The Starter (21 page)
This had to work. It
had
to. An enraged Mum-O had blown past Shun-On-Won so many times that Hokor had given up, tried playing Cay-Oh-Kiware at right guard instead. Mum-O had ripped past Cay-Oh six times in ten plays, so Hokor had tried backup left tackle Shut-O-Dital. Mum-O knocked Shut-O out of commission in three plays, sending the inexperienced lineman to visit Doc Patah in the training room.
So, if Zer-Eh didn’t step up, the Krakens were out of options. They’d go back to Shun-On-Won, and Quentin would spend the coming Sunday getting the tar knocked out of him.
“Blue, sixteen!”
Come on, Zer-Eh, step up.
“Blue, sixteeeeen!”
We need you to be the man, Zer-Eh, if you can block him you win a starting spot.
“Hut-hut!”
Quentin turned to the right and handed off to Dan Campbell. The rookie running back dashed forward as Mum-O immediately drove in, pushing the bigger Zer-Eh around like a child. Mum-O separated from the block, gathered, and
shot
forward.
Campbell ducked the tackle so fast it was like he’d known it was coming. He ran along the line, looking for a hole, but Virak the Mean dragged him down.
“Huddle up!” Quentin called out. As his players ran back to the huddle, he glanced at the sidelines. There was Yassoud Murphy, arms crossed, just glaring. ’Soud hadn’t been running the ball hard enough for Hokor’s liking, so now the coach was giving Campbell first-string reps. Campbell
was
running hard. The rookie showed phenomenal reaction time and head-snapping moves. He wasn’t big or fast, but Dan reacted to holes almost instantly and drove his body into them at top speed. If Yassoud didn’t improve his game in a hurry, Campbell was going to take over as the starting running back.
“All right, all right,” Quentin said to the huddle. “Campbell, nice run.”
The baby-faced runner grinned back, his mouth an open smile as he sucked in air.
“It
would
have been a nice run,” Quentin said, “if we had blocked for him. Zer-Eh, this is your chance to take the starting position. You up for it?”
Zer-Eh let out a long, deep bark.
“Then let’s pass the ball,” Quentin said. “Eagle-set, forty-two red wing on two, on two, ready?
Break!
”
Quentin walked to the line as his blockers settled into position. He knelt behind Bud-O-Shwek, the center. To Bud-O’s left, the offensive guard Sho-Do-Thikit. To Bud-O’s right, the mountain of pebble-skinned flesh that was Zer-Eh. Quentin scanned the defense. Mum-O-Killowe again lined up right in front of Zer-Eh. Straight ahead, John Tweedy waited in his middle linebacker position. Virak the Mean stood on John’s left, Choto the Bright stood on John’s right.
Under John’s helmet, Quentin could see the man’s facial tattoo.
HERE COMES THE JUDGE, it said.
Great, they’re blitzing. Just great.
Quentin started to audible, then stopped. If Zer-Eh couldn’t pick up a blitz in practice, the Ki wasn’t going to pick one up in the game. They had to see how he fared. Groaning to himself, Quentin continued with the play.
Blue, twenty-two! Blue, twenty-two! Hut...
hut!
”
Quentin took the snap and backpedaled. He saw Mum-O drive to the inside, toward center. Zer-Eh should have stayed in his position, let Bud-O, the center, pick up Mum-O’s angling attack. Instead, Zer-Eh went with Mum-O, reacting instead of sticking to the blocking scheme — and that opened a hole for the blitzing John Tweedy.
Quentin realized a second too late that he was still watching Zer-Eh’s struggle against Mum-O-Killowe, and in that second John Tweedy closed. Quentin’s head rocked back. He felt himself go airborne, carried by a pair of huge arms. His back hit the ground as 310 pounds of linebacker drove into his chest.
From somewhere, Quentin heard a sympathetic
ohhhh
— one of his teammates reacting to John’s hit.
Quentin opened his eyes to see John’s crazy face far too close, separated only by the space of two facemasks.
“Uncle Johnny, I have a red jersey on, remember?”
“What, you let Mum-O tee off on you, but I can’t have any fun?”
“Truth be told? I’m really not having any fun at all.”
