might bring about his own death, yet he helped anyway.

The temper starting to burn at the back of his brain, Quentin turned to Gredok. “And what about Pine?”

“Pine will suffer a fate similar to Mopuk.”

“No,” Quentin said.

Gredok looked at him. “Are you refusing my orders?”

“Yes,” Quentin said. “I am a football player. Donald Pine is a football player. Virak is a football player.”

“Those two betrayed me.”

“I don’t give a crap what they did. They are my teammates.”

“Did you not hear me?” Gredok said. “I said you’re the starter. These two don’t concern you.”

“Virak stays on the team,” Quentin said. “Pine stays on the team. No one dies.”

Gredok leaned forward. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your Shamakath, you insolent Human.”

“You are the team owner,” Quentin said. “You are not my Shamakath.”

Gredok’s fur ruffled out to full length. He looked like a little black puffball.

“Don’t bother getting all pissy,” Quentin said. “You do anything to Pine, or Virak dies, and I walk. Do you understand what that means?”

“You walk? You quit? Do you think I can’t get another quarterback?”

“Not like me you can’t, baby,” Quentin said, slowly shaking his head from side-to-side. “There isn’t anyone like me and you know it. Never was. Never will be. And I walk now, Greedy, right this second. That means your starter against the Quyth Survivors is Yitzhak. You think Yitzhak can win that game?”

“Yes he can,” Gredok said. “The Survivors are 3-5, we can beat them without you.”

Quentin nodded. “Maybe. But can he win in the playoffs? Can he beat the Texas Earthlings? Can he beat the undefeated Chillich Spider-Bears?”

Gredok’s eye turned a deep, iridescent black.

“You remember the playoffs,” Quentin said. “That thing we need to win to reach Tier One? Don’t you want to win Tier One?”

Gredok’s pedipalps trembled. “You smelly Human. You don’t even really understand who you’re talking to.”

“Sure I do,” Quentin said. “I’m talking to the team owner. I’m not in your mob, Gredok. I’m a football player. I’m not disrespecting you in any way, I promise you that. I’m telling you the way it’s going to be with my team, or I catch the first liner back to Purist Nation space.”

“And what if I put you inside this table right now?”

Quentin shrugged. “I would die a miserable death, but you know what? You still lose. You don’t reach Tier One. It’s that simple. So here’s the deal. Pine plays. Virak plays. In fact, Virak is so good, why don’t you get some of the other monkey-boys to do your muscle work? He needs to concentrate on the Survivors, and on the tournament. It’s your call, Greedy. What’s it going to be?”

Gredok’s eye swirled black-hole black, then slowly faded to clear. He stared for another full minute, then finally spoke.

“Hakat, Jokot,” he said to the guards on either side. “See these football players out. But know this, Quentin — your deal lasts only as long as you keep winning. If you don’t make Tier One, you and I will settle up.”

Quentin winked. “We’re going to the top, boss. You can bank on it.”

If only he felt as confident as he sounded.

• • •

ALONE, GREDOK SAT in the Bootlegger Arms for several minutes. He contemplated the scenario, unlike any he’d been through in a long, long time. Gredok had controlled countless sentients over the years, everything from Ki to Sklorno to Leekee, even a Dolphin or two. And hundreds of Quyth Leaders, the most intelligent, controlling beings in the known universe. And, of course, Humans. Many Humans.

Humans were often the easiest to control, because they were so poorly trained at hiding their emotions. Quyth Leaders had the obvious “tell,” their ever-shifting eye color. But Quyth Leaders aspiring for power quickly learned how to repress those color changes, or even consciously manipulate them. Those who didn’t, well, they didn’t last long. Human “tells,” however, were much more difficult to control — body heat, heart rate, pupil dilation, alpha waves, respiration. A trained Quyth Leader could read all of these tells.

Knowing your opponent’s true intentions, that was the game. Knowing what was important to them, knowing what they could and couldn’t live without. Knowing when they were lying.

Quentin Barnes had not been lying.

The young Human had been willing to walk away from the Krakens, from the GFL. To protect a Quyth Warrior he barely knew. To protect a man that had thrown games, a man that had betrayed the team, the entire sport. And nothing was more important to Quentin than the sport of football. That fact was obvious in every tell. With Pine out of the way, Quentin became the permanent starting quarterback, the thing he claimed he’d wanted all his life. But he’d put all that on the line until he got his way. What could compel a Human to do something that was so contrary to his own best interests?

The answer seemed obvious — loyalty. Quentin Barnes was loyal to a fault, loyal to the point he’d throw his own future away to protect a friend. In Gredok’s world, loyalty often went to the highest bidder, or at least to the Shamakath that provided the most opportunities for advancement and wealth and power.

Gredok looked at the shriveled shape of Mopuk, drained of fluid. His fur lay in ugly clumps at the bottom of the glass table. Fat shushuliks, newly bloated with Mopuk’s blood, moved lazily through the piles of fur. Mopuk had claimed to be loyal. That brand of loyalty, the brand with which Gredok was most familiar, lasted only until the next potential payday. Quentin’s loyalty, well, that was another story.

That kind of loyalty Gredok could put to good use. If the Krakens could win two more games, if they could reach the elite ranks of Tier One, Gredok would find a way to use that loyalty indeed.

• • •

THE TOUCHBACK SHUDDERED out of punch-space. Quentin let out his long-held breath in a slow, steady exhale. He’d made it yet again. The anxiety was the same, but this time he wasn’t hiding in his room. He stood on the viewing deck, next to Virak the Mean.

“Flying scares you?” Virak asked calmly.

“It’s not the flight,” Quentin said. “It’s the punch-out.”

He looked at the view screens, amazed at the sight of the Quyth homeworld. They’d arrived on the nighttime side, yet there wasn’t one dark patch to be seen. Every last square mile seemed covered with the soft glow of civilization.

“High One,” Quentin said. “Is the whole thing covered?”

“There is no more open land,” Virak said. “Nor much open water.”

“Seventy-two billion,” Quentin said in amazement. The population of Quyth seemed so staggering he had to say it out loud to appreciate it.

“Now you understand why we expand. We either find new worlds or stop breeding, and that is not an option.”

They said nothing more, simply stared at the overpopulated planet. The Purist Nation planets were relatively unpopulated. Earth, however, was at 18 billion and counting. He wondered how long it would be until the Earth, like the Quyth homeworld, was just one big city without boundaries or borders.

• • •

PINE DRESSED for the game, but had about as much a chance of seeing field time as the Purist Nation had of winning the Intergalactic Sentient Peace Award for good deeds done to other species. The team still didn’t know, save for Virak and Quentin.

But Hokor knew.

Gredok had obviously informed his workaholic coach that Donald Pine, two-time Galaxy Bowl Champion, one-time League MVP and erstwhile savior of the Ionath Krakens franchise had been taking Hokor’s detailed game plans and basically using them to wipe his butt. Pine had gone from starter to the doghouse faster than a ship moving in punch drive.

At least thus far, Hokor hadn’t told anyone else. Too many beings now knew. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the team discovered Pine’s horrible secret. And when it came out, Pine’s presence would be most unwelcome in the Krakens’ locker room.

But Quentin didn’t have time to worry about that right now. It wasn’t his problem anymore. He had a whole new set of problems. Forty-four of them, to be precise, each one wearing the metallic silver uniforms of the Quyth Survivors.

A losing team my rear end, Quentin thought. The only thing that matters is how they match up against us, and they match up very well indeed. The Survivors weren’t a losing team, they were an enemy, an obstacle standing between him and his dream. No, far more importantly, they were standing between his team and his team’s dream. There wouldn’t be any interceptions today, just completions, just a calm, methodical march down the field and a strangulating game of ball control and field position. He wasn’t going to give the Survivors any chances to get into this game and get a very erroneous thought in their brains that they had any right to be on the same field with the Ionath Krakens.

Ball control, Quentin thought. Ball control, patience, field-position.

• • •

THE PLANTS LOOKED just like Carsengi Grass, but the blades blazed a fluorescent orange. Black lines and numbers popped off the field in stark contrast.

First offensive play of the game. Krakens’ ball, first-and-10 from their own 33.

Is that what I think it is? Are those idiots in woman-to-woman when I’ve got three burners on the field?

Ba-da-bap went his hands on the center’s carapace.

Forget ball control, let’s go downtown.

“Flash, flash!” Quentin shouted.

Heads and eyestalks turned to look at him, waiting for the audible. He was changing the play at the line.

“Blue twenty-two!” he shouted down the left side of the line. Hawick had been lined up three feet to the left of Rick Warburg. Hawick jogged another ten yards to the left, almost to the sideline, her defender following. She stopped, stood, and waited for the snap.

“Bluuuee, twenty two!” he shouted down the right side of the line. Scarborough and Mezquitic stood at five and seven yards, respectively, away from the right tackle Vu-Ko-Will, Mezquitic on the line of scrimmage, Scarborough one step back from it. With the audible, Mezquitic took one step forward, while Scarborough took a step back, then went in motion to the sidelines, a slow jog that took her fifteen yards out.

“Blue, twenty-two!” Quentin shouted behind him. Tom Pareless and Mitchell Fayed had been in an I-formation, Tom in a three-point stance, Fayed two yards behind him, hands on his knees, head up high. They quickly adjusted so that they stood side-by-side in a pro-set.

Quentin turned back to the line. “Hut-hut!”

The line erupted with crashes and clacks and grunts for the game’s first trench battle. Pareless and Fayed each took a step up and a step outside, where they crouched, waiting for the first opportunity to block. Quentin dropped straight back, slipping between the two running backs like they were centurions guarding some ancient gate. Hawick and Mezquitic shot downfield on streak patterns, while Scarborough ran forward for fifteen yards, then angled to the middle of the field on a post pattern.

Those patterns drew single coverage from the two cornerbacks and the safety. Quentin watched the free safety, the key to the play. Hawick and Scarborough were both running even with their defenders, but Quentin could tell they still had an extra step in their gas tanks. The safety ran to the outside to pick up the Krakens’ most deadly threat — Hawick.

That was all Quentin needed to see.

He cocked his arm and threw just as Tom Pareless undercut the first Ki defender that broke through the line. The ball arced downfield, not a perfect spiral this time, but marred by a tiny bit of wobble. It didn’t look pretty, but it was on target. Scarborough remained step-for-step with her defender for another two seconds, then put on a sudden burst of speed that took her just a few feet past. She timed the ball perfectly, leaping high into the air to catch the ball without a single mid-air twist or turn or alteration. The defender reached for her, but Scarborough kicked out with her right leg, hitting the defender in the chest. The blow knocked the defender back, just a bit, and when the two hit the ground she had a good three steps of clearance, more than any Sklorno needed just fifteen yards from the goal line.

Scarborough ran into the end zone.

First play from scrimmage, a 67-yard touchdown strike.

• • •

THE REST OF THE GAME brought more of the same. Quentin had never felt so in sync before, not even in his Purist Nation days. He knew exactly where his receivers were at all times. The receivers seemed to read his thoughts, breaking off patterns to find the ball already in the air, moving to open spots in perfect time with any of Quentin’s scrambling efforts. He saw every defender, every disguised coverage, every blitz. He saw the sideways-rolling Quyth Warrior linebackers and knew when they would pop up into a pass-coverage stance. When he ran, he knew when they would lean in for the tackle, when their balance was all forward, and that told him just when to spin: juke moves didn’t work on them, but half the time spin moves left them falling flat on their face. He saw Ki defensive lineman raging past his offensive line, he saw them gather and knew when to step forward just as they released, springing violently forward to grasp only empty air. He saw the speed and timing of the Sklorno defensive backs, and knew just where to throw to avoid them. He even saw a safety blitz and two corner blitzes — but each time he threw in a fraction of a second, hitting the open receiver before the streaking d-back could close on him.

Nothing could touch him.

The Krakens’ defense played its best game of the season. Aside from one long run by Chooch Motumbo, the Survivors tailback, the defense shut down everything. By the end of the third quarter, the Krakens were up 28-7 and in clear control of the game.

That was when disaster struck.

• • •

THIRD-AND-3 on the Survivors’ 35.

Quentin surveyed the defense. He could have audibled to a slant pass, because the linebacker was cheating inside, but opted to go with the called play, a sweep to the right. He didn’t want to put the ball in the air now, nothing that might give the Survivors a chance to get back in the game. Dressed in metallic silver jerseys, leg armor and helmets, the Survivors’ defense looked like a bunch of old-time science-fiction robots, ones that had been through a losing battle and were now covered in orange grass stains, dirt and blood. Lots of blood. Still, they weren’t giving up, and even though they were having their asses handed to them, the Survivors’ defense fought as hard as they could on every play.

“Hut-HUUUT!”

The ball slapped into Quentin’s hands. He pivoted backwards off his right foot, coming all the way around before softly pitching the ball to Fayed. Already moving right, Fayed caught the ball and ran parallel to the line of scrimmage, Kopor the Climber out in front to block. Sho-Do-Thikit, the left guard, stepped back and pulled to the right, giving Fayed two blockers on the quick pitch. The play’s design was simple — get outside as fast as possible and try to cut up and out. A good block on the outside linebacker could leave Fayed one-on-one with the slender Sklorno defensive backs, a punishing equation that would almost always end with Fayed driving the defender back for positive yards, if not breaking the tackle outright for a big gain.

Quentin watched the three Krakens sweep right, orange jerseys with black numbers and orange trim, orange leg armor with black piping, orange and black helmets. The outside linebacker, a powerful heavy-G giant from Rodina named Sven Draupnir, drove upfield as the middle linebacker, Kylee Cannell, used his impressive speed to dash towards the sidelines, trying to stay just inside of Fayed’s left shoulder, preventing an inside cutback that could go for big yards. Draupnir crashed forward like a tank. Wen-E-Deret tried to reach him, but Draupnir stepped to the right tackle’s outside shoulder and drove past, batting away strong Ki arms like some mere annoyance. Wen-E-Deret gathered and leapt, but was too late. Kopor stepped up and met Draupnir head-on — the resulting collision sent a clack so loud it was heard in the upper deck, even over the roar of the crowd. Kopor was knocked back as if he were a child, rolling feet-over-head right into Fayed.

Fayed reached one arm down as his feet came off the ground. His extended hand met Kopor’s shoulder pad. Fayed pushed off quickly, an amazingly athletic move, his arm absorbing the shock. Instead of being knocked over, he was simply knocked back — his lithe feet landed on the ground, he stumbled once, then recovered and headed for the sidelines.

Fayed’s athleticism was a wonder to behold, but Cannell was no slouch. He used Fayed’s momentary stumble to close the gap. Cannell dove, his big fingers grabbing handfuls of Fayed’s jersey. Fayed’s strong legs pumped away, dragging the prone, 420-pound Cannell along the ground.

Topinabee raced up field at top speed, a silver streak headed for the encumbered Fayed. Fayed started to lower his shoulder, but like a water-skier bouncing up from some trick, Cannell slid to his feet, his fingers still deeply wrapped in Fayed’s jersey. With a primal grunt, Cannell planted his feet and swung. The motion first stopped Fayed cold, then ripped him in a blurring, backwards horizontal arc. At the end of the arc, almost 360 degrees from where he started, the orange-jersied blur met the oncoming silver-jersied blur of Topinabee with a crack that made the Draupnir/Kopor collision sound quiet by comparison. Quentin winced as the two came together. The crowd “ooohheed” in amazement, most of them probably wincing themselves.

Cannell pounded his chest, playing to the crowd.

Topinabee slowly rose to her feet, stumbled, then fell.

Fayed didn’t get up.

His foot twitched, and the fingers of his left hand opened and closed spasmodically, but he didn’t get up. He was laying facedown — actually, he should have been face-down, because his stomach and chest were on the ground, but his face was actually looking up.

“Oh High One,” Quentin said, then ran to his teammate.

Fayed’s eyes were wide with terror. He tried to breath, but couldn’t seem to draw air. His head was turned so far around, he could almost have looked down and seen his own spine.

“Fayed!” Quentin said. He reached for his teammate, then kept his hands away, remembering someone telling him once not to touch a head or neck injury.

“The banana ... meteors ...” Fayed said. His foot kept twitching, but his hand suddenly stopped the spasmodic opening and closing. The fingers froze in mid-move, curled rigid like a talon.

Quentin was distantly aware of a medsled racing out, of Doc fluttering down next to Fayed. Quentin felt a hand, or a tentacle, he didn’t know, grab his shoulder pad and gently pull him back.

Doc pulled a laser scalpel from his bag and deftly sliced off Fayed’s back armor. Doc then removed a small, rectangular device. He punched a few buttons on the device, then pressed it against Fayed’s back. There was a sickening squelching sound as tendrils reached out of both sides of the device and penetrated Fayed’s skin, curing in towards his spine. A soft orange light started flashing on the device — blink, blink, blink, blink ...

Doc zipped to the medsled and maneuvered it over the top of Fayed’s body. The metallic tendrils reached down. The medsled lifted, and Fayed rose off the ground without his body moving an iota, like some magician’s trick of levitation. Doc flew off the field, the medsled moving behind him, slowly, so as not to jostle Fayed.

As the cart and patient slid noiselessly towards the tunnel, Quentin’s sharp eyes remained fixated on the orange light.

Blink, blink ... blink .... blink ....

Then nothing.

Before Fayed slid into the tunnel, Quentin knew the orange light had stopped flashing.

• • •

HE FINISHED THE GAME. He didn’t know how he did it, but he did it nonetheless. He even scored another touchdown, this one a twelve-yard run. He had to do the running himself — Yassoud’s face went pale each time Hokor called his number, and ran with all the intensity of a galley cook. When the game was on, Quentin didn’t have to think about it; he either ran the offense on the field, every last scrap of his intellect devoted to analyzing the defense, or he sat on the sidelines, intently studying a holotable of the last series in case he found a weakness to use on the next possession.

But when the final seconds ticked off the clock, and the scoreboard read Krakens 35, Survivors 7, he didn’t have anything else to distract him. The team gathered in the central meeting room. Hokor stood in front of the holoboard, as usual.

Except this time, his eye wasn’t black or orange or even pink.

It was deep purple. Opaque purple.

Quentin had never seen that color before, but somehow he knew exactly what it meant.

“First of all, I want to sing all of your praises for a hard-fought game,” Hokor said. “We played, and won, as a team. I have very little to say of negative things. The Ionath Krakens are now the champions of the Quyth Irradiated Conference.”

A half-hour ago, that same phrase would have drawn a deafening roar from the assembled players. Now it was met with silence, a silence broken only by some Human trying to clear phlegm from his throat.

“We have lost one of our warriors,” Hokor said. He looked down at a palmtop. “Mitchell Fayed suffered a severed spinal cord and a collapsed lung. Doc tried to used a Galthier Spinal Cord Controller to regulate Fayed’s breathing and heart rate, but there was too much damage, too soon. Attempts to repair the damage and reanimate him failed.”

There was a loud sob. Quentin looked over to the source of the sound. John Tweedy, big, dangerous, deadly John Tweedy, sat on a bench, his elbow on his knee, his forehead propped on his hand, his eyes squeezed shut, his solid shoulders shaking in time with his sobs.

The noise seemed to open a dam of emotion. Other Humans started sobbing, or sniffling, or coughing to hide their self-perceived weakness.

