“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 anym
ore — 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.