Scott Sigler - The Rookie

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.”