One of the Ki linemen produced a long, serrated knife. They passed it from one to the next, taking turns cutting a long gash into their own upper left arm. With each cut, black blood spilled down in a noisy, splattering rivulet, spreading out across the tile floor.

They’re letting their own blood, Quentin thought. So it can join Fayed’s blood on the field of battle.

Messal the Efficient silently slipped out of the Quyth Warrior locker room. He walked over to Virak the Mean who sat limply on the floor. Messal opened the box and removed a metallic, penlike instrument. The instrument hummed lightly as Messal started moving it across the chitin on Virak’s left forearm. Choto the Bright stood behind Virak, Killik the Unworthy behind him, a line of Quyth Warriors slowly forming. Quentin didn’t recognize the new writing on Virak’s shell, but he knew it was a Quyth rendition of Fayed’s name. It stunned Quentin to see a Human name being written on a Quyth Warrior’s shell.

But that’s what Fayed’s constant, punishing work ethic had meant to everyone.

Quentin felt cold. Fayed had been on the field with him, battling away, not even an hour ago. And now he was gone. Horrible injuries were part of the game. Big bodies, strong bodies, and speed. Force equals mass times acceleration. Beings got hurt, but then beings got fixed. All the plaques he’d seen in all the stadiums, commemorating those who died on the field — it had seemed somehow, distant, something from the game’s past, from before the reality that embraced him once he joined the ranks of the elite.

Fayed was dead.

Quentin wasn’t about to let that death be for nothing.

He looked at Donald Pine. Instinctively, he expected Pine to stand and say something, anything, talk of how the team would win for Fayed. But Pine said nothing, he just sat there, head bowed. He was a disgraced man. Even though the team didn’t know it, he knew it. Pine was broken, his mantle of leadership ... gone.

With sudden clarity, Quentin realized that he now held that mantle.

Something had to be said. And he was only one who could say it.

The team started to head to their separate dressing rooms when Quentin stood and spoke.

“I need to say a few words.”

The players stopped where they were. They looked back at him. They looked at him in the same way he’d just looked at Pine.

They wanted someone to lead them.

“Fayed ... ” he started to talk, but his voice cracked. He felt his throat thicken, felt tears try to fight their way out of his eyes. He held his eyes shut tight and took a deep breath.

“The Machine, he was a great running back,” Quentin said. “All he wanted to do was play Tier One ball. It was his dream.”

Quentin looked around the room, in turn staring each player in the eye. His voice suddenly changed, from on-the-verge-of-tears to a cold, steel baritone that rang through the soul of every being in the room.

“He’s with us, he’s still on this team,” Quentin said. “And if we make it to Tier One, he makes it to Tier One. No one in this room will let him down. Coach, who do we play?”

Hokor tapped a button on his palmtop. “We have the second-best record in the tournament, based on a points-scored tiebreaker with the Texas Earthlings. That means we have a bye the first round. We play the winner of the Texas Earthlings and the Aril Archers.”

Quentin nodded slowly, turning so that he could look every player right in the eyes. None of them said a word.

“A bye. That means we’re automatically in the semifinals. We win that game, that one game, and we’re in Tier One. We win that game, and Fayed gets his dream.”

Tweedy’s sobbing slowed, becoming just a sniffle.

“I don’t care who steps on that field,” Quentin said. “Earthlings, Archers, it doesn’t make any difference. Either way, they’re going down.”

Quentin nodded once, then walked to the Human locker room.

WEEK NINE LEAGUE ROUNDUP (Courtesy of Galaxy Sports network)

The Ionath Krakens (7-2) completed their improbable comeback, winning their sixth-straight game 38-13 over the Quyth Survivors (3-6). With the win the Krakens locked up the Quyth Irradiated Conference title and earned a trip to the Tier Two playoffs.

The Glory Warpigs (7-2) finished up an excellent season with a 25-13 win over the Bigg Diggers (3-6).

The Whitok Pioneers (6-3) look ready for next year, as quarterback Condor Adrienne threw for five TDs in a 52-27 thrashing of the Sheb Stalkers (4-5).

Also in action last week, the Woo Wallcrawlers (4-5) upset the Grontak Hydras (4-5) by a score of 17-14, and Orbiting Death (6-3) pounded on the Sky Demolition (1-8), 37-10.

DEATHS:

Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed, killed on a clean hit by Tobinabee, free safety for the Quyth Survivors.

WEEK #9 PLAYERS OF THE WEEK:

Offense: Ju Tweedy, running back, Orbiting Death. 205 yards on 32 carries, 3 TDs.

Defense: Bray-O-Haka, tackle, Woo Wallcrawlers. Four sacks, seven tackles.

PLAYOFFS ROUND #1

SEEDING FOR THE TIER TWO TOURNAMENT

From the Ionath City Gazette

Earthlings face Krakens in Tier Two semifinals

By Kigin the Witty

EARTH (Associated Press) — In a game that really wasn’t as close as the score indicates, the Texas Earthlings defeated the Aril Archers 21-17 to advance to the Tier Two semi-finals. The Earthlings face the Ionath Krakens, champions of the Quyth Irradiated conference.

The Earthlings’ defense led the way, allowing only 10 points. The Archers managed one defensive score to keep it close, a 22-yard interception return for a touchdown by Minneapolis.

Earthlings’ linebacker Alonzo Castro was named the game’s MVP. Castro, a rookie from the Sigurd Norsemen of the PNFL, had eight solo tackles along with an interception and a critical quarterback sack, his fifth of the season.

“Castro’s speed has taken our defense to a new level,” said Earthlings coach Pata the Calculating. “Teams have to watch out for him, and that helps keep double-teams off of Chok-Oh-Thilit.”

Chok-Oh-Thilit, the Earthlings’ All-Pro defensive tackle, finished the day with two sacks and five tackles.

“He (Chok-Oh-Thilit) was basically un-blockable,” said Archers’ coach David Djadin. “We couldn’t do anything with him. He injured three linemen — I’m glad the season is over, because we couldn’t even field an offensive line right now. He’s the hardest hitter in the game.”

Offensively, the Earthlings moved the ball with efficiency and didn’t give up a single turnover. Quarterback Case Johanson went 21-of-34 for 225 yards and a 12-yard touchdown pass to running back Peter Lowachee. The Earthlings utilized a ball-control offense, chewing up the clock by relying on running back Pookie Chang. Chang racked up 122 yards on 27 carries, including touchdown runs of 3- and 7-yards.

• • •

QUENTIN HAD never been to Earth.

In fact, most citizens of the Purist Nation had never been there. Earth, after all, was the capital of the Planetary Union, the historical enemy of the Purist Nation. Earth was also the cradle of Satan, the birth place of evil, the home of the Human betrayers and the Brother-Killers. Centuries ago, the powerful people of Earth had cast out the Faithful, sending Stewart and his followers on a perilous journey across the Void. Only the hand of the High One himself had saved the chosen people, delivered them to a green place from which the Purist Nation flourished.

At least that was the story.

Quentin couldn’t help but believe some of it. That story, after all, had been drummed into his head since before he could speak. Yet that didn’t dull his excitement as the Touchback prepared to drop out of the punch space near Earth orbit. Earth. The beginning of Humanity. Regardless of the Purist Nation’s current politics, Earth was where it had all begun.

Not for just the species, like Quentin could give a crap about that.

Earth was the birthplace of football.

Quentin could barely contain his excitement. What would he see first? The legendary Kraft Cheese Stadium? The 200-year-old Ford Orbital Stadium, site of five Galaxy Bowls, site of all the Earth Football League Championships from 2482 until the end of the league in 2566? The Professional Football Hall Of Fame, in some place called Canton? Perhaps one of the many universities where they still played collegiate football, a historic if quaint anachronism. Some had even called college football “Tier Four” football, a place for people to play when they weren’t good enough to cut it on a Tier Three team. Rumor was the entire Krakens squad would be guests at one of the most historical games in the sport, eight hundred years of tradition marked by a game with a team called “Michigan” versus a team called “Ohio State.”

His excitement ran at such a high level he almost forgot to be afraid of punch-out. Almost. The Touchback shuddered as they slipped back into reality. Viewscreens changed from pitch-black to a stunning view of a cloud-speckled blue world.

Earth.

A dozen orbital stations, the biggest only a twentieth the size of The Ace or Emperor Two, floated in Earth’s near-space. Two of those stations had long, thin tubes running down towards the surface of Earth, stretching out so far that the silvery tendrils faded away into nothing. Quentin wondered if they were some kind of communications assembly.

It was the most highly populated Human planet at eighteen billion beings, although a good five billion of those were of the Whitok and Dolphin species that lived in the planet’s vast oceans. The Whitokians living there, of course, were the original catalyst that resulted in Mason Stewart and his followers leaving Earth on their long pilgrimage to the Promised Land. That anti-alien bias had permeated every aspect of Purist life. Quentin now knew this, and knew that he could never go back to living in such a place, not when he fought on the field with his alien teammates day-in and day-out. He had no place to call home. Maybe someday, after he retired, he’d come and live on Earth.

The Touchback veered towards one of the orbital stations with the long tendril. As it drew close, Quentin saw that the tendril was far from thin — it was a massively thick tube that stretched down and down and down. Like other orbital stations, this one had many long piers that jutted out from a central radius. Each pier reached out for miles, dotted with ships of all makes and colors. The Touchback gently approached a pier, and shuddered lightly as mechanical arms reached out to lash the bus to an anchoring port.

[TEAM DISEMBARK] the computer voice said. [ALL PLAYERS DISEMBARK]

“Aren’t we taking the shuttle down?” Quentin asked Yitzhak as the team walked out.

“Shuttle? Not on Earth, buddy. No shuttle traffic allowed. Everyone takes the tube to get to and from the surface.”

A recorded voice droned over hidden loudspeakers.

[WELCOME TO HUDSON BAY STATION. PLEASE WATCH YOUR STEP ON THE MOVING SIDEWALK. NO WEAPONS OF ANY KIND ARE ALLOWED ON HUDSON BAY STATION. WELCOME TO HUDSON BAY STATION ...]

Just outside the hatch, a long, two-band moving sidewalk ran off into the distance, towards the station’s central spine. The band on the outside moved at a decent clip, while the central band seemed to move twice as fast. Just past the moving sidewalk was a large, clear tube. Inside the tube were two more tubes, side-by-side, each filled with water. Bubbles and bits of flotsam showed the nearest tube flowed towards the station’s core, while the one on the other side flowed out to the end of the pier. Inside the tube, Quentin saw Whitokians, Dolphins and Leekee swimming along like fish in a packed aquarium.

The team filtered onto the walkway, which briskly moved them along the pier. Quentin watched Yitzhak casually step onto the first band. As he moved away, he carefully stepped on to the central band. He shot down the pier moving at least twenty miles an hour. Quentin followed suit. He stepped on the first band and almost lost his balance at the sudden shift in momentum. He steadied himself, then stepped onto the second band to experience another surge of acceleration. He jogged down the central strip until he caught up with Yitzhak.

“Why don’t they use shuttles?”

Yitzhak laughed. “Because they don’t want to get blown up, that’s why. Anything that gets below the 80,000 feet boundary is instantly attacked and destroyed by a flight of Creterakian fighters.”

“Destroyed? But why?”

Yitzhak looked at Quentin for a moment, a quizzical look on his face. “Are you serious?”

Quentin felt a little stupid, but he nodded.

“Because of the suicide attacks,” Yitzhak said. “Purist Nation terrorists. They attack any chance they get, blow themselves up as long as they can inflict heavy casualties.”

Quentin felt defensive anger swarm to the front of his thoughts. “What makes you think they’re from the Purist Nation.”

Yitzhak put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Don’t get mad at me, Q. There’s a dozen terrorist groups on Earth, and after an attack, they contact the media and actually claim responsibility. Their goal is supposedly to drive all aliens off the planet. The Purist Repatriation Assembly is the worst. Two years ago the PRA managed to nuke a Whitok city in the Atlantic, killed three million Whitok, Dolphins and Humans. That was just the initial blast. That area of the Atlantic has been utterly devastated. They’re still working on the radiological cleanup. Some people wanted to bring in a big team of Quyth engineers, who are the experts on cleaning up radiation, but there’s too much suspicion that the Quyth will squat on that spot the way they did on Ionath and Whitok.”

Virak overheard the conversation and walked over. “Those fears are stupid. Why would we want to start a colony on a planet that does not live in freedom?”

Yitzhak shrugged. “That’s Earth citizens for you. You know how suspicious they are. But hey, if you’d lived through 280 years of terrorism, your people would be suspicious, too.”

The walkway zipped along the pier, passing a regular progression of dock-locks. Most locks were closed, but some were open, and Quentin saw just about every species represented. The fast-moving sidewalks seemed to control congestion on the pier, but it was still a very busy place indeed.

“I hope there’s no construction this time,” Yitzhak said. “I’d really like to get down to the surface sometime in the near future.”

“There’s always construction,” Virak said.

The walkway entered a large, noisy, domed open space. Ornate lights lined the ceiling, and voices in all languages repeatedly echoed through the cavernous space.

[THE RED ZONE IS FOR LOADING AND UNLOADING OF PASSENGERS ONLY, PLEASE DO NOT LOITER IN THE RED ZONE.]

[NO WEAPONS ARE ALLOWED ON HUDSON BAY STATION. IF YOU ARE CARRYING A WEAPON OF ANY KIND, PLEASE REPORT TO THE NEAREST CONSTABLE AND TURN IT IN. CARRYING A WEAPON ON HUDSON BAY STATION IS A CAPITOL OFFENSE.]

The team moved towards a huge line of beings. Waist-high silver stands dotted the length of the line, a red velvety rope hanging between each of the stands.

Off in the distance, the line emptied into a cavernous, hexagonal central area. A massive circle, at least two hundred feet in diameter, dotted each of the hexagon’s sides. Three of the circles were nothing but a large blank space surrounded by a wide ring of deck. A huge platform sat in the center of the fourth circle. Concentric rings of seats filled the platform. Different colors denoted different sections, like slices of pizza, and each color had a different type of seat to accommodate either Ki, Sklorno, Quyth, Leekee or Human. Beings steadily exited the line and moved onto the platform, taking their respective seats. Once the seats filled (some species sat in seats that didn’t quite fit them right, but they didn’t seem to mind much), the platform simply dropped out of sight.

The last two platforms were blocked off by rings of orange and white barrels with small, flashing orange lights on top. Tools and equipment littered the area, although Quentin saw no workers. A sign read; “Your tax dollars at work! Upgrades to the Armstrong Elevator — faster drop-engines, to be complete in September 2684.”

“Construction,” Yitzhak said. “I swear, they’re never finished with this place.”

“Two platforms are down?” Virak moaned. “We’re going to be here forever.”

Quentin waited patiently. While the line did move slowly, it didn’t bother him as much as is seemed to bother some of his teammates. Apparently, they’d never spent four or five hours standing in line while the Starvation Trucks dispensed food to an entire city of hungry people.

Finally the Krakens players reached the end of the line. Platform #3 rose up like some giant Leviathan, noiselessly filling the giant, empty circle that matched its circumference. They wandered onto the platform along with other passengers. Quentin found a seat next to Yitzhak, sat down and waited.

“You ever been on the chute before?” Yitzhak asked.

Quentin shook his head.

“Hope you don’t get motion sick,” Yitzhak said. “And if you do, don’t puke on me.”

[PLEASE FASTEN YOUR SEAT RESTRAINTS. THE PLATFORM WILL DESCEND IN TEN SECONDS.]

Quentin watched Yitzhak fasten a seatbelt around his waist, and followed suit. He silently counted to ten, and then the bottom dropped out of his world.

The huge platform simply fell. His hands flew to the arm rests, fingers digging into the worn plastic. Falling. Falling. All around the platform, metal walls slid by at a sickening speed. Then suddenly the walls were gone, and he was looking at nothing but blue sky and clouds. His stomach roiled and he felt dizzy. Yitzhak’s warning echoed in his thoughts, and he wondered if, indeed, he might puke. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against an onset of nausea.

After five minutes, just when he thought he couldn’t handle it any more, the seat seemed to push against his butt and the floor seemed to press against his feet. They were decelerating. Quentin tried to calm his breathing for the next two minutes as the platform steadily pushed against him. Finally, it slowed to an almost imperceptible speed, and stopped with a slight, shaking jar.

[WELCOME TO HUDSON BAY SURFACE STATION,] the computer voice echoed. [WE HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY.]

Quentin followed along as the passengers disembarked. The ground station looked like an exact copy of the orbital station, with the exception that the walls were clear and offered a breathtaking view of Hudson Bay and the surrounding complex. Waves crashed into clear walls, sending up clouds of droplets that sparkled in the sunlight before misting back down. He’d never seen so much water before, yet the footing was as rock-solid as dry land.

To the east sprawled the Hudson Bay Airport, a flat rectangle two miles across and three miles long. The airport, elevated about a hundred feet above the water level, rested on two-dozen thick black pylons that ran below the surface. Each pylon, he was told, connected to a sub-surface pontoon some three hundred feet below the surface. Dynamic positioning systems controlled the depth and position of each pontoon, ensuring fixed positioning even in the worst storms. He watched a triangular passenger plane land, escorted in by a flight of boxy-looking Creterakian fighters.

To the north sat Quentin’s destiny: Hudson Bay Stadium. Unlike the airport, the bottom levels of the stadium dome actually rested below the water, with the playing field sitting some 150 feet beneath the surface. A compartmentalized triple-walled hull kept the Hudson Bay waters in check, and rumor had it the stadium housed over a thousand water pumps to control leaks ranging from a tiny pin-hole to the kind of gaping wound caused by a terrorist attack.

The massive lower bowl also rested below the surface, the top seats just peeking out above the water line. The second and third decks rested within a gleaming, crystal-clear dome that rose hundreds of feet into the air.

To the south sat the floating wonder of Hudson Bay City. Centuries ago, the city was built to house Human and Whitok workers harvesting untold amounts of oil and natural gas from deep below the surface. The high-tech boom town saw many decades of prosperous growth, until the natural resources started to run out about the same time demand for those resources dropped due to new technologies. City officials then used the platform’s isolation as a trump card to win a contract for the Earth’s second orbital elevator, the first having been built over the English Channel.

With the orbital elevator in place, Hudson Bay City blossomed. As one of two main hubs for interstellar commerce, Hudson Bay’s economy transformed from drilling to shipping. City officials also lured tourist dollars by building the largest football stadium on Earth. The city’s former isolation turned out to be its strongest asset — set in the middle of Hudson Bay, the stadium was easily defended from the airborne terrorist attacks that plagued many other Earth facilities.

Messal the Efficient scurried about, his helpers gathering the Krakens players.

“We are taking the tram to the stadium,” Messal said, loud enough to be heard by forty-four Krakens and other team staff. “Please follow me.”

The mass of players moved towards the underwater tram that would take them to the stadium, the area around them clear of other beings. Quentin noticed black-uniformed Human police all around the platform, each one armed, each one staring at the crowds of travelers with a look that promised severe trouble if anyone approached the football players. Fleeting shadows slashed across the floor — Creterakian soldiers flying through the complex, scouting for trouble.

Quentin smiled. Hudson Bay City had trouble, alright — trouble in the form of the Ionath Krakens. Trouble for the Texas Earthlings.