DIDDUMS HURT HIS WIDDLE CHESTERS-WESTERS?scrolled across John’s face.
“Hey Q? I suspect Zer-Eh isn’t going to work out as our right guard.”
“Wow, you think? Now get off me, John, before people start to talk.”
John got to his feet, then reached out a hand and helped Quentin to his. Quentin limped back to the huddle, his head hurting, his chest throbbing. Zer-Eh was only two plays into his trial, but Quentin’s instincts said he just wasn’t ready. The Krakens starting offensive line averaged 46 years of age — Zer-Eh was only 18. He was a project, drafted for his massive size, but it would probably be another three or even four seasons before he had the coordination necessary to react to attacking defensive tackles and linebackers.
Quentin had to face a harsh fact: backup players were backup players for a reason. There was only so much money to go around, only so much room on the roster to pay for expensive second-stringers. Ki were usually resilient, and teams could often count on a consistent offensive line for five seasons or more before any change was required. Bud-O-Shwek, the center, was sixty-three years old and had twenty-three professional football seasons under his belt, all without missing a single snap. Ki didn’t injure easily, but the problem was that when they
did
get hurt, it was usually quite severe.
Quentin looked up to Hokor’s floating golf cart, then shook his head.
“Zer-Eh-Daret!” Hokor screamed through the speakers. “Get out of there. Shun-On-Won, back in at right guard. Run the same play, and can
somebody please block?
”
Quentin watched the huge Zer-Eh scuttle off the field and Shun-On scuttle back on. Hokor had tried everything possible, every option at their disposal. Unless Gredok landed a free agent right guard, Quentin would have to go to war with the army he had.
A free agent... or... a
trade
.
Quentin reached the huddle and looked over his teammates, eyes lingering on Scarborough, on Denver, on their bodies quivering with excitement, eyes shining with deep reverence.
No. No trade. Shun-On would get better,
had
to get better, and that’s all there was to it.
Time was up. The
Touchback
was already en-route to Tower, three punches into an eight-punch, six-day flight.
Just
four days
away from their first game against the Isis Ice Storm, and the start of the regular season.
• • •
CAPTAIN KATE CHEEVERS LIKED SUNLIGHT.
No matter where the
Touchback
went, she always angled the ship so that the clear dome faced the closest star. The practice field had a full complement of lights, but only lit them up when the ship was on a planet’s dark side, or during punch-space flights when there were no stars to see.
The
Touchback
had reached Grasslop, the sixth stop of the trip to Tower. The distance from the fifth punch — the planet To in the Ki Empire — to Grasslop was the longest of the eight-punch trip, requiring a full day for the engines to recharge.
A long trip was no excuse not to practice. That’s what the
Touchback’s
built-in field was for. Captain Cheevers had put the
Touchback’s
belly toward the planet, dome facing out, so the strange yellow-green light of Grasslop’s star illuminated the field.
That was how everyone knew something major was about to happen, when something blocked out the light of the sun.
Everyone looked up at the source of this strange eclipse. Through the practice field’s dome, they could only see a portion of a ship, clearly larger than the
Touchback
by a factor of five or more. Gun turrets bristled from a clean, white hull. Quentin could see the corner of a red, white, and blue image — the GFL logo.
John Tweedy walked up to stand next to Quentin.
“John, what the
shuck
is that?”
“GFL war cruiser,” John said.
“The GFL has a war cruiser?”
“Yep,” John said.
“How about that?” Quentin said.
“Yep,” John said.
“And
why
does the GFL need a war cruiser?”
“Because when Commissioner Froese makes a visit, he doesn’t mess around. And because it’s got a punch drive. Which means he got the
Touchback’s
travel itinerary so he could catch up to us here.”
“Is that bad?”
HE DIDN’T COME HERE FOR SCOTCH AND COOKIESscrolled across John’s head.
“Yeah,” John said. “I’m guessing it’s bad.”
[ALL PLAYERS REPORT TO THE LANDING BAY] the computer called out. [ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY, REPORT IMMEDIATELY]
“Huh,” John said.
Quentin sighed. “Well, I guess practice is over.”
“Yep,” John said.
Quentin and John started walking to the end-zone tunnel. His Human, HeavyG, Sklorno, Quyth Warrior, and Ki teammates did the same.
