THE ALL-PRO (Galactic Football League)

  “Well, Chick, Barnes will need all of his weapons if the Krakens are going to beat the red-hot Vanguard. Six wins in a row, powered by the league’s best defense that last week hung a shut-out on the Bord Brigands. The teams are lining up for the kickoff. The Krakens will get the ball first. Let’s go down to the action on the field.”

  • • •

  THE VANGUARD KICKER blasted the ball, sending the brown leather arcing high over a light blue field marked with dark purple lines. From the sidelines, Quentin watched the Vik players rush forward. Afternoon sun reflected off of gold helmets decorated with a thick, dark-green V. The V’s arms swept up and to the helmet’s sides. The V’s bottom point extended down to the middle of the players’ golden face masks. The wing pattern’s angle resembled that of the Krakens’ own six-tentacled logo.

  Vik’s iridescent green jerseys echoed the pattern. A golden triangle started halfway between their helmets and the edge of their shoulder pads, pointing down to their black belts. Small, blacklined green numbers sat in that gold area, on the chest just below the face mask. Gold leg armor and black shoes completed the uniform.

  The Vanguard’s two Sklorno shooters raced downfield as Richfield settled under the ball. A wall of orange and black crashed into a battering ram of dark green and gold. Bodies flew, bodies dropped — and Richfield slid straight through the middle. No one touched her. The Human kicker waited at the 50-yard line, the only thing between Richfield and six points.

  In the open field, there was nothing the Human kicker could do — Richfield leapt fifteen feet into the air, sailing over his outreached arms. The leap cost her speed and almost let the trailing green-and-gold Sklorno catch her. Almost. Two sets of tentacles wrapped her up at the 5 — three Sklorno bodies tumbled but landed in the gold-painted end zone.

  The Krakens sidelines erupted. Opening kickoff, touchdown Ionath.

  • • •

  QUENTIN LOOKED FOR open receivers. He found none before he felt the pressure coming from his right. A snap-glance confirmed his fear — linebacker Mur the Mighty, blitzing again. Becca stepped up to block. Mur seemed to aim high, to go head to head with Becca, but as soon as Becca rose up to meet the hit Mur tucked and rolled past, that eye-twisting motion only a Quyth Warrior could do.

  Quentin ran left, but Mur was too fast. The linebacker snapped out of the roll and dove, green-clad pedipalps reaching for Quentin’s black-armored legs. He tried to high-step, but Mur caught him and he fell face-first onto the light blue field.

  Fourth down. The Krakens would have to punt for the fifth time and it was only halfway through the second quarter. Quentin had already been sacked three times. The Vanguard defense was for real.

  Whistles blew. The mostly Ki crowd sounded its approval with a rhythmic drumbeat, 240,000 arms clacking against 60,000 chests in a deafening combat language. Mur stood and waved to the crowd before reaching down to help Quentin up.

  “You’re fast,” Quentin said.

  “No, you are slow,” Mur said. He patted Quentin on the helmet, than ran off field.

  “CHICK, THE TEAMS ARE coming back on the field for the second half. The Vanguard is up 14-7. What does the Ionath offense have to do to get into this game?”

  “Well, Masara, someone is going to have to step up and surprise us. Vik hasn’t allowed an offensive touchdown in six quarters, not since Rick Renaud ripped them for forty-two points back in Week Eleven. Vik’s linebackers continue to bring pressure on Barnes, not giving him time to set up and get a good look. At the same time, Ionath running back Ju Tweedy hasn’t been able to break a run. The Mad Ju had ten carries for only thirty-one yards.”

  “Chick, this is it for Ionath. If they don’t figure things out in the second half, they are out of the playoffs. Let’s head back to the field.”

  • • •

  QUENTIN DROPED BACK, eyes taking in a wave of green and gold closing in on him. He turned as he backpedaled, throwing out to the right where Becca Montagne waited for a screen pass. Kimberlin and Vu-Ko-Will were in front of her. The ball no sooner left Quentin’s hand than the lightning-fast Vanguard defense reacted, the three Quyth linebackers tucking and rolling to their left as if they’d been expecting the play.

  They had been expecting it. Quentin had wanted them to expect it.