• • •

ONE LAST PRACTICE. One last practice before the biggest game of the year.

Quentin flowed through the plays as if he’d been created just for this one game, as if he’d been meticulously engineered to be a perfect quarterbacking machine. Lines of energy seemed to radiate from all his receivers, he saw them all in perfect clarity, delivering the ball in tight, rope-like spirals that arrived dead-center in passing windows no larger than ten inches across.

He had to be perfect. Yassoud had the potential to be a great running back, but he was at least two seasons away from that level. Even then, it was doubtful he’d match Mitchell Fayed’s powerful, punishing style. The defense wasn’t going to consider Yassoud a major threat — most of the defensive pressure would come via blitzing and extra defensive backs, probably both at the same time. The Earthlings would make the Krakens win the game on the ground.

Well, forget that. Quentin was going to beat them through the air, drive that ball so far down their throats they’d crap leather for a month. Everything had finally come together — he knew the moves, the speed, the tendencies of Hawick, Scarborough, Mezquitic, Denver, Milford and even Richfield. It wasn’t just the wide receivers. He had Warburg and Kobayasho down cold, and fullback Tom Pareless was a hidden receiving weapon coming out of the backfield.

“Huuut-hut, hut!”

The ball slapped his hands and he dropped back, watching the Krakens defensive backs try in vain to cover the Krakens receivers. Quentin checked through, his mind racing at bio-computer speed: Hawick, covered; Scarborough, open in another ten yards; Warburg, open on a short hook — back to Scarborough, open, as he knew she would be. He fired the pass in a straight line, drilling Scarborough right on the money twenty-five yards downfield. Scarborough cut upfield, adding another six yards before Perth gave her a little tap — full contact was out, they didn’t want any last-second injuries gumming up the works.

Next play: he dropped back and fired a long TD strike to Hawick, who was playing so well she now had to be considered one of the top five receivers in all of Tier Two.

Next play: short hook to Kobayasho, who cut upfield and went down easy on a light hit from John Tweedy.

Next play: Quentin dropped back, checked off his three receivers — all covered. He turned and threw the safety-valve pass to Yassoud, who hauled in the tight pass and cut upfield.

The snap was so loud it stopped everyone in their tracks.

Yassoud planted his right foot, and when he cut upfield the snap rang out like a gunshot. He let out a yell, then fell, both hands holding his right knee before his body hit the ground.

The ball rolled free, wobbling to a slow stop.

Forty-three spirits collectively sank.

Doc floated onto the field. Yassoud writhed, his face a twisted mask of agony, his hands still clutched on his knee in white-knuckle desperation. A freak injury, from nothing more than making a sharp upfield cut.

“Pareless!” Hokor barked from his floating cart. “Move to tailback. Kopor, you’re in at fullback.”

Four days from the biggest game of the year, the last obstacle to Tier One ball, and the Ionath Krakens had just run out of tailbacks.

• • •

QUENTIN WALKED into Hokor’s office and sat down. Hokor stared at the wall, his eye a translucent mauve. Quentin waited for the coach to acknowledge his presence, but the little Quyth Leader just sat there.

“Coach?” Quentin said lightly.

Hokor turned suddenly, his eye instantly going clear.

“Barnes,” Hokor said. “I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s okay, Coach. You strategizing?”

Hokor’s fur ruffled once, then lay flat. “Strategizing, yes. Trying to find an answer for our lack of tailbacks.”

“And?”

“There is no answer. You’ll have to carry the game, Quentin — Pareless can run, but the Earthlings won’t consider him a threat, nor should they. He’s a great blocking back and good for short-yardage, but basically worthless as an open-field runner. They’re going to blitz on every play.”

Quentin sat for a second, considering his words. Hokor started staring at the wall again.

“There is one answer,” Quentin said.

Hokor turned to look at him once again.

“Which is?”

“I’ll play tailback.”

Hokor kept staring.

“I’ve got the size and the speed,” Quentin said. “I know the offense inside and out.”

Hokor nodded. “Except for the small detail of who will play quarterback. You think Yitzhak can handle the Earthlings’ defensive backs?”

“I’m not talking about Yitzhak,” Quentin said.

Hokor looked blank for another second, then his eye flooded a deep black.

“Absolutely not! I will not have that betrayer run my team ever again.”

Quentin leaned forward. “It’s our only chance, Coach! You’ve got to let him back in.”

“No! I’d rather lose than see him on the field again.”

“Would you?” Quentin said. “Would you really rather lose than have him at quarterback. Because I’d rather do anything than lose! It doesn’t matter what he did, Coach, all that matters is that we give ourselves the best possible chance to win tomorrow.”

Hokor sat silent for a moment. “We won’t even get a chance to practice.”

“Who cares? It’s Donald Pine! You remember him? The guy who won two Galaxy Bowls? It’s not like he dropped off into retard-land in the one week he’s been gone. Get him in here.”

Hokor stared, his eye slowly fading from deep black to clear. “You would do this? You would give up the quarterback spot in the biggest game of the year? That’s not like you, Barnes.”

Quentin shrugged. “It’s like me now, Coach. I want to win. I want to play Tier One ball.”

“Do you know what you’re doing? Do you understand the level of punishment a tailback takes in a game?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to reach Tier One.”

Hokor said nothing. They stared at each other for a long minute, the seconds ticking away on some unseen, slow-motion clock. Finally, Hokor pressed a button on his desk. Messal the Efficient appeared as if he’d been standing just outside the door the entire time.

“How may I help you, Shamakath?”

“Find Donald Pine. Get him in here, immediately.”

Transcript from the “Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show with Dan & Akbar & Tarat the Smasher”

DAN: Thanks, caller, great point about the reliability of Arioch Morningstar. You know, Akbar, in all the commotion over Fayed’s death, we’ve kind of overlooked the quality performances from some of the Krakens players. That and with the quarterback controversy.

AKBAR: Well, luckily the quarterback controversy is over.

DAN: It is?

AKBAR: Of course it is.

DAN: Okay, then who won it?

AKBAR: Barnes, for crying out loud.

TARAT: Barnes is starting against the Earthlings.

DAN: And that means the controversy is over?

TARAT: You saw him last week, Barnes was sensational.

DAN: Sure, against the Quyth Survivors. My mother-in-law could pass on the Quyth Survivors.

AKBAR: Come on, Dan, just admit it — Barnes is the man.

DAN: Are you insane? Are you completely brain-damaged? The kid couldn’t cut it against the Warpigs, Pine had to come in and bail him out.

AKBAR: So he had one bad game ...

DAN: He throws interceptions! He’s the friggin’ King of Interception-Land! And now you think he’s the man?

AKBAR: But Pine’s not even practicing with the team.

DAN: That’s just a rumor.

TARAT: My sources say it’s true, he’s not practicing at all.

DAN: Then it’s a head-game, don’t you morons see that? Hokor is up to his old tricks again.

AKBAR: So what are you saying, Pine should start?

DAN: Damn right!

AKBAR: So he can choke again, like he has the last two years?

TARAT: He does seem to blow big games.

DAN: It’s the playoffs! You know, where teams play other teams that are pretty damn good?

AKBAR: Oh come on, Dan! Pine couldn’t finish a hot dog without choking on it.

DAN: He won two Galaxy Bowls!

TARAT: Oh not that again ...

DAN: Screw you, Tarat! And screw you, Akbar! Next caller, dammit, next caller!

Playoffs Round Two: Ionath Krakens (7-2) at Texas Earthlings (8-2)

The Krakens gathered in the dimly-lit tunnel of Hudson Field. The 250,000 fans crowded into the stadium stamped their feet in unison, boom-boom ... boom-boom ... boom-boom ... The walls and floor vibrated from the bloodthirsty beast’s stomping.

Quentin felt nearly mad with the hunger of battle. He was stepping into it this time, taking hand-to-hand combat into the field instead of sitting behind his wall of Ki linemen. The Earthlings would be coming after him relentlessly, literally trying to knock him out of the game. Cheap shots would abound. He knew damn well he was in for the beating of his life. But he was going to give as good as he got.

[INTRODUCING THE CHAMPIONS OF THE HUMAN CONFERENCE, PLEASE WELCOME THE TEXAAAAAAASSSSSS EARTHLINNNNNGS!]

The crowd’s choreographed stomping evaporated, replaced by the nova-like roar of mostly Human fans. It was a hostile environment — broadcasters had estimated 200,000 of the fans were Texas Earthlings supporters, another 20,000 were Krakens faithful, and the remaining 30,000 were mostly fans from other teams in the Human Conference. All that added up to a nice home game for the Earthlings.

The Krakens swayed back and forth, one organism, one collective brain set on grabbing the prey and tearing it to shreds, tearing it apart with tooth and claw and tentacle and rasper and bare hands. Society slipped away to some abstract concept — for now there was only the battle, there was only the intense, primitive pleasure of destroying another sentient being.

High One help those who stood in the Krakens’ way.

[AND NOW, THE CHAMPIONS OF THE QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE, THE IONAAAAAAAATH KRAAAAAAAAAAAAKEEEEEEEEEEENS!]

Quentin waited for Pine to call out to the team, to rally them into one cohesive, violent machine ready to crush and to punish and, if need be, to kill.

But instead of his trademark leader’s voice, Pine said only one soft sentence.

“Quentin, it’s your team now, lead us out.”

Forty-three sets of eyes turned to look at Quentin, who wore a warm-up jacket over his uniform. Pine’s words filled Quentin with raw emotion. It was his team now, now and forever, Pine had passed the torch in full view of his teammates.

He wasn’t a rookie anymore. He was the battle-hardened leader of this team, the general who led his soldiers into war. He’d fought and bled with these beings, won and lost with these beings, felt ultimate joy and faced the ultimate sadness. Somewhere during the season, and he didn’t know where, Quentin Barnes had become a man.

The team waited for Quentin to speak. He quickly looked from player to player, taking the time to measure up each Krakens’ emotions. They were all ready to go.

Instead of talking, he slipped off his warm-up jacket to show his orange jersey. Underneath, instead of his number 10, the black numbers with orange trim read “47.”

Fayed’s jersey.

“Screw the Earthlings,” Quentin said.

A brief pause, then a barbaric roar so raw and loud it made the 250,000 being crowd sound weak by comparison. The Krakens shot out of the tunnel like the fiery breath of some legendary dragon. They raced onto the surface, which was made up of a thick, emerald-green plant marked with bright white stripes and numbers. It was finer and softer than Micovi’s Carsengi Grass.

Quentin’s mind raced, not with thoughts, but a lack of thoughts, a mental blankness created by a primitive violence that suffused his every last atom. He walked out onto the center of the field for the coin toss, Hawick on his left, John Tweedy on his right. A zebe waited at the 50-yard line, right in the middle of the multi-colored GFL logo painted on the lush green grass. On the other side of the zebe waited their enemy: Case “Hot Pepper” Johanson, the Earthlings quarterback, and Chok-Oh-Thilit, their All-Pro defensive tackle. The Earthlings wore bright-red jerseys with blue letters and silver trim, blue leg armor with silver piping, and silver helmets decorated with a blue-trimmed white star.

Johanson stared at Quentin. “What’s with the number change, boy?”

Quentin just stared back. Johanson had played three seasons of Tier One ball with the Earthlings, before their fall from grace last season down into Tier Two.

“Don’t you know it’s bad luck to wear a dead man’s number?” Johanson asked, his face twisted into a half-smile/half-sneer.

“Keep talking, douche bag,” Tweedy growled. “You’re wearing a dead man’s number, you just don’t know it yet.”

JOHANSON THROWS LIKE A GIRL scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.

Johanson’s sneer faded, briefly, but it faded nonetheless. The hotshot quarterback’s attentions turned from Quentin to John Tweedy, who just stared and grinned his I’m-not-quite-sane grin. Johanson didn’t say anything else.

“Krakens are the visiting team,” the zebe said, his voice amplified by the stadium loudspeakers so that it cracked like the sound of the High One himself. “Who will call the toss for the Krakens?”

“She will,” Quentin said, pointing at Hawick. She had been given that duty, and she shook with a intense fervor. Quentin didn’t understand how the coin toss factored into the Sklorno’s strange religion, but apparently it was an honor that surpassed even the cathartic thrill of catching a long touchdown pass.

“This is heads,” the zebe said, showing a metal coin with a picture of a Creterakian head. “This is tails.” He flipped the coin to show stylized planet — Creterak.

“Call it in the air,” the zebe said, and he tossed the coin.

“Heads!” Hawick screamed, more rapture than excitement. The coin bounced on the grass, flipped three times, then landed flat.

Heads.

Hawick collapsed and lay on the ground, quivering.

“Krakens win the toss,” said the zebe, echoed by the loudspeakers. “Do you wish to receive or defer?”

“We want the ball,” Quentin said.

“A stay of execution,” Tweedy said, staring straight at Johanson, who no longer looked as cocky.

Quentin and Tweedy picked up Hawick and carried her to the sidelines. Quentin let out a slow, controlled breath. He wouldn’t have long to wait — one quick kickoff, and he’d be on the field, squaring off against Chok-Oh-Thilit and the other Earthlings defenders.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” the crowd started the low, tribal, pre-kickoff chant. Adrenaline poured through Quentin’s veins, so thick it might have spilled out of his pores and dripped onto the green grass at his feet. He tried to breath slow, but found it difficult — his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. He blinked rapidly, gritting his teeth, waiting for the coming battle.

“OHHHHHHHHH ...”

A hand on his shoulder. Donald Pine.

“Relax, kid,” Pine said, his smile easy and genuine. “We’re going to do this together. Once you get that first hit, you’ll be fine.”

Quentin nodded, then turned back to the field.

“AHHHHHHH-AH!”

The ball sailed through the air. Richfield jogged back past the goal line, her eyes fixed on the tiny brown dot in the sky.

“Just take a knee,” Pine said, more to himself than anyone else.

The ball descended as the Krakens’ special teamers formed up into the wall.

Thunk, the ball dropped down in Richfield’s arms at the very back edge of the end zone. She looked up, hesitated for half a second, then ripped forward at a dead sprint.

“No!” Pine said.

Quentin just watched.

Earthlings “wall-breakers” smashed into the Krakens’ wedge at the 10-yard-line. Bodies flew in all directions. Richfield ran up into the wall and disappeared amongst the carnage.

“Well there goes field posi — ”

Pine’s sentence died on his lips as Richfield popped out the other side, untouched and moving at top speed. In the blink of an eye she passed the 30, then the 40 and moved across midfield.

“Well slap my face and call me Sally,” Pine said.

Sklorno Earthlings took deep angles of pursuit. Serj Tanakian, the Earthlings’ kicker, ran upfield, trying to cut down Richfield’s running angles. She ran right at him, cut once to the left, then to the right, then to the left again. Tanakian matched the first move, stumbled on the second, and fell face-first on the third.

Richfield shot by him. She sprang ten feet into the air as a Sklorno defender leapt for her feet and became the second player in a row to hit the grass empty-handed. One last red-and-blue clad Sklorno angled between Richfield and the end zone. She didn’t cut this time, she reached out a hard tentacle as the two players met at the ten, “stiff-arming” her foe. They ran side-by-side for another five yards, then the defender — knocked off balance by the stiffarm — fell to the ground.

Richfield went into the end zone standing up.

Quentin looked back downfield, but there were no flags.

[TOUCHDOWN, KRAKENS! RICHFIELD SCORES ON A IO2-YARD KICKOFF RETURN, A NEW PLAYOFF RECORD!]

The extra-point team ran onto the field. The Krakens had just taken a huge jump, but Quentin found it hard to be excited — he had to wait for the first hit, and he had to pee.

Morningstar knocked in the extra point. First play of the game, Krakens 7, Earthlings 0.

Quentin tried to draw a full breath while the kickoff team took the field. Morningstar nailed a low squib kick — Hokor didn’t want a long return that might give the Earthlings momentum.

Utgard, the Earthlings’ kick returner, handled the line-drive kick and brought the ball back to the 28 before being brought down.

John Tweedy & Company took the field. As he looked at the defense — Tweedy, Virak the Mean, Choto the Bright, Michnik and Khomeni, Mai-An-Ihkole and Per-Ah-Yet — Quentin felt a pang of sorrow for Johanson. Those seven players had thought of nothing for the last week other than the total destruction of the Earthlings’ quarterback. Quentin figured the Earthlings defense had probably done the same thing, preparing for him — how would they react when he lined up at tailback, and Donald Pine took the snaps?

The Earthlings started out running, a sweep to Pookie Chang. Virak the Mean drove through two blockers and brought Chang down for a one-yard loss. Johanson tried a simple out pass on the next snap, but Berea broke up the play.

On third and long, Tweedy crowded the line, showing blitz all the way. Johanson dropped back — Tweedy’s blitz drew the fullback’s block, and Khomeni broke through almost immediately. Johanson felt the pressure and calmly threw the ball away.

Three and out.

Quentin had to pee so bad he could barely stand up straight.

“Here we go, kid,” Pine said as he pulled on his helmet. “It’s show time.”

Richfield vibrated with anticipation as the punt sailed through the air, but it had excellent hang-time and she was forced to call a fair catch at the Krakens’ 35.

Quentin and the offense ran onto the field for the first time.

“JUST WHAT IN the heck is going on here, Masara?”

“I don’t know, Chick, but it looks to me like Donald Pine is calling the play in the huddle.”

“But I thought Pine wasn’t even practicing with the team.”

“That’s what everyone was told, Chick. But Krakens Coach Hokor the Hookchest and Earthlings’ Coach Pata the Calculating are two of the trickiest strategists in the game. Word has it that Pata the Calculating has something up his many sleeves — he wouldn’t allow any media in his practices for the last two weeks. And as for Pine not practicing with the team, Maybe Hokor was just being disingenuous.”

“Hey now, easy on the big words, Masara!”

“It’s not a big word, it’s a very common -”

“Hold on there Vocabulistic Vinnie! The Krakens are lining up for the play, and — what the heck, that’s Mitchell Fayed’s number in the backfield.”

“Someone get us a close-up of that guy!”

“Well grease me up like a well-used sock monkey, Masara, that’s Quentin Barnes at tailback!”

“Is he crazy, Chick? The defense will tear him apart!”

“Well, this makes about as much sense as a Sklorno receiver walking unclothed into a bedbug convention, but it’s definitely a new wrinkle that I don’t think the Earthlings are ready for.”

“The defense looks a bit anxious, Chick.”

“That they do Masara, like the mother of three hot triplets who just realized her jailbait daughters are well into puberty and drawing the attention of the void-bike gang next door.”

“Chick, take it easy ...”

“Sorry, Masara, sorry folks at home, here go the Krakens in I-formation ...”

• • •

QUENTIN LIGHTLY RESTED his hands on his slightly bent knees. He stood directly behind Tom Pareless, who crouched in a three-point stance. Donald Pine looked down the left side of the line, then the right, barking out signals.

“Blue, sixteen! Bluueeee, sixteen!”

The play was an off-tackle left — away from Chok-Oh-Thilit, a strategy the Krakens would try to follow for most of the day. No point in wasting time, Quentin had to get it over with if he was going to be effective.

“Hut-HUT!”

Pine turned as Pareless drove to the left. Quentin followed him, his eyes fixed on the ball held in Pine’s outstretched hands.

