The Starter (64 page)

Age did not matter. What mattered was that this teenager, this
general
, worked harder than anyone else,
played
harder than anyone else, would risk anything and everything to win.

On the sidelines of Ionath Stadium, they packed in around him, a team jumping as one, chanting as one. Beyond the team, the stadium itself, the sun blazing down on 185,000 crazed fans, a living reef of orange and black that screamed, that jumped, that waited and watched. The crowd’s roar was the roar of a warship firing all guns, the blast of a star being born, the shuddering power of continents colliding and mountain ranges rising into the sky for the first time.

So loud was the crowd’s thunder that they could not hear him, could not hear their idolized teenage superstar-in-the-making, but his voice reached the players packed around him. His voice reached them, and it carried tangible power, the timbre of a soul that would not be denied.

“This is it,” Quentin Barnes said, his voice full of gravel and rage and the intensity of an exponential chain reaction. “This... is...
it
.”

His eyes, wide and alert,
piercing
, sought out the eye or eyes of each of his teammates in turn. When eyes met, those teammates felt a
connection
, felt spiritually attached to this general. He asked nothing more than what he was willing to give himself — his life, his
soul
.

“Last week, we beat the defending Galaxy Bowl Champions,” he said. “The
defending champs
. Why did we beat them? Because we
are
that good. We are champions in the making. We are the future greatness of this league. Each and every one of you, believe this,
believe
that next season we are going to tear this league apart and that
everyone
will
know
...
your
...
name
.”

The team packed closer, hands and tentacles reaching out to him, to each other. Petty differences and deep hatreds fell away. They were
one
.

“That is next season. But to reach that goal, we must first destroy our enemy. It’s all or nothing today, Krakens. All or
nothing
. The winner takes the glory, the loser is gone.
Today
we manifest our true destiny as champions. The Mars Planets don’t think you are champions. The Mars Planets think you are
nothing
. But they made a mistake, didn’t they?”

“Yes!” Screamed John Tweedy, who had already all but forgotten that same teenager had sucker-punched him two weeks earlier. All is fair in love and war. “Yes, they came into
our house!
”

“That’s right,” the teenager said. “
Our house
, a temple built with the sweat and blood and bodies of those who came before us, built with
our
sweat and blood. From this moment on, Ionath Stadium is
sacred ground
. How do we defend sacred ground?”

“With our lives!” barked Virak the mean, his cornea swirling with yellow and black. “We destroy transgressors!”

“Our stadium,” Quentin said, his voice lowering. “Our sacred ground. Our home. Our
house
.”

He raised his right fist high. The teammates did the same, reaching for his, limbs slanting up to make a pyramid of unity. The Krakens players joined him in a guttural cheer.

“Where are we?” Quentin said. “Whose house?”

“
Our house!
”

“Whose house?”

“
Our house!
”

“What law?”

“
Our law!
”

“Who wins?”

“
Krakens!
”

“Who wins?”

“
Krakens!
”

“This is our championship game. Now let’s go play like champions!”

• • •

THE KRAKENS WON THE TOSS
and chose to receive.

Mars lined up, white uniforms blazing in the afternoon sunlight. Blue numbers trimmed in gold decorated their chests and backs. The jerseys had blue sleeves, striped in white-trimmed gold, with their bold blue-and-gold “M” logo splayed large on the shoulder pads. That same logo decorated the sides of their blue helmets and the front of their blue thigh armor.

The crowd reveled in the opportunity of the day. This wasn’t the Galaxy Bowl, but it might as well have been for the intensity that roiled through the stadium. The crowd began making a unified sound as the Planets kicker raised his hand.

Ohhhhhhhh...

The zebe blew his whistle, and the kicker dropped his hand.

OHHHHHHHH...

The kicker ran forward, the crowd’s roar culminating as his foot connected.

OHHHHHAAAAHHHHH!

The ball sailed through the air and the game was on. Richfield returned the opening kickoff to the Ionath thirty-five. The crowd roared so loudly Quentin felt the skin on his face tingling.