  He sprinted to his left, away from the play, then turned upfield at the left sidelines. He looked back over his shoulder. The entire Vanguard defense closed in on Becca. Instead of tucking the ball and running, the former Green Bay Packers quarterback stopped, raised the ball to her right ear and launched a pass.

  Damn, that is a great throw.

  The tight spiral arced toward him. Quentin didn’t have to break stride, not even a step. The Vanguard safeties turned and ran toward him, but they had committed to stopping the screen pass and were 25 yards away.

  Quentin sprinted past the 20. The ball fell into his hands with all the weight of a dropped feather. The pass was perfect. He watched the ball all the way into the crook of his arm. When he looked up again, he was crossing the goal line. The trick play resulted in a 56-yard touchdown pass, one that Quentin caught rather than threw.

  He tossed the ball to a zebe, then ran to the sidelines.

  With the extra point, it was a tie game, 14-all with one quarter to play.

  • • •

  “CHICK! WE KNEW it had to happen sooner or later. You can’t keep Ju Tweedy out of the end zone forever.”

  “You can’t stop the Mad Ju, Masara, you can only hope to contain him. The Vanguard has done a good job of that so far, but it only takes one mistake and boom — Tweedy scampers for a thirty-seven-yard touchdown run.”

  “Chick, what a game. That touchdown ties the game at twenty-one apiece with only four minutes to play. It’s up to the Vanguard offense, but they have to pick up first downs or they will leave time on the clock for Barnes and the Krakens.”

  “The Vik offense has to step up, Masara. They’ve been playing like a retarded Worker wacked-out on a kilo of half-rotted juniper berries.”

  “Chick! That is unacceptable!”

  “Sorry, Masara, sorry folks at home, let’s go down to the field.”

  • • •

  THE VANGUARD MOVED THE BALL, closing in on field-goal range. Third and 5, ball on Ionath’s 40. Forty-four seconds to play. A 57-yard field goal, if they tried it. Vik’s kicker’s range topped out at about 52 yards. Vik needed a first down to get into his range.

  Quentin and Becca stood on the sidelines: watching, waiting, hoping.

  The crowd clacked out a staccato rhythm, the sound of 60,000 machine guns firing in unison.

  Vanguard quarterback Rich Barchi looked left, barked out signals, looked right, did the same. On the snap, Quentin saw John, Virak and Choto take a step back. They were dropping into a short zone, willing to give up a pass for three or four yards, but they would not get beat for more than that, would not give up the first down.

  Barchi dropped back.

  Quentin felt Becca grab his hand and squeeze. He didn’t think to shake it away because he saw what she saw: defensive end Cliff Frost’s wild, windmilling arms reaching up and over the Vik offensive tackle. The Ki lineman tried to keep up, pushed to his left to block Frost’s spastic attack, but Frost spun back inside and landed on all-fours. Frost’s big arms and powerful legs barreled him in on the right-handed Barchi, who had his back turned, who was just starting his throwing motion. Frost leapt, his big hand slapping Barchi’s arm before the arm came forward.

  The ball flew straight up — a fumble.

  It spun in the air. Barchi turned madly, looking to the ground; he didn’t know where it was. Frost fell and as he did, he reached out and plucked the ball out of the air. Quentin saw him tuck around it in a fetal position before he vanished under a pile of green-and-gold, orange-and-black.

  Quentin squeezed Becca’s hand, just once, an automatic reaction before he realized he was holding her hand and let go. Thirty-two seconds to play. Whistles blew —
Krakens ball on their own 47-yard line.

  Quentin grabbed Becca’s shoulder pads, turned her to face him. “They fell for it once,” he said. “If we set you up to throw, think you can hit another pass?”

  She nodded, unable to control her wide smile. “Just give me the ball, Q.”

  He nodded once, then turned and led his team out onto the field.

  • • •

  “CHICK, IT’S SECOND DOWN and eight for the Krakens on their own forty-five. Thirty seconds to play, no time-outs. Do they go for the win, or do they take a knee and send this to overtime?”

  “Masara, I’m thinking what every sentient in this stadium is thinking — the Krakens want to win it right now. If they pick up a long first down, Arioch Morningstar can nail a field goal for the win.”