Don’t fumble don’t fumble don’t fumble–

Quentin raised his right elbow high, the back of his hand on his chest. His left hand rested against his lower stomach, thumb forward — the way he’d been taught to take a handoff. Pine stabbed the ball towards his stomach, holding it so that the ball’s points were parallel to Quentin’s body. Quentin’s left hand cupped the bottom of the ball as his right elbow snapped down, trapping the ball between his thick forearms. Only after he felt the ball was snugly in place did he look up to run.

Pareless pushed through the hole and notched a solid fit on the linebacker. Quentin ran straight into the hole. Like some evil magical portal, the hole instantly vanished. Defenders appeared in front, on his right and left — Quentin put his head down and drove forward.

Wham WHAM!

Two hits in rapid succession, one from the left, the next from the right, as the defensive tackle and then the middle linebacker smashed into him. Quentin’s right arm went instantly numb, but he held onto the ball as the two big bodies dragged him down. He wound up on his back, looking straight up into the face of his countryman Alonzo Castro.

“What in the void could you be thinking, boy?” Alonzo asked, a look of concern on his face. “You need to get your tail back behind that big offensive line of yours, or you’re going to get hurt.”

Quentin’s right arm felt all tingly and hot — not in any shape to push Alonzo away — so he laid still and tried to play it cool.

“Good to see you again,” Quentin said. “But if anybody’s going to get hurt, it’s going to be you when I run you over.”

Alonzo laughed, not an evil laugh, but as if an old friend had told him a good joke. He stood and reached out a hand.

“We’ll see about that,” Alonzo said as he helped Quentin off the ground.

Quentin ran back to the huddle. He could barely move his arm, but the tingling feeling was already fading away. If that was the best hit Alonzo had to offer, Quentin thought me might make it through the game after all. He ran to the back of the huddle to stand in the tailback’s spot, thinking how strange it was to watch someone else call the play.

“Quentin!” Pine barked. “Take it easy when I hand you the freakin’ ball, you almost took my hand off.”

“Oh ... sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it. You feel better now?”

The question confused Quentin for just a second, then he realized the butterflies were gone and he no longer had to pee.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I guess I do.”

Pine nodded, just once, then his eager eyes swept the offensive players. “Okay, they’re already confused by Quentin, and they’ll be looking for him, so we go play-action right, towards Chok-Oh-Thilit, hot-pass to Warburg.”

“At least someone will throw me the ball,” Warburg said.

“Shut up, racist” Pine said. “Keep your mouth shut in my huddle, got it?”

Warburg glared, but nodded.

“Okay, on two, on two, ready ...”

Quentin lined up in the I-formation once again. Pine barked out the signals. The linemen smashed together. Quentin drove to the right, left hand on his chest, left elbow high. Pine stabbed the ball towards his stomach again and Quentin brought his forearms together, except this time there was no ball at his stomach. He put his head down and leaned forward, charging into the line. He ran just outside Wen-Eh-Deret’s right side: the hit came from his right, enough to spin him around, then a freight train smashed into his chest. The world spun in a wild circle, and something hit him hard in the left shoulder — it took him a full second before he realized that last hit had been the ground.

Quentin gazed up into the black eyes of Chok-Oh-Thilit, who looked down at him the way a spider looks at a bug caught in its web.

Alonzo’s grinning head appeared next to Chok-Oh-Thilit’s. “Don’t he just hit like a tank?”

“My ... gramma ... hits harder,” Quentin said, although his voice cracked just a bit when he said it. Alonzo helped him up once again.

In the huddle the Krakens were excited and eager for the next play. Quentin realized he had no idea if the play had been successful — he looked at the scoreboard: first-and-10 on the Earthlings’ 44.

Warburg stood and looked back at Quentin. “So that’s what it’s like to catch a pass.”

Pine reached out and slapped Warburg hard in the head. “Dammit, Warburg, shut your pie-hole!” Warburg turned and bent, leaning over in standard huddle position so the players behind him could see Pine.

“Okay, now we go for the throat,” Pine said. “B-set, twenty-two post. Hawick, I’m putting the ball in the air whether you’re covered or not, you go get it or I’ll never throw you another pass as long as you live.”

A silence filled the huddle. Quentin just stared, amazed at Pine’s ruthlessness — it would have been like telling a Holy Man that if he didn’t catch the ball he’d been damned to hell by St. Stewart himself. Hawick started to shake.

“Shake all you want, sissy girl, every defensive back on the field is going to know it’s coming to you when I drop back, and it doesn’t matter — you don’t catch the ball, and you’re excommunicated from the Church of Donald Pine, do you understand?”

Hawick’s raspers rolled and unrolled involuntarily, over and over again.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Hawick chirped.

Pine nodded once. “On three, on three, ready ...”

The Krakens lined up in a pro-set, Quentin five yards behind Pine and two yards to his left, Tom Pareless five yards behind Pine and two yards to his right. Warburg lined up at left tight end, and Scarborough split left. Wide right, all alone, stood Hawick, still shaking. The defensive backs keyed on Hawick’s shake — Toronto called a defensive audible. The backs shifted: Toronto moved up one yard off Hawick for woman-to-woman coverage, while Volgograd lined up ten yards behind her — Hawick was facing double coverage.

“Red, twelve!” Pine shouted. “Red, twelve.”

Alonzo jumped forward after the call, lining up over the left guard and showing blitz. If he came, he was Quentin’s responsibility. Alonzo stood quickly and pointed at Quentin.

“Here it comes, pretty-boy! Here comes the hurt!” Alonzo squatted, fists shaking with adrenaline rage, eyes wide as a nocturnal predator.

“Hut-huuuut ... hut!”

Pine took the snap and dropped back smooth as silk. Quentin stepped forward, with one step to the left, legs bent and hands up in front of him. The left defensive tackle drove towards the center as Alonzo took a small step back and moved quickly to his right, away from center.

A linebacker stunt, Quentin thought.

The slashing defensive tackle drew blocks from both Sho-Do-Thikit, the left guard, and Bud-O-Shwek, the center. Warburg blocked the defensive end. Alonzo stepped up through the sudden opening, coming free and unobstructed like a rabid bearcat.

Block him or Pine goes down, Quentin thought quickly as he stepped up and leaned forward. Alonzo bent forward at the exact same moment, bringing his right arm forward in a vicious undercut. Quentin recognized the rip-move at the last second — Alonzo would power by his right side and have a free shot at Pine. Quentin lunged to his right, desperately trying to correct his mistake. Alonzo hit him with all of his considerable strength, driving his rip move from his feet through his thick thighs to his powerful arm, all with a strong twist of the hips to make the move as concussive as a heavyweight’s knockout uppercut. Quentin was off-balance from his desperate dive, and without his feet planted he had no strength to counter the move — Alonzo’s forearm hit him under the chin, lifting him off his feet and knocking him backwards. Quentin saw nothing but bright lights and felt a quick tug on his chin before his helmet spun through the air like a decapitated head. He landed on his butt and rolled backwards, feet-over-head. The world whirled around him, a blur of green grass and red leg armor. He felt a foot kick him in the ribs, then the weight of another player landing on top of him. Quentin rolled backwards one more time, then lay flat — there was a ringing in his ears.

But there was also a roar.

A roar of the crowd.

Suddenly a hand grabbed his, yanking him to his feet.

“Great block, kid!” Pine said, shaking Quentin’s shoulders as he screamed in his face. “We got ‘em!”

“Wha ...” Quentin stammered.

“Touchdown, kid, touchdown!”

Quentin felt something in his mouth. He spit — his front right tooth landed in a clot of blood, red-and-white on green.

That thing is never going to heal right, Quentin thought as he limped off the field.

“THAT’S GOT TO BE the greatest catch I’ve ever seen, Masara!”

“Amazing! Amazing! Let’s see the replay on this.”

“Hawick is double-covered from the get-go, Masara. Watch the move she puts on Toronto to get clear, but then she’s still got Volgograd in woman-to-woman. She’s totally covered.”

“But if she’s double-covered, why would Pine throw that ball, Chick? He just put it up for grabs!”

“He knows his players, Masara. He’s always known his players. Watch Hawick go up in the air. Check the live analysis, Masara — the computer says she jumped twenty-three feet in the air.”

“She jumped like her life depended on it.”

“Something like that, Masara. But Volgograd is known for her leaping ability, and she actually got a hand on the ball. But watch Hawick rip it away from her! She went after that ball like a hooker diving after a tight-wad trick!”

“Chick! for crying out loud—”

“Sorry, Masara, and sorry, folks at home, but watch her come down with it — she hit the ground upside down, and still held onto the ball.”

“And there you have it, the High Priestess of the Church of Donald Pine puts the Krakens up by two touchdowns, and we’re still in the first quarter.”

• • •

QUENTIN WOKE with a start, the smell of something acidic and horrible filling his nostrils. He twisted his face to avoid the stench, which seemed to follow his nose. He blinked a few times, and saw that Doc was waving something in his face.

“Knock it off!” Quentin said, pushing Doc’s tentacle away. He looked around. He was on the sidelines. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

Quentin started to shake his head, and realized too late just how much that hurt. “No, I don’t.”

“You ran a sweep right and tried to cut back — Chok-Oh-Thilit beat his block and laid you out.”

“A sweep right?”

“Yes,” Doc said.

“When?”

“First drive of the second quarter.”

“Second ... the first quarter is over?”

Doc floated up to look Quentin in the eye. “You don’t remember the first quarter?”

Quentin shrugged. “Some of it.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Hawick’s touchdown.”

“Quentin, you carried the ball five times for sixteen yards after that. You don’t remember?”

Quentin thought for a second, then shrugged. “Nope, not a thing.” His head throbbed as if a miniature Ki were in his brain, whipping jointed limbs to and fro in a dance of destructed grey matter. If felt like someone was jabbing a screwdriver into the right side of his jaw. He gingerly touched there — no screwdriver, at least, but he couldn’t be certain about the miniature Ki. The tip of his tongue played with the space where his missing right front tooth should have been.

“I don’t feel so good.”

“How many tentacle tips am I holding up?”

Quentin squinted. At first he saw four tentacle tips, then his vision cleared and the tentacle tips blended together into a solid shape.

“Two.”

“Good,” Doc said, patting Quentin on the shoulder pad. “You’re ready to go back in.” Doc floated away.

“That’s what you think,” Quentin muttered, looking at the ground. He definitely did not feel ready to go back in. He noticed the right side of his orange jersey was stained with blood. Only then did he notice a tingling along his ribs. Left hand told the story: right-side rib armor ripped half away, temporarily patched with bulkhead tape. He slid his fingers under the shoddy repair job and felt the familiar texture of a nanocyte bandage.

He saw a tiny pair of yellow-furred feet, and looked up into the eye of Hokor the Hookchest.

“Great job out there, Barnes,” Hokor said. “You ready for more?”

Quentin nodded. Just once, because nodding yes hurt as much as shaking no. “Just give me the ball Coach.”

“Good, good! Well, you’re going to get the ball now. We’re up 14-0 so we want to keep the ball on the ground as much as possible and chew up clock. You ready to take some hits?”

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t taken some already?”

“Whatever you do, hold onto the ball.” Hokor walked back to the edge of the field. The Krakens defense was on the field, but Quentin didn’t have the energy to get up and watch. Quentin took a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh — he had at least one more half of this to go.

• • •

KRAKENS FANS were scattered around the stadium, with most sitting in the North end zone. The South end zone, however, was the sole domain of die-hard Texas Earthlings fans, dressed in a sea of red, blue and white. As the Krakens lined up at their own 3-yard-line, the fans roared as if a thousand mouths were pressed right up against Quentin’s ear.

Pine’s shoulders shook as he called out the signals, but Quentin couldn’t hear him. The Earthlings fans wanted a break, something good to happen for their team, which was down 14-0.

Quentin watched carefully — Pine’s head bobbed down when he said “Hut!” and the snap was on three. He had to time it right, there was no room for mistakes this close to your own goal line.

One bob.

Alonzo cheated up the line, his eyes locked on Quentin.

Bob-bob.

Even as Quentin ran right to take the handoff, he saw Chok-Oh-Thilit driving inwards, a Ki tank chewing up flesh. Wen-E-Deret tried to stop him, but suddenly bent backwards at a funny angle, multi-jointed limbs spamming in a symphony of pain. Chok-Oh-Thilit roared through the line, already a yard past the goal line. Quentin concentrated on taking the handoff. Once he felt the ball firmly in his arms, he put his head down and drove forward. It was like running into a swinging 600-pound wrecking ball. Every atom in his body jarred backwards. He couldn’t see. He felt arms wrapping around him. Quentin spun to the right, his free hand viciously punching away — it hit some armor and glanced off. Arms tried to drag him down, but he kept pumping his legs, running with a pure animal fury — like hell he’d be tackled for a safety. He felt the Ki arms slip away and he cut upfield — only to feel a shoulder pad drive deep into his stomach and short-but-powerful Human arms wrapping around his waist. Air shot out of his lungs. His body jarred backwards, every atom shaking from the impact. His feet came off the ground and he landed on his back, head snapping into the turf. Whistles blew. The crowd roared.

He gasped for air, but nothing came in or out. He opened his eyes and looked at the ground. It was painted in Earthlings’ red.

Safety.

Krakens 14, Earthlings 2.

Alonzo pushed off him, looked to the sky and screamed a primitive roar of triumph. He looked down at Quentin and smiled.

“Good thing I’m a little small for a linebacker, or that hit might have actually hurt you.”

Quentin sill couldn’t breathe. He weakly lifted his right hand and flipped Alonzo the bird. Alonzo laughed just before his defensive teammates swarmed over him, shouting excitedly in at least four different languages.

• • •

DESPITE DOC’S URGING, Quentin refused to lie down. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t get up. Not ever again. He’d just sleep for a long, long time. But Doc wouldn’t put IVs in him if he stood, so he compromised and sat through Hokor’s halftime adjustments.

“This is the game we wanted to play,” Hokor said.

Quentin held out his right arm, allowing Doc to inject an IV needle. He watched the pointed needle slide into his skin, but didn’t feel a thing.

“Fluids,” Doc said quietly. “You’re dehydrated.”

“The defense has shut them down,” Hokor said. “No points, can we keep it up?”

“Yes!” shouted Tweedy. “Johanson talking garbage! I say the only way that loser gets off the field at the end of the game is on a stretcher!”

The Ki linemen let out a roar of approval, banging their forearms against their chest armor.

Another needle, this time in his right arm.

“Blood,” Doc said. “You lost a lot from those cuts on your ribs. We need to get your blood count back to normal.”

“Offensively, we’re doing okay,” Hokor said. “Aka-Na-Tak, I know you’re facing Chok-Oh-Thilit, but you’ve got to step up. You’ve got to play above your level, you can’t let him come through.”

Wen-E-Deret had been hurt on the play that gave the Earthlings a safety. After preliminary treatment on the sidelines, Doc had carted him to the locker room, and from there a grav-ambulance had rushed him off to Hudson Bay Hospital. Someone had mumbled something about a severed nervous cord, a very serious Ki injury, but the team didn’t talk about it. After the game, there would be plenty of time to either visit him in the hospital, or the funeral home.

“I know you can stop him, Aka-Na-Tak,” Pine said. The veteran quarterback looked like he’d been mugged all over again. After Wen-E-Deret’s injury, Chok-Oh-Thilit had sacked Pine three times, each one more devastating than the last. Aka-Na-Tak, a backup tackle, just couldn’t handle the all-pro’s savage defensive strength. “You’ve got to stop him. The honor of your family is riding on this.”

Aka-Na-Tak suddenly sat up straighter.

“You know what he told me after the last sack?” Pine said. “He put his face right against mine and said dijo malach we yokot.”

All the Ki in the room shuddered with instant anger. All eyes turned to Aka-Na-Tak, who stood stock-still.

“What’s that mean?” Quentin whispered to Doc.

“It means ‘your lineman is my girlfriend,’ roughly.”

Quentin nodded slowly, appreciating the severity of the comment.

“Can you believe he said that?” Pine said. “Although, if you look at the beating I took on your missed blocks, it’s hard to argue with him.”

Suddenly all eyes turned away from Aka-Na-Tak, as if everyone in the room felt embarrassed for him.

Hokor commanded everyone’s attention. “Yes, well, anyway, let’s get on with the halftime adjustments.”

Doc slid away to tend to other players, leaving the needles sticking out of Quentin’s arms. Messal the Efficient ran up, a new set of rib-armor in his hands. The Quyth Worker pulled away the blue bandages covering Quentin’s wounds. They weren’t quite healed yet, but they didn’t have time to wait.

Hokor walked through offensive adjustments. Quentin tried to pay attention, but all he could hear, really, were the words we’re going to run the ball more, repeated over and over again.

• • •

THE KRAKENS WEREN’T the only ones making halftime adjustments.

The Earthlings received the second-half kickoff and ran it back to their own 37. They lined up in something that Quentin had never seen before — two tight ends, with three running backs lined up side-by-side, about five yards behind Johanson.

“Well ain’t that something,” Yitzhak murmured. “The Wing-T.”

Krakens defenders shouted to each other, already nervous about the new formation. The Earthlings hadn’t run this formation, not once, all season long.

The ball snapped. Quentin watched Johanson hand off to the Pookie Chang. Chang’s big arms folded over the ball. He plowed into the line and disappeared into a pile of bodies.

But there was no whistle.

Johanson still had the ball, he’d faked the handoff to Chang — he put it into the hands of tailback Peter Lowachee, who folded his arms around the ball the same way Chang had. Johanson “rode” the handoff, seemingly holding onto the ball as Lowachee cut into the off-tackle hole. Johanson then ran to the sidelines, pretending to carry the ball.

Every play is a triple-threat, Quentin thought. Fullback, tailback, or quarterback. And the way they fold over the ball, you can’t see if they have it or not.

Most of the Krakens’ defense had bought the fullback’s dive, leaving plenty of room for Lowachee, who broke through the line and cut upfield. After a half of watching running back Pookie Chang’s big body rumble along, the fleet-footed Lowachee was like poetry in motion. At only 210 pounds he was a featherweight, but man could he move.

Lowachee chewed up fifteen yards before Perth brought him down at the Krakens’ 48.

The Earthlings lined up in the Wing-T again, and this time Pookie Chang took the handoff. He popped through a tiny hole next to the center, moving forward at top speed. Tweedy had been watching Lowachee, and hadn’t come forward — Chang hit like a big-shouldered boulder, knocking Tweedy flat on his back. Chang stumbled on the fallen linebacker, giving Virak the Mean time to drag him down after an eight-yard gain.

The next play saw the same thing. The linemen and linebackers stepped up to stop Chang, but he didn’t have it. Defensive backs converged on Lowachee as Johanson rode him through the line. Lowachee went down under Perth and Berea — but he didn’t have the ball either. Suddenly Johanson was cutting up the sidelines, all alone. Stockbridge came from the far side of the field, her speed easily surpassing Johanson’s. Instead of taking the hit, Johanson casually stepped out of bounds after a 37 yard gain.

“Uh-oh,” Yitzhak said. “I bet it’s been two centuries since anyone ran this offense. This could be trouble.”