Quentin ran onto the field with his offense. He looked over his huddle. This wasn’t the same team he’d had to start the season, not even close. So many familiar faces gone from the starting lineup; faces like Aka-Na-Tak, Shun-On-Won, Scarborough, Denver, Yassoud Murphy, Tom Pareless, Yotaro Kobayasho. New players had taken their places: Michael Kimberlin, Ju Tweedy, Rebecca Montagne, Crazy George Starcher, his face painted green. And another new face, Halawa, the number-three receiver waiting on the sidelines until she was needed.

Quentin also saw the starters who had been there since the season began, yet these starters looked somehow... different. Hawick, now the team’s number-one receiver and she knew it, thirteen years old and just entering her athletic prime. Milford, last year’s rookie receiver now with two full seasons under her belt, still giddy and jumpy like the nine-year-old that she was, but growing more confident on every play. And the four living roadblocks that made up the rest of his offensive line: left tackle Kill-O-Yowet, left guard Sho-Do-Thikit, center Bud-O-Shwek, right tackle Vu-Ko-Will. Something about their black eyes, their body language, said that they no longer viewed Quentin as a fragile Human. To them, he was a Ki soldier in all but name.

There were many more players that would help in the years to come, but
these
ten, these were his brothers and sisters in arms, the sentients that would fight and bleed with him, the sentients that he would lead to the promised land.

“No more pep talks,” Quentin said. “Time to sing for our supper. Everyone ready?”

Two Human and two HeavyG heads nodded, two Sklorno hopped and chittered, four Ki clacked arms against their chest armor.

“Here we go,” Quentin said. “Right in their teeth, smash-mouth. Off-tackle left on three, on three, ready?
Break!
”

The team ran or scuttled to their positions. I-formation, Rebecca right behind him, Ju behind her, Crazy George Starcher lined up as a left tight end. Hawick wide left, Milford wide right. Quentin took a long look as he walked up behind Bud-O-Shwek. The Krakens had begun the year horribly, but had grown stronger as the season progressed. The Mars Planets, on the other hand, had started out the season 4-and-2, but had lost five straight to find themselves in this do-or-die situation. Injuries had riddled them, particularly season-ending damage to their starting inside linebackers.

Quentin stared down the replacement linebackers, Scott Pond and Morow the Devastator. The over-named Devastator was once an All-Pro, but that had been years ago. His physical skills were failing him — he now played with brains far more than brawn. Pond was 6-foot-4, 265 pounds, with good speed but had a bad rep for not wanting to tackle big running backs head-on. Neither of those middle linebackers were suited to stopping a big, strong,
angry
running back, which was the exact description of The Mad Ju.

“Red, twenty-two!
Red
, twenty-
two! Hut
-hut... hut!”

Quentin pivoted to the right. Rebecca shot by and he handed the ball to Ju. Ju clamped down so hard Quentin winced, imagined he could hear Ju’s forearms
clacking
together like the jaws of a bear trap. Michael Kimberlin knocked the opposing Ki defensive tackle backward, opening up a huge hole. Becca ran through that hole and put her shoulder into the Devastator’s midsection. She wasn’t as big as he was, wasn’t as powerful, but brute strength wasn’t Becca the Wrecka’s game — she simply put a helmet and a shoulder on defenders — then nudged them a few feet or just got in their way to make space for her running back. Ju was behind her, waiting for her block, and when she pushed the Devastator just a smidgen to the right, he stepped left, directly into the path of Scott Pond. Pond attacked, but flinched at the last second, pulling back ever so slightly.

The Mad Ju bowled him over, high-stepped on by and was suddenly in the defensive backfield. Matsumoto, the free safety, rushed in and dove at Ju’s legs. Ju was the league’s biggest running back and a total bruiser, but what made him special was his quick feet and his crazy athleticism — he
hurdled
the diving Matsumoto, who grabbed nothing but air and got a facemask full of Iomatt for her troubles.

The safety, Parbhani, came in fast. Instead of going low, she went high. Big mistake. Ju lowered a shoulder and hit her hard. She bounced off him like a rock thrown against a boulder.