  “Here we go, Chick. Quentin Barnes is lining up behind center. He has Becca Montagne and Ju Tweedy in the I-formation. Rick Warburg at right tight end, Halawa wide-right, Hawick wide-left. The Vanguard are in a four-three defense, looks like they’re playing woman-to-woman. And the snap! Barnes pitches wide right to Ju Tweedy, Montagne is lead-blocking, she trips! Tweedy has no lead blockers! Here comes Mur the Mighty ... Tweedy stops. He pitches to his left, to Montagne! She has the ball, she’s running ... no! She’s setting up to pass! Barnes is on the left sideline, but he’s covered! Mur the Mighty has Montagne ... no! Montagne shakes Mur off, she’s still up! She’s throwing up a prayer over the middle ... Rick Warburg is double-covered, he goes up ... and comes down with it! Krakens ball on the Vik twenty-five!”

  “Masara, I’ve seen some amazing catches in my day, but I have just three words for you — Rick! War! Burg! He grabbed that pass like a starving OS1 street bum fighting over a pile of fresh puke!”

  “Chick, you are obnoxious, but this time I don’t even care. A pitch-back trick play to Montagne, who avoided a sure sack and hit Warburg over the middle. What excitement! What drama! Barnes is calling his team up to the line, but he’s not rushing. He’s going to let the time tick down, then spike the ball to stop the clock ... and there’s the spike.”

  “The clock stops with three seconds left, Masara, enough time to run one play. The Krakens kicker Arioch Morningstar and his field goal unit are coming onto the field.”

  “Chick! Our producer just got word from a punch-space relay — the To Pirates defeated the Yall Criminals 24-7.

  “Masara, that means if Morningstar hits this kick, the Krakens are in the playoffs.”

  “And here we go, Chick. A forty-two yard field goal to put Ionath into the Tier One playoffs for the first time in nine seasons. Here’s the snap, the hold looks good, the kick ... and it’s good!”

  “Ionath wins 24-21! What a game, Masara, what ... a ... game!”

  • • •

  JOHN TWEEDY DID HALF-NAKED LAPS around the locker room. Instead of an unwilling coach on his shoulders, this time he had an unwilling kicker — at 5-foot-8, 185 pounds, there was little Arioch could do to resist the will of 6-foot-6, 310-pound John Tweedy. Hokor hadn’t gone unrewarded, though — Ju had dumped a full beverage bucket on the coach, again leaving Hokor with soaking wet fur matted to his tiny body.

  Quentin and Tara the Freak stood at the edge of the communal locker room, at the edges of the madness. Tara showed no emotion, but Quentin smiled — the first genuine smile he’d felt since that dinner at Torba the Hungry’s.

  The Krakens collectively lost their minds — sentients pushed and screamed and laughed and joked. Bottles of champagne popped. Fizzy spray flew everywhere, soaking everything. Everyone hugged everyone else. Becca stood on a bench, laughing, trying to carry a tune for the Sklorno that now believed singing was a mandatory part of a victory celebration. Even Rick Warburg got in on the action, for once in his life ignoring race and just savoring the moment with his teammates. Everyone wanted to congratulate Warburg. His leaping, one-handed catch was already on Sports Center. The whole play was the kind of highlight that would be shown over and over for decades to come.

  To Quentin, it all felt amazing. A weight as big as the Touchback had been lifted off of his chest. They had done it. They had made the playoffs. From here on out, it was anyone’s game. And the first team they would face? Archrival Wabash, a team they’d defeated in Week Nine.

  The Ionath Krakens had arrived.

  The only variable was time?

  Well, that time was almost at hand.

  • • •

  QUENTIN, MA TWEEDY AND TARA the Freak walked into the Nauer Clinic. The clinic sat in the 220-degree section of Radius Seven, a very high-priced part of town. Quentin had insisted Gredok pay for George’s care. Gredok may have won the battle of Quentin’s contract, but that victory came at a cost — Quentin had lost all fear of his team owner. Quentin was stuck with Gredok for the next ten years? Well, then Gredok was going to be stuck with Quentin.

  “Fancy place,” Ma Tweedy said.

  Stylish furniture lined the waiting room. Paintings hung on the walls. No holoframes, actual canvas with actual paint. One caught Quentin’s eye — was that a Don Pine creation?

  A young Human woman entered the room. Young and only a little taller than Ma Tweedy. Her long blonde hair was tied up in matted coils that looked like Yassoud’s braided beard. Deadlocks, the style was called. Something like that, anyway.