The Earthlings lined up at the Krakens’ 3-yard line, once again in the two tight-end Wing-T. The Krakens’ goal line defense packed around the line, shifting here and there, still not sure how to set up to stop the new offensive attack. The ball snapped and Johanson went through the cycle: put ball in Chang’s arms, put ball in Lowachee’s arms and ride him in, then run to the sidelines. Quentin tried to find the ball. Chang went down. Lowachee’s fake was bad — Johanson still had the ball, running for the corner of the end zone. Perth closed on him like a black-and-orange-and-white blur — but Johanson pulled up and threw a light pass to Lowachee, who had released into the flat, behind the streaking Perth.

Wide open.

Touchdown, Earthlings.

Extra point good, Krakens 14, Earthlings 9.

• • •

ON THIRD AND 11 at the Krakens’ 22, Aka-Na-Tak went down again, Chok-Oh-Thilit came through again, and Pine was sacked again. He came up bleeding from the right cheek, madder than Quentin had ever seen him. Pine reared back and threw the ball with all his strength — at Chok-Oh-Thilit, who was only five yards away. The ball smashed into Chok-Oh-Thilit’s helmet, then bounced high into the air.

Chok-Oh-Thilit turned and roared and ran at Pine, who snarled and drove forward, fists swinging. Whistles blew. The crowd raged. Quentin jumped on Chok-Oh-Thilit’s back. Zebes swarmed in as players attacked each other. The game was suddenly a sea of legs and tentacles and raspers and red-blue-silver-orange-black-white.

Whistles shrieked, players swore in four different languages. Something hit Quentin in the back, right at the kidneys. He rolled off Chok-Oh-Thilit and lay on the ground. Pine had his helmet off and was swinging it like a war hammer, blood coursing down his face, his white eyes wide against his red-stained blue skin.

More black and white. Zebes poured out of the woodwork, at least fifteen of them, flying in with stunsticks. Quentin heard the zap of the sticks, smelled burnt ozone, and saw players dropping. Chok-Oh-Thilit fell from a dozen blasts, Pine only needed two.

When it was over, the Krakens’ punt team came onto the field. Fifteen yards back, of course, for Pine’s personal foul.

• • •

THE DAMN WING-T was like watching a living puzzle box. It was a magician’s offense, sleight-of-hand and loathsome chicanery. Who had the ball? Pookie Chang? Peter Lowachee? Case Johanson? Was it a run? Was it a pass?

The Earthlings marched downfield again, chewing up five and six yards a pop. The Krakens started to adjust, but the vanishing-ball-trick had them tackling the wrong player more often than not. Chang for six. Lowachee for ten. Pass for fifteen. Chang for another four.

Twelve plays and seven minutes after the Krakens’ post-fight punt, Pookie Chang carried it in from four yards out to give the Earthlings the lead. Without missing a beat, they again lined up in the Wing-T for the two-point conversion. The Krakens’ defense still didn’t know how to stop that offense — Pookie Chang slipped through a trap-block and walked into the end zone standing up.

Earthlings 17, Krakens 14.

• • •

QUENTIN FOLLOWED Tom Pareless into the hole. Pareless nailed a stumbling Alonzo, putting the linebacker into the ground. Quentin hurdled them both and tried to cut outside. Kipir the Assassin, the outside linebacker, dove for him and grabbed his jersey, standing Quentin almost straight up as he tried to move forward. Jurong, the free safety, came in untouched like an armor-piercing bullet. She smashed into Quentin’s ribs. He heard a crack from his pads and another snap from inside his body.

He’d never been stabbed in the ribs, but he knew it had to feel just like this.

Quentin lay on the ground, big hands clutched tightly around the football. They could kill him, but they couldn’t make him fumble. His eyes scrunched tight with the agony in his side, and he waited for the medsled to cart him off the field.

Someone kicked his leg.

Quentin opened his eyes, squinting through the pain, to look up at Donald Pine.

“Get up, loser.”

Pine still had a blue bandage on his cheek. The cut had been deep, and despite constant application of nanocytes it had opened up two more times. The front of his orange jersey was a sheet of red.

“I said get up, you pansy.”

Quentin tried to blink away the pain. He had broken ribs. Broken ribs.

“I’ve got broken ribs,” Quentin said.

“And I care,” Pine said. “Now get up, rookie, and back in the huddle or I will kick you in those same ribs until you do.”

Quentin stared at Pine. He hated Pine. He had thought Pine was his friend, but he’d been crazy to think that. He’d always hated Don Pine. Don Pine was a loser.

Quentin slowly hauled himself back to a standing position, and followed Pine to the Krakens huddle.

• • •

THE FOURTH QUARTER started just as the Earthlings took over. They kept moving the ball, seemingly at will. Chang for five. Lowachee for seven. Chang for another four.

Then it happened.

Johanson put the ball in Chang’s belly as the thick running back slammed into the line. He then put it Lowachee’s arms, and rode the fleet-footed running back through the hole. Quentin had adjusted to the offense, and now saw the pulling guard running past the off-tackle hole, towards the outside — that mean Johanson had the ball.

And Quentin wasn’t the only one to see it.

Virak the Mean saw it, too.

The Earthlings’ pulling guard moved forward to block Virak, but the Quyth Warrior dropped to all-fours and stutter-stepped left, then right, then left again, using his low center of gravity to create the impossible lateral motion of a truly talented Quyth Warrior. The guard matched the first two moves, but stumbled off-balance and Virak shot past. He came free with a good five yards to pick up speed. Johanson tried to cut inside to avoid the reaching arms of Mum-O-Killowe — he didn’t see Virak until it was too late.

Virak threw himself forward like a flying switchblade, his helmet smashing into Johanson’s stomach. The quarterback went down hard. The ball popped free, but Pookie Chang hopped on it.

Whistles blew. Johanson got up ... slowly. He limped back to the huddle, barely able to walk on his right leg.

• • •

THE EARTHLINGS TRIED running the Wing-T a few more times, but everyone knew the limping Johanson wasn’t going to carry the ball. With him removed as a threat, the Krakens defense concentrated on Chang and Lowachee. As the clock ticked past 8:00, the Earthlings punted the ball away. They wouldn’t run the Wing-T again for the rest of the game.

• • •

PINE GOT UP slowly after his fifth sack. He was bleeding again, this time from a cut on his arm. At least he got up — Aka-Na-Tak still lay on the ground, a limp tubular body with limp multi-jointed arms. A thin, recurring squirt of black blood jetted up from his back, like a little on-off geyser of oil. Chok-Oh-Thilit had destroyed his second right tackle of the game.

After starting on their own 15 the Krakens had put together a 30-yard drive, but on third-and-long Chok-Oh-Thilit smashed through Aka-Na-Tak and dragged Pine down. The Krakens offense ran off the field to be replaced by the punt team as Doc’s medsled floated Aka-Na-Tak off the field. There was only five minutes left to play. The defense had to come up with one more stop.

• • •

THE DEFENSE HELD. The Krakens got the ball back with 2:12 to play in the game, ball on their own 35.

Quentin sat at the bottom of the pile, face-down, the football pressing into his diaphragm, so much weight on top of him that he couldn’t draw in a full breath. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing — when he took a full breath, his ribs screamed and his chest ached with the effort. Another assassination attempt by Chok-Oh-Thilit had torn away Quentin’s second set of rib armor, along with more of his skin, and blood — Doc said not to worry, though ... he’d be fine after an hour in the rejuv tank. The injury wouldn’t stop Quentin from finishing the game. Gosh. Thanks, Doc.

Cay-Oh-Kiware was the third Krakens guard to face Chok-Oh-Thilit, and he wasn’t doing much better than had Wen-E-Deret or Aka-Na-Tak.

The weight lifted from Quentin’s back one chunk at a time, until the last player rolled off. Quentin pushed his way up. He didn’t want to get up, he wanted to lay there, maybe take a nice nap. But he’d be damned before he’d show those Earthlings one more ounce of weakness or pain.

“How you holding up, champ?” Alonzo asked. “It’s not going to stop, you know. Maybe you should just stay down.”

“Then you better quit fooling around and dig out your A-game,” Quentin said as he stood tall and walked back to the huddle, ignoring the invisible knife buried deep in his ribs. “‘Cause what you got ain’t bothering me all that much.”

He was the last one back to the huddle. Pine stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at him as he walked around to the back of the huddle and took his place.

“Finished catching up on old times?” Pine asked him.

“Hey, he started talking crap, I just — ”

“Just nothing,” Pine snapped. “Shut your mouth and get back to the huddle, got it?”

“Hey! I’m not going to take this, he — ”

“Quentin! Shut up! Jesus, you Purist Nation guys don’t ever stop running at the mouth. Next play you get your butt back to the huddle and don’t say a word, you got it?”

Quentin started to protest one more time, then closed his mouth. He was furious that Pine was talking to him this way, but it was Pine’s huddle. Pine looked at the sidelines, then shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Let’s keep it on the ground.”

An unheard voice said something to Pine. He nodded towards the sidelines and turned back to the huddle.

“Okay, we’ve pounded it up the middle enough for now, let’s mix it up. Y-set, screen pass right. Quentin, maybe this time you could actually run with the ball instead of pussyfooting it to the line so they can smack you around like a little girl?”

Quentin’s eyes widened with rage. “What are you talking about?”

“We’d have this game wrapped up if we had Fayed, or even Yassoud, but all we’ve got is you, you lazy backwater rookie.”

Without thinking, he pushed his way forward to slide between Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, who were in front of him, bent down so the players behind them could see Pine. Quentin raised his right fist to swing at Pine, but two sets of hands and one set of tentacles grabbed him from all sides and held him back.

“Hey,” Pine said, holding his hands out, palms up, that arrogant grin on his bloody face. “You want a piece of me you little spoiled racist brat?”

The word seemed to slip into Quentin’s brain like a branding iron. He jerked against the hands holding him back as the huddle shifted and broke apart.

“You wanna mess with me, Pine?” Quentin screamed. He tried to break loose. From behind, a strong arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed, lightly, just enough for Quentin to feel pressure on his windpipe — just enough to know he’d pass out if the arm tightened further.

“Stop this right now,” Tom Pareless said quietly. “I let you go, you run the play, deal?”

Quentin nodded, or at least moved his head — he couldn’t nod with Pareless’ thick arm wedged around his neck and under his chin.

“WHAT’S GOING ON there, Chick? The Krakens are fighting in the huddle.”

“Well, Masara, it looks like tempers might be flaring. Can we get a close-up of Barnes’ face? Now run it in slow-mo.”

“You want to see if you can tell what this argument is about, Chick?”

“You got it, Masara. Look at that guy, he’s as wide-eyed-mad as a Brahma bull getting a three-pound suppository. Hold on, let me see what he’s saying ... well, it seems that Quentin Barnes had a few choice words. He said — ”

“I think the viewers have a good idea what he said, Chick.”

“Yeah, but he called Donald Pine a — ”

“And we’re back to the action on the field! The Krakens are lining up in an I-formation with Hawick wide left, Scarborough wide right and Kobayasho at right tight end.”

• • •

QUENTIN LINED UP in the I-formation, right behind Tom Pareless. He was so mad he could barely see, barely hear the snap count. So now he knew what kind of a man Pine really was — screw all the favors Quentin had given him, screw the fact that Quentin had saved the man’s reputation and career: when the going got tough, Donald Pine passed the buck.

“Green, twenty-eight!” Pine shouted.

Quentin couldn’t even stand the sound of that blue-boy’s voice. How could he have been so stupid to give up the quarterback spot for the biggest game of the year? He asked Hokor for this!

“Greeeeeeen, twenty-eight!”

Well he and Pine would settle up once the game was over. That old man was going to get his, that was for certain.

“Hut-hut!”

Quentin drove forward and to the right as Pareless stood, hands out, to pass-block. On the screen pass, Quentin’s job was to block down on the defensive tackle, then bounce outside and wait for the pass. Cay-Oh-Kiware and Vu-Ko-Will, the right guard and tackle, respectively, would make half-hearted blocks, enough so that the defense could go right by, then bounce to the right and block for Quentin. The defensive line would chase after Pine, who would back up, drawing them in — when Pine threw the little dump-pass to Quentin, those same defenders would be too far away from the play to do anything about it.

Quentin ran up as Chok-Oh-Thilit spun around Vu-Ko-Will’s pseudo-block.

I’ll show you, Pine.

Quentin launched himself forward just as Chok-Oh-Thilit finished his spin. Quentin’s elbow smashed into the Ki lineman’s helmet, snapping his head back. Chok-Oh-Thilit stumbled, then fell to the ground.

BLINK

The world decelerated: Quentin bounced to the right and looked back. Three defensive linemen closed in on Pine, who backpedaled and looked confused. The linemen gathered and shot forward towards the scrambling quarterback — who at the last possible second deftly tossed a floating pass. Quentin watched the ball in total fascination. It moved so slow he could read the small letters burned into the ball (Riddell GFL-licensed), and count the pebbles in the leather grain. The ball slowly spun towards him, until his hands seemed to reach out and pull it in like an old friend.

He turned upfield. Vu-Ko-Will and Cay-Oh-Kiware were already in front of him, two biological bulldozers moving forward on multi-jointed legs. Kipir the Assassin tried to cut past Vu-Ko, but the Ki lineman managed to get a partial block. Kipir spun and stumbled by, off-balance but reaching for Quentin. Quentin switched the ball to his right arm, reared back with his left, and delivered a crushing forearm to the linebacker. Kipir’s feet came out from under him, and he went down hard.

Quentin stayed behind Cay-Oh, who ran as fast as his little Ki legs would carry him. Jurong tried to reach Quentin, but she was fighting off a running block from Scarborough. Montrouge, the cornerback, came free, but had a bad angle — she tried to make a cut around Cay-Oh-Kiware, but the Ki lineman gathered at the last second and launched forward. Even in Quentin’s Zen-state, he heard the crowd’s “OHHH” when Cay-Oh-Kiware smashed Montrouge into a limp Sklorno puddle.

Quentin cut outside, zipping past Jurong who couldn’t separate from Scarborough’s block. Suddenly, there was no one left. Quentin sprinted forward, big legs chewing up the yardage. The goal line loomed before him like the gate to heaven. He looked to his left — Volgograd closing in. Quentin watched in seeming slow-mo as she gathered for a touchdown-saving leap. Quentin’s brain effortlessly timed the Sklorno’s dive — when she went horizontal, diving at his feet, he launched himself lengthwise. Volgograd passed by where his feet had just been, her tentacles flailing as she tried to grab a foot, a leg, a shoelace, anything, but came up with only air.

Quentin’s face mask hit the ground first — he slid forward, realizing, suddenly, that the grass he looked down upon wasn’t green.

It was red, the color painted in the end zones.

BLINK

The world rushed back in a hammer-blow of noise and color and intensity.

[TOUCHDOWN, KRAKENS! A 45-YARD PASS FROM PINE TO QUENTIN BARNES!]

Quentin looked for flags, but saw none. The Harrah zebe signaled a touchdown. He glanced up at the scoreboard.

Krakens 20, Earthlings 17.

1:31 left to play.

His teammates swarmed around him as he ran off the field. The Krakens faithful in the stands were a blur of jumping, screaming excitement — two sections of anarchy set amidst a stadium of disappointment.

Now it was all up to the defense.

• • •

QUENTIN STOOD on the sidelines, as far away from Don Pine as he could get. Case Johanson limped onto the field, and Quentin felt a bond of brotherhood. Even from thirty yards away, Quentin could see the look in Johanson’s eyes — he was ready to sacrifice anything to get the win.

Arioch Morningstar had knocked in the extra point, giving the Krakens a 21-17 lead. His following kickoff had sailed into the end zone. The Earthlings started their last drive at their own 20.

Pookie Chang lined up as a single back. The Earthlings lined up in a “big” set — single back, two tight ends, two wide receivers. John Tweedy moved up onto the line, immediately showing blitz. His right leg twitched with anticipation, each hand tightened into a flesh-and-bone mace.

Johanson dropped back five steps, limping slightly, then stood tall. Tweedy slipped between the linemen, but Chang picked him up and knocked him down with a perfect block. Johanson looked right, then turned left and delivered a tight crossing pass to Norfolk, who caught the ball and ran out of bounds just before Virak the Mean could tear off her head.

Twelve-yard gain. First and 10 at the Earthlings’ 32, 1:17 to play.

Mai-An-Ihkole and Choto the Bright ran off the field, Mum-O-Killowe and Tiburon ran on as Hokor switched to a nickel package.

The Earthlings again lined up in a big set. Johanson hobbled back in a five-step drop. Quentin looked downfield, his mind on offense, instinctively looking for the open routes. Mum-O-Killowe drove forward with his characteristic un-Ki-like agility, spinning and thrashing, trying to blast past the double-team that held him in check. Johanson felt the pressure, cocked his arm and delivered another short pass, this time to Bates McGee, the tight end. Complete for six yards, Virak the Mean on the tackle.

Second and 4.

Johanson signaled a timeout.

Clock at 1:09.

The Earthlings huddled up during the timeout, then hit the line in a three wide receiver shotgun. The defense settled in like an invading army awaiting the signal to attack. Mum-O-Killowe roared and came forward like a nightmare, two linemen punishing him all the way, yet he still drove towards Johanson.

Quentin looked downfield — Norfolk ran a post, and was pulling away from Berea.

“Oh crap,” Quentin whispered.

Johanson side-stepped Mum-O-Killowe’s madman rush, looked downfield and saw the same thing Quentin had seen. The undauntable quarterback stepped up, cocked his arm –

– and then there was Michnik. The massive heavy-G defensive end came from the blindside. He connected just before the Johanson’s arm started to come forward. Michnik hit him in the small of the back, 525 pounds moving at full speed — Johanson looked like a rag doll bent in half at the spine. The ball flopped away on a wobbly backwards arc. Johanson’s body just started to move back to normal alignment when Michnik drove him into the ground. They hit so hard, Quentin wondered if there would be an impact crater.

The ball descended, hit the ground and wobbled in a spinning dance to the right. It took almost a full second for the offensive and defensive linemen to see the ball on the ground. An offensive tackle lunged for it, but his jointed legs seemed to mis-judge the ball’s speed — he managed only to hit it, sending it farther into the backfield. The ball bounced back past the 25 yard line like a wildly spinning brown windmill. Time ceased to exist — 250,000 sets of eyes watched its unpredictable motion, 250,000 beings held their breath.

Three players dove for the ball simultaneously, and it squirted up into the air.

Where Mum-O-Killowe snatched it.

The rookie defensive tackle scuttled for the corner as the crowd’s roar erupted into a combination of excitement and anticipated doom. Pookie Chang ran after Mum-O-Killowe. The big Ki lineman scuttled across the 15 and headed for the end zone. Pookie’s speed closed the distance in less than five yards, and he latched onto Mum-O-Killowe’s torso. The Ki lineman sagged to the right under the extra 310 pounds, but he kept plodding forward. Pookie ripped at the ball, ripped at Mum-O-Killowe’s eyes, his mouth, at anything, desperate to save the touchdown that meant the end of the Earthlings’ chances.

The moving war passed the 10-yard line.

Mum-O-Killowe reached out his two right arms and lifted Pookie Chang right off the ground.

Stunned at such a display of power, Quentin watched Mum-O-Killowe cross the goal line, the ball tucked under his left arms, Pookie Chang tucked under his right.

The Krakens’ sidelines erupted into a shouting, screaming, clicking, clacking, jumping melee of exploding joy.