The two cornerbacks gave chase, but they were being harried by Hawick and Milford and couldn’t make a straight line to Ju. By the time they freed themselves from the receivers’ downfield blocks, Ju had slowed to a walk at the 5. He strolled into the end zone as casual as you please.

The Krakens first play from scrimmage, a 65-yard touchdown run for Ju Tweedy.

Quentin knelt and plucked some of the circular Iomatt leaves. He sniffed deeply, inhaling the cinnamon scent, then tossed the leaves aside and ran to the sideline.

• • •

THE MARS PLANETS WERE
just too beat-up to make a game of it. They had no answer for Ju Tweedy. The Mad Ju ran wild, scoring a second time on a 44-yard run and finishing the day with 161 yards. The trade for Michael Kimberlin had been critical, but after watching Ju play — for
real
— for two full games, Quentin knew the words he had spoken to Gredok back on Orbital Station One were no lie: Ju Tweedy was even better than Mitchell “The Machine” Fayed.

Up 24-10, Quentin stood on the sidelines and watched his defense try to shut down the Planets’ last-ditch efforts. With just 42 seconds to play, the Planets were on Ionath’s 17-yard line. No timeouts, they had to score, get the onside kick, and score again to tie it.

Loki Nightbreed, the Planets quarterback, brought his team to the line. The Planets still had a very real chance, and they weren’t giving up. Loki faced an end zone full of fans madly waving orange-and-black flags. In two full seasons, Quentin had never heard such noise.

He saw Loki cup his hands to his mouth, shout down the line of scrimmage. An audible.

Quentin turned to face the crowd and started waving his outstretched arms, palms up, the reverse of someone imitating a flapping bird.

“Come on!” he screamed. “Louder!”

He had never before interacted directly with the stadium crowd. Perhaps not until that moment had he realized how 185,000 spectators could react to him, as if he were a conductor of the galaxy’s largest and most raucous symphony. As loud as the crowd had been, it instantly raged even louder. The fans knew that at that moment they were more than spectators — they were
part
of the game.

His teammates on the sidelines took up his efforts, waving to the crowd, urging them to ear-splitting levels.

Quentin turned back to watch the action. As a quarterback, he knew that stadium noise could wreak havoc with audibles. Loki actually looked up at the stands, for just a second, first left, then right, as if he didn’t quite believe it.

Everything was happening so fast, all in the span of a few seconds. The play clock ticked down to seven, six — if Loki didn’t run the play soon he’d be called for delay of game. Quentin hoped John Tweedy and company saw what he saw, saw the confusion. John did — he walked forward from his middle linebacker position to stand almost at the line of scrimmage, right between Mai-An-Ihkole and Mum-O-Killowe. John was showing blitz.

Loki looked at John, then tried screaming down the line again for a second audible. The crowd sensed his desperation like a shark smelling blood. The sound grew so overwhelming, so
hurtful
that Quentin instinctively put his hands to his ears.

Mars Planets players looked at Loki, the quick snap-glances of confusion. Loki looked up at the play clock.

Three... two...

The ball snapped and the lines erupted. Loki turned to hand off to running back Kirk Bastek, but Bastek wasn’t looking — he thought it was a pass and was already running a route. Loki reached out with the ball. It hit Bastek in the arm, then dropped free. The ball hit the blue turf and bounced, just once, rising up in the air where Loki snatched it again. The quarterback stopped and turned, looking to make something happen. He didn’t get the chance.

John Tweedy raged through the line, tilted so far forward he was damn near horizontal, big legs driving, big arms pumping. Just as Loki turned to look downfield, John launched himself. The orange flash of his helmet hit right under Loki’s chin. Quentin winced at the hit’s violence — Loki’s head snapped back and his feet came right off the ground. The ball flew out of Loki’s hands, but John continued through the hit. His big arms wrapped around Loki’s back, big arms that
squeezed
even as all of John’s weight drove the enemy into the ground. When they landed, both sets of feet were in the air.

The ball hit the ground again. The stadium literally shook from the noise, a tremor of possibilities. Players reacted, diving for the squirting pigskin. Quentin thought he saw Mum-O-Killowe dive on it, but the defensive tackle vanished beneath a savage pile of black and orange, white and blue.