“Uncle Johnny, what do you think this is all about?”
“Mods,” John said. “Someone is about to get busted.”
• • •
AN ENTIRE PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL TEAM
— in white and black practice jerseys and full armor — packed into the
Touchback’s
landing bay. The ship’s orange-and-black shuttle sat unused, overshadowed by the larger, white-painted visiting craft. White, with a big GFL logo on the side, the small words “official diplomatic vehicle” painted underneath.
In truth, Quentin thought of it as a
shuttle
only because he didn’t know the proper word for something that looked like a flying tank, complete with front-mounted guns, a cannon-turret up top and a smaller turret-gun underneath.
He nudged John, then nodded toward the craft. “What is that thing?”
M-58T combat tank,” John said. “Combo gunship and troop transport. The Commissioner never leaves home without it.”
“A
tank?
That big warship outside? What’s he need all this for?”
John’s face wrinkled. He sighed.BMUD SPELLED BACKWARD IS QUENTINscrolled across his face. “Well, hayseed, the Commissioner’s job is to tell owners what to do, and punish them if they are caught breaking GFL regulations. Maybe you didn’t notice, but owners don’t like being told what to do.”
“So they... they would try to kill the Commissioner?”
“Maybe. Gangsters like Gredok want their own people in control. The Commissioner has the backing of the Creterakian Empire, so owners can’t control him. Commissioner Froese calls the shots. Whatever he says goes.”
The tank’s side door lowered. Quentin took a step back when he saw what came out — two Sklorno dressed in white combat armor, each carrying a large energy rifle in her tentacles. Small GFL logos decorated their armored midriffs, just below their tentacle arms. Big, armored feet made metallic
clacks
as they stepped out onto the landing bay’s deck.
“Just be cool, Q,” John said. “Be cool, don’t panic.”
“Why would I panic?” Quentin hissed. “I’m not a little kid, John, I—”
Quentin froze, motionless, as perhaps a dozen Creterakians swarmed out of the tank. They flew as a flock, spreading out, then snapping back together as they circled the landing bay. Each wore a white bodysuit with a little GFL logo across the small chest, and each carried an entropic rifle.
Terror stabbed through Quentin, rooting him to the spot. “That is why I told you not to panic,” John said. “I know you aren’t that fond of our tiny flying overlords.”
Most of the Krakens groaned in annoyance, or made their species-equivalent sound. No one like being rousted by the bats. Quentin’s teammates seemed to be treating this like some minor traffic stop. He, however, had seen too many people die from those entropic rifles. The sight of a bat wasn’t
like
life and death, it
was
life and death.
“Here comes the man,” John said, his voice full of excitement, maybe even reverence.
“The Commissioner?”
“No, he comes after,” John said. “This here would be the greatest linebacker to ever not play the game. Leiba the Gorgeous.”
Out of the tank walked something Quentin had seen only in history holos — a Quyth Warrior in power armor. The white armor covered polished metal coils and joints beneath. When Leiba moved, the armor
buzzed
, like a stop-start version of an insect swarm. The heavy, white helmet provided only a black, horizontal slit to see through. Holstered sidearms hung in armored cases from each hip. Leiba held a long shock-prod in both of his armor-covered middle arms.
Quyth Warriors were impressive creatures to start with, GFL-sized ones even more so, but with the power armor, Leiba was pushing eight feet in height. He looked like a walking wrecking machine. Leiba turned his head slowly from side to side, taking in everything, taking his time.
Quentin whispered to John. “You said he was the greatest to ever not play the game? What’s that mean?”
“Oh, he played,” John said. “Two seasons with the Vik Vanguard. Led the league in tackles both years. No one could stop him.”
“He get hurt?”
John shook his head. “He quit. Wanted to get into league administration, of all things. Became the Commissioner’s body guard so he could learn the ropes. If Leiba had kept playing, he would have probably been the best linebacker of all time. Oh, shush it, here comes the Commish.”
After the parade of white-clad lethality, what walked out next made Quentin squint to make sure he was seeing it right.
It’s... John, what is that? A robot toy or something?”
John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Backwater,” he said, “remember when the rookies arrived, and Yassoud and I told you about midgets?”