Krakens 27, Earthlings 17.

Fifty-two seconds to play.

Quentin found himself jumping up and down and hugging teammates just like everyone else. The joy seemed to gush out of him like a volcano, limitless and unstoppable. Tier One! Tier One!

The extra-point team ran onto the field. One more kick, and the Krakens were up by two scores with less than a minute to play.

The extra-point team stopped as whistles blew. Johanson hadn’t got up. The Earthlings’ docs flew onto the field, their medsled floating behind them. They took a quick look at Johanson, then put the medseld over him. The tiny cables shot out, simultaneously immobilizing and lifting Johanson’s prone body. The medsled and the docs headed for the tunnel. Normally, all the players would have silently watched the procession, but not this time — this time they could barely stop themselves from screaming at the docs to get Johanson’s weak butt off the field.

The extra point team lined up.

Quentin found himself standing next to Donald Pine.

“Nice touchdown run, Q,” Pine said, grinning. “Ever notice how you play better when you’re mad?”

Quentin stared at Pine for a second, then it sank in. His face turned red with embarrassment. Even in the biggest game of the year, Pine, the master manipulator, had goaded him into a rage. It hadn’t been personal, it had been calculated. Quentin realized that when the rage hit, he’d forgotten all about his battered body and just played.

Quentin smiled as Pine tousled his hair. Together, they turned to watch the extra point.

Morningstar knocked it through.

Krakens 28, Earthlings 17.

• • •

“WELL, CHICK, I think you can say this one is pretty much over. The Earthlings’ backup quarterback, Dan Erlewine, just isn’t the same caliber as Case Johanson.”

“I think the Earthlings are about as done as a three-day-old dog turd, Masara.”

“Chick ... we’ve only got a few minutes left, can’t you just try to knock it off?”

“Masara, you’re as uptight as an anal-retentive accountant.”

“You know what? I give up.”

“Hey, Masara, you can’t leave the booth, the game is still on! ... well, um, folks, Chick McGee here, now on play-by-play. Dan Erlewine is in the shotgun, and he looks nervous. He’s got to come up with two touchdowns in less than forty seconds. He drops back, looking, looking, he’s going deep to Norfolk! The pass looks short, and Berea’s got it! Interception! That’s the ballgame, folks, the Earthlings are headed to the showers, and the Ionath Krakens are headed to Tier One!”

• • •

AN HOUR AFTER the game, every player remained crammed into the communal center room. Mitchell Fayed’s jersey had been taped up to the holoboard. Grass stains darkened the orange jersey, as did Quentin’s red blood and several streaks of Ki black. It hung there, a memorial to their fallen comrade, as if Fayed watched over them, participating in their celebration.

Pine walked up to Quentin. They hugged like long-lost brothers. Quentin didn’t feel any pain this time — with the game over, Doc had injected several brands of rather efficient pain killers.

“You did it, old man!”

“No, you did it, Q!” Pine said, his blazing genuine smile as different from his arrogant grin as night was from day. “You’re a quarterback, and you rushed for 64 yards and caught for another 82. You’re the hero of the game.”

“An MVP performance, eh?”

Pine laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, the MVP goes to Mum-O-Killowe — three sacks and the fumble-recovery for a TD.”

Quentin shrugged and laughed. He’d get his playoff MVP someday. Mum-O-Killowe had savaged the Earthlings offensive line and sealed the game with the fumble return for a TD. He deserved it as much as anyone else.

“Well he earned it,” Quentin said.

“Brother, we all earned it.”

“Looks like we’re in another QB controversy, Tier One season is only a month away!” Quentin said it jokingly, but Pine’s smile faded.

“Hey,” Quentin said. “Did I say something wrong?”

Pine shook his head. “No. And there isn’t a QB controversy, anymore. You’re the guy.”

Quentin stared at the veteran. “Don, you just put the team back into Tier One. I’m not going to go down without a fight, but you finally did it.”

Pine shook his head again. “No. I had my chances, and I pissed them away. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. This team won because of you, Quentin, because of your leadership. I used to have that ability, but not anymore, not like you have it. Look around you — any one of these beings would follow you straight into hell. And believe me, Q, that’s what Tier One is — hell on a football field. They’ll follow you. I’ll follow you.”

The words stunned Quentin. Donald Pine, two-time Galaxy Bowl champ, one-time League MVP, was going to be his backup. Permanently. Quentin Barnes, dirt-faced orphan from a backwater planet in a backwater system, would lead the Ionath Krakens into Tier One.

“Don’t stand there with your jaw open,” Pine said. “I swear, you Purist Nation guys never shut your mouth. Now go congratulate your teammates.”

Quentin moved from player to player, thanking them, congratulating them, celebrating with them. It struck him as he danced with Sklorno, hugged Humans, clacked his armor off the chest of Ki and butted heads with Quyth Warriors (the most annoying of all the various races’ celebratory habits), he no longer thought of them as aliens. They were Krakens, pure and simple. They were his teammates, his fellow warriors. He’d been through hell and back with them, fought together on the field and off, killed and been killed, all in the name of winning.

Winning together.

Winning as a team.

He could never go back to the Purist Nation.

He reveled in the joy of accomplishing his second-highest goal. His ultimate goal? Winning a Tier One championship.

He was on a collision course with that now, on a collision course with a Tier One Championship. The only variable was time ...

EPILOGUE

PLAYOFFS ROUND THREE: KRAKENS VS. CHILLICH SPIDER BEARS

From the Ionath City Gazette

Hometown Hero Leads Krakens to Championship

By Toyat the Inquisitive

EARTH — Last night the Planetary Union shook in fear under the weight of the Quyth Concordia’s newest and best home-grown secret weapon: Yitzhak Goldman.

Goldman, a Human native of Ionath City, led the Krakens to a 24-19 win in the Tier Two Championship game, played at Hudson Bay Stadium on Earth. Goldman, who was named the game’s MVP, threw for two touchdown passes on the day, one to Milford, and the second to Richfield. Goldman, who has been third on the depth chart for most of the season, was tapped to lead the team in this critical championship match-up.

“We had two injured quarterbacks, and Goldman stepped up,” said Krakens’ head coach Hokor the Hookchest. “Our semifinal game left us with a lot of beat-up players. With the Tier One season only a few weeks away, we needed to rest some beings.”

Another key performer was Krakens running back Yassoud Murphy, who posted the first 100-yard game of his young Upper Tier career. Murphy picked up most of the yardage on a stunning 44-yard touchdown run late in the third quarter, a play that gave the Krakens a commanding 24-12 lead.

“The offensive line opened up a huge hole, and I ran through it,” Murphy said. “I’m buying those guys a beer. In fact, I’m buying them a lot of beers. Hey, you want a beer? I’m buying.”

Murphy’s jubilance was echoed in the Krakens’ locker room, where quarterbacks Donald Pine and Quentin Barnes drenched Goldman in the football tradition of a “Champagne shower.”

The Krakens move into Tier One for the first time in ten seasons. They don’t have much time to rest, however, as the Tier One season begins in only four weeks with a visit to the Isis Ice Storm of the Tower Republic.

THE END

EXCERPTS

From “Religion of an Empire: Mason Stewart’s Purist Church”

It has been argued for centuries whether Mason Stewart was, indeed, a true prophet, or was just the right man in the right place at the right time.

Earth’s ancient history is fraught with war and hatred between the dominant religions. Three religions, in particular — Christianity, Judaism and Islam — have been at each other’s throats for millennia. Historians can only estimate the number of deaths caused by altercations amongst these sects, and yet the most ironic part is that all three, essentially, worship the very same god.

It was this “one true god” that Mason Stewart called upon when he founded the Purist Nation just three months after Humanity’s first interstellar contact: the historic “Message from Space” sent out by the Whitok race in 2395. Humanity’s reaction to the discovery of life on other planets was mixed at best, ranging from boundless optimism to prophecies of doom and destruction. Elements of all three major religions railed against the concept of intelligent life on other planets. Stewart’s fire-and-brimstone speeches catered to these elements. His single most brilliant tactic was that he didn’t embrace an existing religion, but started his own. His was not an offshoot of Christianity or Islam or Judaism, but an entirely new church that incorporated elements of all three.

Many historians feel that Stewart’s incorporation of religious elements is proof positive that he was a calculating opportunist, that he skillfully created a philosophy “familiar enough” to be comfortable for members of all three religions. Members of the Purist Nation, however, say Stewart was a direct conduit for God, whom Stewart called the “High One.” Stewart painted a picture that the three religions were not “wrong,” just that man’s interpretation hadn’t been quite “right.”

The presence of alien life caused a great schism in the three religions. The leaders of Christianity, Judaism and Islam supported Humanity’s involvement with other races, yet millions of rank-and-file members did not. Fundamentalist movements sprang up all over the world, growing in numbers and strength when Whitokians established a permanent colony on Earth in 2406. Severe violence marked the various schisms as fundamentalists sought to kill Whitokians, drive them from Earth, and take control away from “blasphemous” church leaders. As Stewart’s church gained strength, his message called out to these fundamentalists. He gave them exactly what they wanted: an organized, religiously justified platform from which to hate alien races.

The Purist Nation boldly claimed responsibility for terrorist actions that cost the lives of thousands of Whitokian immigrants. The crackdown of 2431, however, put a permanent end to those terrorist acts. Governments and religions around the world cooperated to capture or kill Purist Nation terrorists. With his best shock troops eliminated, Stewart faced a turning point in his power base. Instead of trying to play politics, he called upon the immense wealth of his church to outfit a fleet of starships. Over five million followers of the Purist Nation fled Earth at the end of 2431.

The journey was difficult, to say the least. Poor technology, overcrowding and accidents caused the loss of some thirty ships and over one million lives before the Purist Nation fleet colonized their first planet, named “Stewart” after their bold leader. Many elements of this “exodus” have been incorporated into the Purist Nation’s holy texts. The new planet gave the Purist Nation a home free of cultural influence from Earth.

From “Rise to Power: The Quyth Concordia 2752 to present,” written by Viler the Meek

It is often mentioned in galactic history texts that the Quyth Concordia’s rise to power is merely a fluke of biology. The Quyth, after all, are the only sentient species that can completely ignore latent radiation, even when that radiation reaches levels high enough to kill Humans, Ki, Sklorno, Harrah, Whitok, Leekee and Creterakians.

This innate ability allowed the Quyth to expand from one planet to a five-planet empire rich in mineral wealth. In the seminal year of 2573, the Quyth shocked the galaxy by establishing a permanent, flourishing colony on the planet Gritchlik, which the Sklorno irradiated during the Quyth-Sklorno war. By the end of 2573, the Quyth had also colonized three other irradiated worlds—Whitok, Ionath, and Chikchik. This marked the fastest expansion in the galaxy’s history, and instantly catapulted the Quyth from a galactic second-stringer to a major player on the political landscape.

Yet despite the Concordia’s continued success, and despite the fact that the Concordia is one of only six systems to remain independent from the Creterakian Empire, sociologists from other species continue to say that the Quyth’s success relies solely on resistance to radiation. These so-called “experts” like to point out that the Quyth’s expansion was largely unchallenged, because no government could justify fighting a war over a “dead” planet. An interesting stance, but how logical is it?

Humans, for example, target planets rich in oxygen with Earth-like gravity. The Tower Republic and Leekee Collective have cooperatively shared planets in the same system, with the Republic taking the land and the Collective claiming domain over the oceans. Is that not a perfect example of a “biological fluke” resulting in expansion of territory? The Republic and the Collective do not war over planets, because they each occupy non-competitive ecological niches.

The Harrah, as another example, are the only species in the galaxy that can live on gas-giant planets. And yet how many “experts” point out the “biological fluke” that has led the Harrah to become a five-planet empire of immense military and political power? And how many of these mostly-Human “experts” point out the obvious, that while all Human governments bend to the will of the Creterakian Empire, the Quyth Concordia remains independent?

From “Species Biology & Football,” written by Cho-Ah-Huity

It is well-known that the Ki are the best linemen in football. While many call me biased, as I am a proud subject of the Ki Empire, I support this claim with facts.

First of all, there is the size factor. A Ki lineman stands on average six feet high vertically, with another six feet reaching back from the vertical body. It is the six-foot-long “ground-body” that provides amazing stability. Six legs support the ground-body, giving the Ki lineman the lowest center of gravity of any species. Because of this, it is very difficult to knock a Ki lineman to the ground.

Then there is the strength factor. In the “bench press,” a Human test of strength that is uniquely suited to measuring football prowess, the average Human lineman benches 720 pounds while the average Ki lineman benches 1,130 pounds. Quyth Warriors, the only other species capable of playing on the line, bench around 600 pounds. Humans from heavy-G worlds are becoming more of a factor in the game, yet they average around 900 pounds in the bench press. Clearly, the Ki is the strongest species in the game.

It has been noted, repeatedly, that both Quyth Warriors and heavy-G Humans are faster than Ki, have better lateral movement, and faster reaction time due to their smaller size — mostly because they have less mass to move. These factors make both species excellent linebackers and defensive ends. However, those factors are usually not enough to offset the Ki’s advantage in size and strength. Depending on the offensive scheme, Quyth and heavy-G Humans can make good run-blockers, but if you want to throw the ball you need the pass-blocking prowess of the Ki species.

As for defense, the middle of the line might as well be sovereign territory of the Ki Empire. With massive strength and the low center of gravity, Ki nose guards and defensive tackles are specialists at shutting down the run. The Ki are also able to lay devastating hits due to their “gather” ability, where they can briefly compact their tubular body from twelve feet to eight feet, then suddenly expand with violent force. The “gather” lets them deliver crushing hits anywhere in a ten-foot radius. It is a common technique in tackling as well as in block-destruct.

From “Species Biology & Football,” written by Cho-Ah-Huity

Sklorno were once considered the bane of the galaxy. An aggressive, fast-growing species, Sklorno females reach reproductive maturity in seven years. They also can breed up to twice a year, with potential broods of ten to twelve children. This would create severe overpopulation, save for the fact that in Sklorno society cannibalism is not only socially acceptable, it is considered a normal part of life. When the population exceeds the food supply, the government simply selects the individuals that are to become food themselves.

This behavior is indicative of what makes the Sklorno so “alien” to the other sentient species. The Sklorno have little or no concern for individual life. What matters in their culture is the success of the entire species, the “macro-environmental” scale if you will. Because of this attitude, the Sklorno were a vicious warring race, and tried several times to exterminate other species and expand their territory via war. The Sklorno, in fact, started the First Intergalactic War when they conquered the planet Withrit, and exterminated all intelligent life (amounting to about 2.1 billion Whitokians). The Sklorno were also the first species to destroy a planet’s ability to sustain life when they saturation-bombed Ionath, which then belonging to the Prawatt Jihad.

So what does this history lesson have to do with Species Biology & Football? You must understand the culture of the Sklorno if you are to understand their strengths and weaknesses as football players. Individual life holds little meaning for the Sklorno, while the success of the overall species is all-important. This attitude translates literally to the gridiron. Sklorno do whatever it takes to put the team ahead.

On top of that, they’re the fastest and most agile species in the galaxy. With 40-yard dash speeds up to a blistering 3.0, and vertical leaps of up to fifteen feet, they seem almost genetically-engineered to play wide receiver and defensive back. A Sklorno receiver fully extended and at top jumping height can pull down a ball that’s thrown twenty feet over her head. Despite their speed, the Sklorno are the least strong of the playing races. Improvements in inertia-based protective equipment have greatly reduced Sklorno deaths, although during a given Upper Tier season one can still expect five to eight deaths.

Creterakian officials introduced football in Sklorno space just 23 years ago. It has become a massive cultural phenomenon. Football is the number-one spectator sport, surpassing the traditional sports of spot-racing and even soccer, which the Sklorno have dominated since Humans introduced it 62 years ago. With military expansion halted by Creterakian rule, young Sklorno females have few outlets for their aggressive tribal tendencies. Football has filled that gap.

A societal quirk has developed due to the GFL, where Sklorno players (and some fans) put their team on a slightly higher level than their species. For many Sklorno, football isn’t like a religion, it is a religion. Sociologists say that the team-based nature of the GFL is a perfect, microcosmic replica of the warring culture, and it appeals to the Sklorno at a very instinctive level. With the success of the species always at the forefront of their thoughts, Sklorno tend to idolize those that define a team’s success — coaches and quarterbacks. There are actual churches spread throughout Sklorno space that are dedicated to coaches, like To Pirates coach Yuri Rockmananoff, and quarterbacks, like Hittoni Hullwalkers legend Sam London and two-time Tier One Championship MVP Donald Pine.

From “Creterak: The Unforeseen Dynasty,” by Hammond Gomez

It is almost inconceivable to anyone under the age of 40 that once, not so long ago, no one had even heard of a “Creterakian.” Considering that race’s almost total control over the galaxy, it is just as inconceivable to those people that the Creterakians were once looked at as an asset to be claimed, not a military power to be feared.

Creterak is a medium-sized planet, disadvantageously located in a political “hot zone” near the galactic core. The planet borders the Harrah Tribal Accord, The Quyth Concordia and the Rewall Association. It is also uncomfortably close to the last known position of the Prawatt Jihad fleet. This proximity proved to be a spark for military conflict.

The Creterakians were centuries behind other races in most technologies, but surprisingly advanced in some areas. Signal detection, for example, is an area in which that race completely outclasses all others. The Creterakians managed to “hide” their planet from detection for over 250 years, and were completely unknown until they achieved FTL capability in 2639.

The existence of a sentient race hidden within in a well-explored area stunned every scientist in the galaxy. Military officials of three separate systems saw a potential asset near the border of potential enemies. Within hours of the announcement, the Tribal Accord, the Association and the Concordia sent “diplomatic” fleets to Creterak. All three systems immediately claimed the rights to the new planet.

Even as the Galactic Council met to discuss claims to Creterak, skirmishes erupted between the Harrah and Quyth fleets just three days after the planet’s discovery. Within a week, the skirmishes evolved into minor naval battles claiming well over 50,000 lives. What had begun as an amazing discovery quickly grew into the potential for a Fifth Galactic War. Each government sent reinforcements, resulting in three armada-class fleets circling the planet.

In a claimed effort to stem the violence, the Creterakians sent delegates to every ship in all three fleets. Again, it is inconceivable to young people today that the fleets fell for such a simple ruse. But look at it from the historical standpoint: the Creterakians were small, seemingly harmless creatures, they had no inter-species battle experience, and they had no military craft. Humans have even described Creterakians as “cute.” Nothing was known of them other than the fact they had FTL capability and could speak every known language, which they had absorbed from centuries of signal monitoring.

One small delegate vessel traveled to each ship in all three fleets, but no one suspected just how many Creterakians could pack into such a confined space. In primitive shuttles that would seat four humans in relative comfort, the Creterakians packed over 300 shock troops. In addition, no one had ever faced soldiers that moved as fast as the Creterakians, who can fly up to 45 miles per hour. The results were almost instant — the Creterakians seized control of three entire fleets as their soldiers tore through the ships with unheard of speed, killing most of the crew even before alarms could be sounded.

With their borders secure, the Creterakians launched the largest invasion force the galaxy has ever seen. Like a cell bursting with a deadly virus, over 50,000 transport vessels departed from Creterak and spread throughout the galaxy. Each vessel contained at least one million Creterakian soldiers — a force 50 billion strong. Subsequent research shows the Creterakians had been planning their attack for 125 years, all the while going undetected by every race in the galaxy.