  “Mister Barnes, welcome,” she said. “Doc Patah told me to expect you. I’m Doctor Cassie Nauer.”

  “You’re Doctor Nauer? Uh ... you’re taking care of George?”

  She nodded.

  “Aren’t you a little ... young ... to be a doctor?”

  She smiled. “Aren’t you a little young to be a starting quarterback?”

  “Uh ... well, yeah, but ...”

  “But you’re really good at what you do?”

  He nodded.

  “So am I,” she said. “Do you trust Doctor Patah?”

  Quentin nodded again. “Sure.”

  “Well, he trusts me to take care of George. Is that good enough?”

  “I guess so. How is George? Can we see him?”

  “Absolutely. Follow me.”

  She led them deeper into the facility. The place was built like a dorm — small apartments that each contained a bed, a couch and a holotank. A few of the rooms had people in them, some wearing robes, some wearing normal clothes.

  “We take care of ten Humans at any given time, maximum,” Dr. Nauer said as she walked. “We were lucky that we had room for George.”

  “So how is he?” Quentin asked. “Can he, you know, talk and stuff?”

  “You are not family or a legal guardian, so I can’t give you specifics,” Cassie said. “But I can tell you that we’re developing a medication schedule for him and that he’s responding well to it.”

  They turned a corner, kept walking.

  “What about football?” Quentin asked. “Can he play this week?”

  Cassie stopped and turned, facing her visitors. “No. He’s done for the season, Quentin. No games. I’m talking to Doctor Patah about letting George travel with the team for the playoffs, but he will not dress for games, under any circumstances. He’s done for the season. If he sticks to my program, I’m confident he can play next year. That is, if he wants to.”

  Quentin’s face screwed into an expression of dismissal. “If he wants to? Who wouldn’t want to play?”

  A smack on his shoulder. Ma Tweedy, scowling at him. “Quentin. Be polite to the doctor.”

  Quentin rubbed his shoulder even though it didn’t hurt. “Okay.”

  Ma Tweedy tilted her head curtly toward the young doctor.

  Quentin sighed. “Sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “No apology necessary,” Cassie said. “Quentin, you and Tara, you did a brave thing. George needed help. You helped him. I don’t know if you did that because he’s your friend or just because he can catch a ball, but from what he tells me, you saved his life.”

  Tara said nothing.

  Quentin felt his own face
turning red. He looked at the carpet. “Yeah, well, maybe we should have gotten him help sooner.”

  Cassie reached out and stroked Quentin’s arm. “Mister Barnes, that doesn’t matter. You got him help when many people would have ignored him. Come on, let’s see George.”

  She walked down the hall. They followed. Quentin felt tiny arms wrapping around his right elbow — Ma Tweedy.

  “Quentin, I am so proud of you. You’re always helping people.”

  She squeezed, walked arm in arm with him. He felt a strange feeling in his chest. Ma Tweedy was proud of him. And not for something he did on a football field, for something he did as a person.

  His real mother was dead. That could never be changed. Maybe it was time to stop grieving the loss of a woman he couldn’t remember, start appreciating this total stranger who had claimed him as her own.

  Cassie walked into a room. Inside, George Starcher sat on a bed, tossing a football up and down with one hand. His face was painted white, a line of five blue dots across his forehead.

  “Hey, Quentin. Hey, Tara. Hello, Ma Tweedy.”

  “Hello, George,” Ma Tweedy said. “You look well.”

  “Thank you.”

  Quentin looked to Cassie. “Uh, the, uh, paint? That’s normal?”

  Cassie shook her head. “No, but it’s not hurting anything and George likes it. One thing at a time, Mister Barnes.”

  “I feel way better,” George said. “You guys kept me from doing something real stupid. The universal powers will gird your loins accordingly.”

  “Gird my what?”

  “Loins,” George said. He stopped tossing the football and smiled. “Guys, I appreciate you coming to see me, but I know what’s going on. I watched the Vik game. Playoffs. That is amazing.”

  Quentin shrugged. “Yeah, sorry you can’t be there for it.”

  “Next year,” George said. “I don’t know why you guys helped me, but I’m glad you did. Quentin, if you hadn’t come to my apartment that day, I don’t think I would have left you the towel. If I hadn’t done that ... well, I don’t think Tara alone could have stopped me.”