The Creterakians also shocked established navies with a new tactic — attack by attrition. The landing ships ignored navies and headed straight for the surface of every inhabited planet in the galaxy. Defending navies destroyed tens of thousands of ships, but it’s estimated at least five landing vessels touched down on each planet — giving the invading Creterakians a ground force of at least five million soldiers that could fly at 45 miles per hour and were armed with high-power entropic accelerator rifles. As astonishing as the figure sounds, the Creterakians conquered every planet within one week of landing.

By 2642, the Creterakians had the complete surrender of the Planetary Union, League of Planets, Ki Empire, Ki Rebel Alliance, Purist Nation, Tower Republic, Leekee Collective, Harrah Tribal Accord and the Sklorno Dynasty. The Quyth Concordia and the Rewall Association managed to fight off the invading forces, and remain independent to this day.

TIMELINE

Partial galactic history of major events leading up to the founding and operation of the GFL

PRE-HISTORY

TERTIARY EPOCH:

Other than the sprawling deep-space construct known as “The Reef,” very little evidence remains of the Tertiary Epoch. It is known, however, that the period was a clear example of the “batching” phenomenon. Batching is defined as several species on separate planets achieving sentience and FTL technology in a relatively limited time span. Considering the number of variables involved with a species achieving sentience, it is theorized that with certain types of planets that evolution of sentience is inevitable, and will happen in a certain time frame based upon a planet cooling enough to support self-replicating chemical compounds. As large areas of mass condensed to form stars and planets, these areas possibly provided similar “starting points” at which this inevitable path to sentience began. This theory is highly controversial, countered by most mathematicians, astronomers and, of course, those that theorize batching is caused by galactic panspermia efforts.

QUATERNARY EPOCH:

Little is known about this period that occurred some two million years ago. The batching phenomena occurred in this time, with several species attaining sentience and achieving faster-than-light and/or gate technology. The Quaternary Epoch lasted approximately 500,000 years. Most academicians agree that ancestors of the Givers and Collectors cultures began in this period.

Galactic Timeline: all times in Earth Time (ErT)

MODERN EPOCH:

1967       Collector gate built on Ki homeworld. Ki race subjugated (date estimated).

1988       Collector orbital arrives at Earth.

2008       Collectors fail in multiple attempts to invade Earth

2009       Ki uprising against Collector homeworld. All contact lost with Collector race. Ki destroy all technology, dark age begins.

2015       Prawatt race created and exterminated on Earth (date estimated).

2345       Rewalls complete first successful test of the Punch Drive, achieve FTL status.

2387       Humans independently develop the Punch Drive.

2392       Rewalls establish colony on Loshal

2401       Humans become first peaceful interstellar ambassadors, landing on Whitok.

2406       Humans (with help of Terran Dolphins) sign treaty with Whitok.

•   Whitok inhabit Earth’s waters, humans inhabit Whitok lands.

•   Purist movement forms on Earth. Some humans believe Whitok are tools of the devil and that they should be destroyed.

2407       Humans colonize Capizzi 7, located in the Whitok system.

2409       Rewall colonize Yewalla

2410       Prawatt race seeded on new homeworld.

2412       Terrorist attack on Whitok city by Purists, 120 Whitok killed.

2414       Purist movement gains power. They want “Satanic” Whitok removed form Earth.

2420       Whitok become third interstellar race, achieving FTL with help of human scientists.

2430       Estimated time the Givers arrive in galaxy.

2431       Terrorist attacks on Whitok increase. Earth authorities heavily punish Purists in order to pacify enraged Whitok. Purists flee persecution and leave Earth in small fleet of ships. They predict destruction of Earth as they escape “Satanic” Whitok.

2431       Earthlings colonize Satirli 6.

2432       Givers land on Harrah homeworld.

2433       Capizzi 7 achieves self-sufficiency.

2434       Prawatt achieve FTL capability.

2438       Prawatts attack peaceful Rewall research vessel. First interstellar combat. Both ships break off fighting and return to home systems.

2439       Kuluko establish radio contact with Whitok, Rewalls and Earth. Purists land on Jason 2, renaming it Allah. Begin massive re-tooling of fleet to create fighting navy.

2440       Prawatt, with a navy of only 20 ships, attack Yewalla in first interstellar war. Prawatt forces defeat token Rewall defenders and land on Yewalla, but are driven off by Rewall land forces.

2445       Purists colonize Stewart.

2448       Harrah achieve FTL capability. Givers depart.

2450       Satirli 6 achieves self-sufficiency.

•   Earth, Capizzi 7 and Satirli 6 form Planetary Union.

2453       Purists declare war on Planetary Union in First Holy War. The purists only have 12 ships — the war is clumsy and short-lived.

2454       Purists, fearing a retaliatory attack, sue for peace. Union accepts.

2455       Givers land on Kurgurk homeworld.

2456       Prawatt conquer Kuluko, exterminating the intelligent race. Ambassadors from Union, Whitok and Rewall Accord are executed. None of the three systems are able to respond in time to help Kuluko.

2460       Rewalls colonize Lotharis.

2461       Whitok colonize New Whitok.

2468       Planetary Union colonizes Thomas 3, which is in the same system as New Whitok.

2470       Leekee achieve FTL capability.

2478       •   Prawatt colonize Lewarth and Basadah.

•   Kurgurk achieve FTL capability. Givers depart.

2486       Prawatt fleet (estimated at 72 ships) attack Yewalla again. Rewall ships, now prepared for combat, destroy Prawatt fleet (an estimated 25 ships returned to Prawatt).

2489       •   Satirli 6 secedes from Planetary Union.

•   Civil war erupts between Union and Satirli 6.

2490       Whitok colonize Withrit.

2491       Satirli 6 successfully defends itself. Planetary Union officially recognizes it as an independent government.

2502       Sklorno achieve FTL capability.

2503       Thomas 3 admitted to Planetary Union.

2504       Grasslop achieve FTL capability.

2506       Grasslop ship meets Leekee ship in neutral space. Leekee attack and destroy Grasslop ship.

2510       Leekee declare war on Grasslop.

2511       Leekee conquer Grasslop.

2512       •   Rewalls colonize Yashan.

•   Purists colonize Mason.

2514       •   Satirli 6 colonizes Wilson 4 and Wilson 6 and immediately declares them both independent protectorates, to be completely free as soon as they are self-sufficient.

•   Satirli 6 opens trade with Planetary Union and Whitok Kingdom.

2515       Satirli 6 opens its doors to Union immigrants and they come by the millions. Satirli 6 rapidly becoming economic giant.

2517       Purists, seeing Satirli 6’s massive growth and assuming they hate the Union, invite Satirli 6 to join the Purist Nation. Satirli 6 refuses and Purists declare war on the infidels.

2518       Givers land on Ki homeworld.

2519       •   Purists can’t keep up long distance offensive war against Satirli 6.

•   Purists offer peace, Satirli 6 accepts.

•   Satirli 6, Wilson 4 and Wilson 6 form League of Planets to defend themselves against future Purist aggression.

First Galactic War, 2520-2524

2520       •   Sklorno launch massive (150 ship) attack against Withrit, destroying all intelligent life on planet.

•   Whitok kingdom immediately declares war on Sklorno.

•   Planetary Union joins its ally and declares war on Sklorno.

2521       Purists see the Union at war and declare Second Holy War on the infidels.

2522       Whitok sends delegation to Rewalls. Rewalls understand message and declare war on Sklorno.

2523       •   League of Planets declares defensive war on Purist Nation.

•   Prawatt, who have waited until Rewall navy is committed against Sklorno, attack Yewalla.

•   Sklorno are days away from conquering Whitok.

•   Purists get first look at Sklorno. They immediately break off their war with the Union.

•   League of Planets stops attacks on Purist ships, allowing them to return back to their system.

•   Rewall forced to break off attacks on Sklorno to deal with Prawatt.

•   In a last-ditch effort, the Whitok Navy suicide-attacks the Sklorno forces off of the Whitok homeworld. The attack stops the movement on Whitok homeworld, but costs the Kingdom 50 percent of an already crippled fleet.

2524       Planetary Union brings full force to bear on Sklorno navy, which has regrouped and is heading for Whitok homeworld. The largest battle of the war ensues. Union forces drive off Sklorno, but not before the Sklorno saturation-bomb Whitok homeworld. Most life on Whitok destroyed and planet is uninhabitable.

2525       •   Ki achieve FTL capability. Eat givers for dinner.

•  Rewall and Prawatt stalemate ends when Rewall leave a ravaged Yewalla for the Prawatt Jihad.

2526       Whitok offer Reiger 2 to Planetary Union in thanks after refusing to join Union. Addition of Reiger 2 leaves New Whitok, the Kingdom’s only remaining planet, well inside Union borders.

2527-

2549       The Age Of Colonization.

•   Planetary Union adds Jones, New Earth, Rodina (all three in same system) and Home to its ranks.

•   Sklorno destroy avian race on Yall and add Chikchik.

•   Whitok spend trillions on colonization, adding Whipath and Whirod (same system) Whopol, Whirot and all-water giant Wheresh

•   Prawatt add Ionath.

•   Rewall add Loshall.

•   Leekee add Grinkas and Replas.

•   League of Planets adds Vosor 3 and distant Tower 1.

•   Purists add Solomon.

•   Kurgurk add Rfgh and Drghp.

•   Ki add Ol 3 and Re 4.

2530       Portath achieve FTL capability. Within 4 years (estimated), Portath colonize Thew and Faskah.

2531       •   League of Planets forces sent from Tower on peaceful mission are lost when they enter the Portath Cloud.

•   Portath send a message to the galaxy not to enter the cloud.

•   League sends large navy to protect Tower from potential threat.

2533        Sklorno, despite warnings from Planetary Union, attack New Whitok. Whitok Kingdom’s new navy has been waiting for revenge for nine years, and defeat Sklorno in pitched battle.

2535        Planetary Union signs treaty of friendship with Purist Nation. League of Planets and Whitok Kingdom voice their objections to treaty.

Second Galactic War, 2536-2540

2536       Leekee attack Whiropt in an effort to gain new territory. Whitok barely repel attack. Whitok, seeing a double threat to a navy that hasn’t even recovered fully from the last war, begin to spend all money on defense.

2537       Leekee, trying to surprise Whitok forces at Whiropt, travel into Portath Cloud. Forty-seven ships are never heard from again as entire force disappears. (Editor’s Note: this was the Leekee’s biggest blunder, as it gave Whitok time to rebuild its navy. Had Lee-kee attacked directly, it could have claimed half of the Whitok Kingdom’s territory.)

2538       •   Purist Nation launches major fleet in effort to add Tower 1.

•   League of Planets promises war if Purists touch Tower.

•   Purists claim the Union cannot allow hostile League ships through its space as it would be a violation of the friendship treaty of 2535. Caught in the diplomatic trap and wanting to avoid war with Purists, the Union claims neutrality and refuses to allow League ships through.

•   Purist force, unaware of large Tower Navy, are defeated in first battle for Tower.

2539       •   League tries to send ships though Union space. Union blockades the movement. Minor firefight ensues with League returning to system.

•   League forces are stonewalled by Purist defenses outside Jones system, League helpless to protect Tower.

•   August 4: Tower’s Captain Markos surprises Purist forces at Stewart. Purists suffer heavy losses, but still maintain vast numerical superiority. Tower’s hopes for peace are dashed as Purists send 80-ship armada to conquer Tower once and for all.

•   November 21: Markos, pursued by 78 Purist vessels, leads Tower’s final 14 ships into the Portath Cloud. Markos baits Purists into cloud and scatters his fleet. Seven Tower ships returned home, and all 78 Purist ships were lost. Captain Markos was never heard from again.

2540       •    Portath send message to Purists: “Attack again, and we will destroy you.”

•   Purist government, unsure of how Tower destroyed most of its fleet, offers Tower peace. Tower accepts.

•   Tower secedes from League of Planets. League blames Union for loss of planet, hostile feelings remain today.

•   Union, angered at being used in the Tower conflict, breaks off treaty with Purist Nation. Purists warn of consequences.

2551       •   Ki Navy makes its first appearance, attacking Leekee forces at Replas. Ki Navy wins battle, then returns home.

•   Ki Navy attacks Harrah forces. Harrah win soundly and declare war on Ki for unprovoked aggression.

2552       •   Planetary Union, trying to prevent a war so close to its borders, calls Galactic Peace Conference, attended by all except Prawatt.

•   Quyth achieve FTL capability.

Third Galactic War, 2553-2557

2553       •    Ki sign peace treaty with Harrah (at Galactic Peace Conference). Ki people outraged.

•   Ol and Re seceded from Ki Empire.

•   Ships stationed at Ol and Re attack Ki, trying to oust cowardly government.

•   Leekee see potential for war if Rebels win and decide to support Ki government, attacking the rebels near Ol.

•   Rebels hold off Leekee and press closer to Ki. Some landings take place, resulting in numerous ground wars.

2554       •    Rewalls, who have had excellent relations with the Ki government, threaten war unless rebels retreat. Rebels continue attacks and Rewall engage rebel forces at Re.

•   Whitok, spurred on by the memory of unprovoked attacks by Leekee, send “advisors” to help rebels on Leekee border.

•   Tower, wary of rebuilt Purist navy and hungry for allies, sends ships to help Leekee.

•   Purists, seeing another chance to snatch Tower, side with Rebels for “religious purposes.”

•   Planetary Union warns Purists to stay away from Tower.

2556       •    A minor altercation on the Prawatt/Sklorno border erupts into a full-scale war.

•   Harrah join in fight against the Rebels, supporting the government that made the peace treaty.

•   April 27: First Battle for Ki. Synchronized attack by the Purists, Whitok and Rebels overwhelm Rewall and Leekee forces. Rebels take Ki, but not before Royal family can be evacuated.

•   Purists attack Tower forces at Tower. Union immediately moves to attack Purists.

2557       •   Battle for Asteroid X7. Union forces meet Purist forces at Asteroid X7. Union wins by small margin. Purists fall back to re-group. (Editor’s Note: the fall back is considered the biggest tactical mistake of the war. The Union could not mount another offensive for at least three months, and the Purists could have brought up reserves and regrouped right on the front lines.)

•   June 12: Tower, Rewall and Leekee forces seize opportunity and attack Rebels in Second Battle for Ki. Whitok navy late in arriving and is turned back by organized Rewall defenses.

•   July 23: Leekee, Tower and Loyal Ki forces re-take planet. Rebels on planet-side are ousted and Rebel forces return to Re and Ol.

2558       •   Tower turns down offer to join Union. Instead, they join new Tri-Alliance (Ki Empire, Leekee Collective and Tower Republic).

•   Prawatt/Sklorno war is a stalemate.

•   Sklorno saturate Ionath, killing all sentient life.

•   Prawatt saturate Chikchik, killing all sentient life.

2559       Rewall, hot off their victory over the Ki Rebels, launch a surprise attack against Prawatt-controlled Yewalla. They quickly defeat the Prawatts, who are still weak from war with Sklorno. Rewalls execute all Prawatts in retaliation for actions of 2525.

2561       Ki declare themselves trading capital of the galaxy and sign non-aggression pacts with every system, excluding Prawatt.

2562       Tower and Leekee conduct The Great Planet Trade. Leekee added one of Tower’s moons (New Leekee). Tower adds two planets in Leekee system (Fortress and Citadel).

2563       Ki colonize To.

2568       Harrah claim Satah, which is deep in Whitok space. Whitok are unable to use planet, but still threaten war. Union enters as intermediary; Harrah buy the planet from Whiok for c50 trillion.

2569       Harrah claim Lorah, which Planetary Union has rights to but cannot live on. Caught in same argument they used against Whitok, Union reluctantly sells planet to Harrah for c57 trillion.

2572       •   February 12: 23 year galactic peace shattered when Quyth send 400 ships against Reiger, crushing defenses and enslaving population.

•   February 17: Quyth strike again, sending another fleet of 300 ships against Sklorno held Gritchlik. They take planet and send Sklorno citizens back to Sklorno.

•   March 4: Quyth expansion halted by Rewall when they defeat 500-ship force at Loshall.

•   March 27: Union forces attack Quyth at Reiger. Union loses 26 ships, Quyth lose 112. Quyth win with incredible numerical superiority (estimated at 4 to 1).

•   April 10: Sklorno re-take Gritchlik in costly battle.

•   May 22: Quyth re-take Gritchlik with navy returning from Loshall. Sklorno saturate planet before pulling out.

2573       •   Quyth shock the galaxy when it is discovered they have a permanent colony on radioactive Gritchlik.

•   June 4: Quyth colonize and claim Whitok.

•   July 6: Quyth colonize and claim Ionath.

•   July 17: Quyth colonize and claim Chikchik.

•   July 21: Whitok declare war on Quyth for landing on Whitok (even though it will be another three million years before any Whitokian can even set foot on the planet).

•   Through three battles, Whitok lose half of their 300-ship navy while destroying 1,012 Quyth ships.

2574       Quyth retaliate to “unprovoked” attacks and send 600 ships to attack New Whitok. Combined Union and Whitok force meet Quyth fleet. Quyth lost 450 ships before retreating, Whitok lost 78 and Union lost 45 (Editor’s Note: largest single battle in Galaxy’s history). Whitok and Quyth agree to a cease-fire.

2581       Sklorno attack Drghp. Kurgurk unleash asteroid battleships and destroy Sklorno invaders.

2582       Whitok, fearing an attack from Leekee (their navy was still very weak from Quyth war), trade rights to Whopol to Ki for weapons, ships and credit.

2584       Ki develop deep mineral sights on Whopol that the Whitok were unaware of. Resulting wealth thrusts Ki Empire past League of Planets into top economic power in the galaxy.

2587       Pirate attacks begin in earnest on Ki shipping lanes.

2588       •   Harrah boldly claim Yarah, a planet on the Quyth/Rewall border. Both systems are so surprised and slow to react that Harrah set up heavy defenses before either system could respond. Harrah allowed to keep planet without war.

•   Whitok spend defense money hand over fist and begin to borrow from gracious Ki Empire.

2589       Ki Imperial Navy capturing more pirates, finding most to be Human with some Ki.

Fourth Galactic War, 2591-2600

2591       Purists use seven captured Unions ships (captured in the last war) to attack convoy just off of To. Ki cripple one ship, which the purists have filled with captured Union soldiers (also from the last war). Ki troops find only dead Union soldiers.

2592       •   September 5: Despite claims of innocence from the Union, Ki government decides war would be good for economy and declares war on Union for sponsoring pirates.

•   Ki force Whitok, who are deeply in debt to the Empire, to stay out of war.

•   Ki manipulate treaty agreement of 2558 as well as threaten to cut off trade to bring Tower and Leekee into the war.

2593       •   No battles have yet taken place. Purist Nation gladly joins the fight against the warmongering, satanic Union.

•   League of Planets, realizing that they will be next on Ki and Purist target list if the two defeat the most powerful navy in the galaxy, join the Union in the war.

•   January 17: Ki and Union forces meet off of Harrah home-world. Union forces are defeated and retreat to stronghold at Thomas 3.

•    July 2: Ki Rebel Establishment takes advantage of Empire’s troubles and pounces on Ak, an Imperial protectorate, adding it to the Establishment.

2594       •   Ki, who don’t think war is progressing fast enough, negotiate a deal with the Sklorno to attack the Union.

•   Whitok, ashamed of their stance in the war and not helping its Union ally, attack the hated Sklorno with vigor.

•   Battles rage across galaxy. Ki side is winning due to greater numbers and more money.

•   Empire manages to keep solid trade lines going with all her allies except the Sklorno.

2595       •    January 12: Ki and Tower forces defeat main Union force and conquer Thomas 3

•   February 14: Purists conquer Jones 2.

2596       Planetary Union very close to surrender. Fleet operating at 34 percent of original numbers. Death toll reaching 70 million.

2597       •    January 12: Rewall enters war suddenly by conquering Demos. Ki must defend against Rewall’s constant harassment sorties and lose numerical superiority over Union.

•   May 19: The Great Sneak Attack. League of Planets forces invoke new stealth technology to travel to Allah, defeating Purist forces and conquering Purist capitol.

•   Purists immediately pull every ship out of war and head for Allah, abandoning weakening Ki forces. When Purist ships arrive in Allah system, League leaves without a fight.

•   Harrah offer aid to Union for far-flung Whitok outpost. Union and Whitok, who can no longer hold back Sklorno, agree to terms.

2598       •   Union forces, led by Harrah frigates, conquer Ki forces and re-take Thomas 3.

•   Ki Rebels declare all debts owed to Ki Empire invalid and sneak attack Ki homeworld.

•   Ki immediately retreat to deal with new threat.

•   Tower/Leekee forces attack Rebels at Re. They are defeated and the Tri-Alliance members withdraw from war, leaving Ki Empire with no allies.

2600       •   Ki Empire surrenders to combined delegation of League, Union, Rebel and Rewall forces.

•   Harrah claim Whitok outpost, christening it Mathara.

•   Harrah give Sklorno cease-fire ultimatum. Sklorno return to their system.

•   September 6: Galactic Accord signed. Ki navy limited to 100 active ships, and 100 dismantled and in reserve for defensive purposes. Union Watchdogs installed on all Ki ships to insure compliance with treaty. Ki allowed to hold all of its possessions. Rebels demand Ki homeworld for their part in the war. Other systems just want peace and officially end war with promises of retaliating to any hostile Rebel actions.

The Great Peace

2601       Planetary Union buys back Jones 2. Purists sell because they do not want to go to war in their weakened state.

2610       The Great Mapping Conference. System borders are hammered out to everyone’s satisfaction. The new map clearly marks territory and makes it obvious to identify the aggressor. This brings about a relative peace.

2634       Quyth claim that map is incorrect, that Sklorno border is too close to Gritchlik and Chikchik.

2636       Second Galactic Peace Conference held. Quyth and Sklorno are not liked by anyone, and little attention is paid to their border dispute.

2637        •   Tiring of constant border raids by Quyth, Sklorno send major force to border.

•   Quyth respond by sending a major force.

•   Ki achieve pre-war economic status.

2638       Tensions on Quyth/Sklorno border continue to rise, war seems imminent.

•   Prawatts announce their intention of backing the Quyth if war should break (Editor’s Note: a major turning point in the history of galaxy, as it was the Jihad’s first political move).

•   Purists, who now have their navy functioning again, claim rights to Jones 2, saying that they were coerced into selling planet, for a fraction of its worth. Purists say that Union would have destroyed Allah had the Nation not sold Jones 2.

•   Rodina threatens secession from the Union.

The Cretarakian Age, 2639-

2639       Cretarakians achieve FTL capability. Quyth, Rewalls and Harrah claim Cretarak. Cretarakians claim allegiance to no one and friendship to all. (Editor’s Note: the Cretarakians had been quietly monitoring the galactic events of the past 200 years without being discovered. They knew exactly what was going on when they announced their presence. They are far ahead of where any other race was at the FTL discovery phase of their histories).

2640        •  Quyth, Rewall and Harrah fleets converge on Cretarak, tensions soaring — none of the three governments is willing to give up rights to the world, while the rest of the galaxy tries to decide how to handle this unprecedented situation.

•   Skirmishes erupt amongst the three fleets.

•   Cretarakians claim self-sufficiency, send delegations to the three fleets to negotiate a settlement.

•   The three fleets welcome the tiny, seemingly harmless Cretarakian delegations. The Cretarakians are far from harmless. Swarming by the thousands, the small, flying creatures erupt from landing bays and within hours have captured all ships from the three fleets.

•   The Cretarakians launch 50,000 landing ships that have been concealed on the planet. This reveals a level of technology not only unsuspected by the rest of the galaxy, but unknown to anyone (Editor’s Note: the Cretarakians planned their galactic attack for over 125 years).

•   Each ship contains at least one million Cretarakians. Fifty billion Cretarakians spread through the galaxy within days. Thousands of ships are destroyed, but at least four ships land on every colonized planet in the galaxy. The Cretarakians completely bypass navies, choosing to land on planets instead.

•   Once on a planet, the Cretarakian flocks unleash a devastating ground attack. Their speed, natural flight, and high-powered weaponry makes them an unstoppable force. Within one week, all ground armies are overwhelmed.

•   Whitokian governments, based underwater, remain intact, but all land is overtaken.

•   Prawatt Jihad has more time to react, being at the edge of the galaxy. They irradiate outlying worlds and colonies, and fall back to their system. They manage to destroy all of the Cretarakian ships targeted for their core system.

•   Quyth government retreats to irradiated worlds, where the Cretarakians choose not attack.

•   Planetary Union forces, led by Admiral Joshua Baugh, attempt a desperate attack on the Cretarakian homeworld. The Cretarakians use their captured warships to hold off the attack.

•   League of Planets Blue Fleet, numbering over 1,000 vessels, joins the assault, but the Cretarakians are waiting — they have discovered a design flaw in League ships, and manage to use small boarding vessels to swarm the League ships, capturing all ships in one devastating tactical stroke.

•   Ki Empire and Ki Rebellion navies join forces in an attack on the Cretarakian homeworld, but are soundly defeated by the technologically advanced captured League ships.

•   Almost 900 Cretarakian warships and landing vessels enter the Portath Cloud and are never heard from again.

2641       •   Cretarakians demand the surrender of all navies. Initially all systems refuse, but the Cretarakians begin to execute thousands of hostages every day.

•   The Planetary Union surrenders first, on the orders of Admiral Joshua Baugh.

•   The Ki Empire surrenders.

•   The Ki Rebellion manages to evacuate government officials to a warship, and declare themselves a space-faring race, abandoning their planets.

•   Purist Nation surrenders.

•   Tower Republic surrenders.

•   Leekee Collective surrenders.

•   League of Planets surrenders.

2642       •   Cretarakians abandon efforts to pacify Rewall Association and Kurgurk. Scientists aren’t even sure if the Kurgurk knew the Cretarakians were on their planets — the Cretarakian armies were completely ignored.

•   Harrah Tribal Accord surrenders.

•   Sklorno Dynasty surrenders.

•   Cretarakians abandon efforts to pacify irradiated Quyth Concordia planets.

•   Cretarakians abandon efforts to pacify Whitok Kingdom — Whitokian underwater combat technology too great to overcome.

2643       •   Cretarakians in clear control of the Galaxy. Most species suspect existing governments are working with the Cretarakians, creating an overpowering, Cold War atmosphere of distrust.

•   Murder rates skyrocket, as do isolationist cults and cross-species violence.

2644       In an effort to control cross-species violence and racism, the Cretarakians take over all shipping between worlds.

2645       Cretarakian shipping proves to be clumsy and poorly communicated. Goods and services are delivered late, often not at all, and industry begins to suffer heavily.

2646       •   The Galaxy dives headlong into economic depression. Despite strict Cretarakian discipline, murder and violence rates continue to climb. In cities and planets that formerly encouraged diversification, violence becomes a daily occurrence.

•   The Cretarakians begin to realize they don’t understand the behavior of other species. Cretarakian scientists assumed that once they had control of all military forces, a great peace would ensue.

2647       •   The Dark Time — the depression hits the worst levels ever, with galactic unemployment at 25 percent.

•   Cross-species relations reach an all-time low.

•   Organized crime swells to new heights, providing unobtainable goods and services for exorbitant prices.

2648       The Cretarakians give up on their role as the galaxy’s shippers, turning the duties over to the Ki Empire.

2649       The Ki Empire provides an overall organizational structure, coordinating the shipping fleets of all subjugated governments. Almost overnight, the demand for imported goods and services skyrockets as items once again become available on most worlds.

2650       The Planetary Union introduces a galactic supply-and-demand computing system, tying all shipping vessels into one gigantic, coordinated fleet. Economic recovery continues to boom.

2651       •   Despite increased trade, cross-species violence is still a major problem, so severe it interferes with shipping as vessels are illegally searched and crews harassed or detained based on race.

•   Ki Rebellion piracy becoming a major problem.

•   Organized crime grows stronger by preying on shipping.

•   Cretarakians refuse to give any government warships to deal with the piracy problem.

2652       Cross-species violence becomes an epidemic as terrorists do the unthinkable, simultaneously nuking three cities (one each on the Planetary Union’s Earth, Leekee Collective’s Grinkas and Ki Empire’s Ki). Purist Nation is suspected, but there is no proof.

2653       •   Cretarakians ask for help in controlling cross-species violence and piracy. Planetary Union officials introduce a plan for “System Police” departments — para-military forces made up of indigenous species that protect their various governments.

•   SP ships are armed, but are significantly weaker than Cretarakian warships.

•   SP ships are given limited search-and-seizure powers.

2654       •   Cretarakians finally admit they need help in improving species relations. League of Planets steps up, introducing non-contact galactic sporting events.

•   Sports have historically brought races together, not only for humans, but for all sentient species.

•   League scientists believe group dynamics that have held true for intra-species race relations will also hold true for inter-species relations.

2657       •   The sporting events prove to be a boon to the entertainment and travel industries, but is not producing the predicted cross-species cooperation.

•   Physiology results in single species dominating various sports.

•   Harrah dominate all racing events.

•   Ki dominate all strength, hand-to-hand combat, and throwing events.

•   Sklorno dominate non-contact field sports like soccer.

•   Humans dominate all hand-eye coordination sports like hockey, archery, etc.

The Galactic Football League Era

2658       •   League scientist Demarkus Johnson unveils a plan for the Galactic Football League.

•   Football is the only sport where various positions cater to the different physiologies.

•   The Cretarakians readily accept, funding a test league of 12 teams.

2659-

2661       The GFL is an immediate success, as it forces species to work together. In addition, it is the first occurrence in decades where fans of one species root for players of another.

2662      The GFL expands to 14 teams.

2663       •   Purist Nation citizens rise up against Creterakian control. System-wide riots occur as citizens attack Cteretakian garrisons. Creterakians bring in military reinforcements to quell uprising.

•   Human death count uncertain, at least 12,000.

•   Creterakian death count: 7,213.

•   Reverend Abdul Smith uses situation to mount bloody coup, takes over church leadership.

•   Smith works with Creterakians to investigate uprising, uses investigation to remove potential enemies.

•   Millions flee Purist Nation as Smith’s Creterakian death squads spread through system.

2664       •   Demand for teams is so great that the GFL expands to 18 teams.

•   Station 1 Givers, Buddah City Elite, Hittoni Hullwalkers and Srabian Salient added.

2665       •    “The Disaster.” Purist Nation police under Abdul Smith’s orders impounds the New Rodina Astronauts’ team bus. The Purist Nation police accuse the Astronauts of spying — all non-human players are executed.

•   Governments are outraged — anti-human violence soars.

•   The GFL season is cancelled.

•   Purist Nation church coup results in Smith’s death. Mullah Abigail Chase new leader.

2666       •   Cretarakian officials decide to eliminate the GFL.

•   Club football teams flourish.

•   A Ki businessman starts a new 12-team league to fill the gap, the Inter-Galactic Football League (IGFL). The IGFL is open to any team.

2667       •   Despite low caliber of players, limited traveling ability, and a lack of security, the IGFL swells to 26 teams and is an instant hit with football fans.

•   The Fangs, a Ki-based team, are killed when a terrorist bomb destroys their team bus.

•   Tower Football Club members are killed in a freak cosmic-ray accident.

2668       •   The IGFL swells to 32 teams. It is a great year for attendance, and a bad year for teams: four teams are lost in shipping accidents or terrorist acts.

•   Illegal search-and-seizure by SP forces continues to plague the league, resulting in harassment, beatings, and several injuries that impact game outcomes.

2669       •   Faced with mounting deaths from unregulated IGFL teams, the Cretarakians again start up the GFL.

•   GFL “team busses” are given diplomatic immunity — they cannot be stopped or searched by any SP forces.

•   The 18 former GFL teams are re-instated, and 4 IGFL teams are added to the ranks.

•   The Cretarakians disband the IGFL, breaking it down into six smaller leagues that play all games within the borders of a single government. Acts of SP harassment drop considerably.

2670       The 22-team GFL enjoys a successful season without any violence.

2671       League officials are flooded with requests by teams wanting to join the GFL.

2672       The GFL reorganizes, absorbing the former IGFL teams as “Second Tier” teams.

2682       The present.

League Structure: Tier One

- There are 22 Tier One teams, broken into two 11-team divisions (the Solar Division and the Planet Division).

- Teams play a 12-game season, with 10 games against their Division teams and two cross-divisional games.

- The top four teams in each division make the eight-team Tier One playoff. This three-round, single-elimination tournament finishes with the Solar Division Champion facing off against the Planet Division Champion in the Galaxy Bowl to determine the GFL Championship.

- The two division champs face off in the GFL Championship.

- The team in each division with the worst record drops into the Second Tier.

- The top two Second Tier teams move into the First Tier.

- Players on Second Tier teams that move up are protected for two seasons, to give new First Tier teams a chance to win without their talent being raided.

League Structure: Tier Two

- Human League (Planetary Union, League of Planets, Purist Nation)

- Tower League (Tower, Leekee)

- Ki League (Ki, former Ki Rebel Alliance planets)

- Harrah League

- Quyth Irradiated League

- Sklorno League

Modern-Day Political Alignment

GLOSSARY

The Ace: Quyth Orbital Station I, called “The Ace” by Humans. A massive artificial structure, The Ace was created as a solution to overcrowding on the Quyth homeworld. The Ace is over 350 Earth years old and has a population of 1.1 billion. Also known as “The City of Ice” for the crystaline blue material that makes up buildings and support structures.

The Big Eye: Slang term for Ionath City Stadium.

Bedbug: Slang for Sklorno males, because all they want to do is get the females into bed.

Bureau of Species Interaction: Also known as the BSI, the Bureau is the agency responsible for helping the different races get along. The Creterakians hate war and violence, and will go to great lengths to end the deadly rivalries between the major races.

The Combine: A station orbiting Creterak that functions as the Galactic Football League’s headquarters. All rookies are brought to The Combine for extensive testing before being allowed to play.

Cricket: Racial, derogatory term for Sklorno.

Cross-crescent-star: The symbol of the Purist church, combining the Christian Cross, the Islamic Crescent and the Star of David.

The Deuce: Quyth Orbital Station II, called “The Deuce” by Humans. A massive artificial structure, The Deuce was created as a solution to overcrowding on the Quyth homeworld. The Deuce is almost 300 Earth years old and has a population of 740 million.

Five Star Circle: The symbol of the Quyth Concordia, with one star representing each of the Concordia’s five planets.

Flashbugs: Robots that emit patterns of colored lights. Used in nightclubs.

Fly (flies): Racial, derogatory term for Cretarkians.

Fur scraping: derisive sound made by Quyth Workers, caused by rubbing their forearms. Hard bristles of fur make the noise — equivalent to a “boo” from a Human fan.

Gatholi: Quyth equivalent of “craphead.”

Giving Day: The Purist Nation’s version of Christmas.

High One: The Purist Nation’s name for God.

high-G Human: A Human born and raised on a planet with 1.5 to 2 times the gravity of Earth. High-G Humans tend to be far stronger than normal Humans, and have thicker builds. Where an average Human male stands 6-feet tall and weighs 190 pounds, an average high-G human stands 6-foot-1 and weighs 260 pounds.

Hiropt’s Disease: Neurological disorder caused by bacteria carried in the saliva of roundbugs, an indigenous species of Mining Colony Six. Symptoms include constant shaking, uncontrollable muscle spasms and overall weakness.

Holy Man: A religious leader in of the Purist religion.

Mae gong ka olll: Quyth battle cry. Literal English translation: “Now we take the war to you.”

Medsled: Hovercart used by team medical staffers to move injured players off the field.

Messageboard: A flat screen about the size of a 8.5×11 piece of paper. Holds 50 terabytes of data.

Mesh: A cybernetic drug comprised of semi-intelligent bacteria. “Mesh bugs” measure and amplify neurotransmitters, as well as flock to active areas of the brain. Mesh acts as an “intensifier,” greatly increasing sensory response and causing highly realistic hallucinations.

Mission marks: Horizontal stripes enameled onto the arms of Quyth Warriors, signifying combat missions, battles or tours of duty.

Punch motor: Faster-than-light technology developed independently by Humans, The Givers, and other races. A zero-mass envelope field surrounds a microscopic singularity. This singularity is used to “punch” a hole in space/time.

Pyuli: Hallucinogenic drug that affects Humans, distilled from the Pyuli plant that grows on Ki and Ki-terraformed worlds. Causes intense hallucinations.

Referee’s Guild: The GFL’s official licensing body for officials. All officials must attend the annual Guild conference, held at Skygod Orbital Station off planet Shorah.

The Red Moon: A glowing red moon is the symbol of the Sklorno Dynasty. In 2391 ErT, the Sklorno traveled to their moon. Their moon had a flourishing ecosystem, complete with a primitive sentient species. The Sklorno exterminated that species, and took the Red Moon as the symbol for the Dynasty.

Roundbug: A native predator of Mining Colony Six. Roundbugs bite their prey, infecting them with a deadly bacteria, and wait several days for the prey to die. The bacteria are not fatal to Humans, but can cause permanent neurological damage to Human children (known as Hiropt’s Disease).

Salamander: Racial, derogatory term for a Ki.

Shamakath: Quyth word for “leader,” most commonly used in military terms or attributed to the main boss of a syndicate.

The Takeover: The three-year span during which the Creterak conquered the galaxy.

The Tri: Quyth Orbital Station III, called “The Tri” by Humans. A massive artificial structure, The Tri was created as a solution to overcrowding on the Quyth homeworld. It was built shortly before the Quyth Concordia achieved FTL technology, and was the last such massive engineering project before the government expansion strategy switched to colonizing “dead” worlds. The Tri is about 150 Earth years old and has a population of 112 million.

Wartimes: Cretarakian-approved phrase for all history prior to The Takeover.

Xerchit: Quyth word for lieutenant, most commonly attributed to the leader of a syndicate cell.

Yakochat: Quyth word for one who betrays so much he would murder his own mother.

Zoroastrian Guild: Subversive organization dedicated to ending Creterakian rule.

Zebe: A football official, a “zebra.”

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Special Thanks

Book One

Talent Show

Quentin

Book Two

The Combine

The Team

Practice

Arrival On Ionath

Book Three

Epilogue

Timeline

Glossary