Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Religious? What, like he’s a preacher or something?”

Yitzhak laughed louder. “No, not exactly.”

“Oh give it a rest,” Pine said, his blue-skinned face turning a strange shade of purple.

Yitzhak put his hand to his chest, his expression that of mock pain. “Oh, forgive me, Great One. Don’t strike me down with your Godly quarterback powers.”

Quentin looked back to the Sklorno receivers — the closer the Humans got, the more the Sklorno shook. It reminded him of the truly devout back home during noonday prayers, how they would shudder and shake, their blue robes rustling with sudden movements, often times speaking in tongues, their eyes rolling back into their heads. As a child, such behavior had scared the crap out of him. When he grew older, he learned that those people were supposedly in deep communion with the High One.

The similarities clicked home.

“They worship Pine? You mean like a god or something?”

Yitzhak nodded. “Something like that. As a Human it’s kind of difficult to understand, but from what we hear there are at least thirty-two confirmed houses of worship dedicated to The Great Pine spread throughout Sklorno space.”

“Cut it out,” Pine said. “It’s not like I encourage this.”

“There’s actually a statue of The Great and Glorious Pine on the Sklorno’s capitol planet. How tall is it again, Pine, 100 feet or so?”

“Get lost, Yitzhak.”

“Why do they worship him?” Quentin asked.

Yitzhak shrugged. “Something about the quarterback position, that and great coaches, strikes a chord with their culture. Sklorno aren’t as independent as Humans, they tend to blindly follow their leaders. Coaches and quarterbacks get the most media attention in football, and the Sklorno are insane football fans. The nature of the game and their culture just kind of combine. Who knows, Quentin — you put together a couple of good seasons, and there might be a church or two in your name.”

Quentin felt his own face turning red. The idea of someone worshiping him, not as a fan-to-player, but as a subject-to-God, made him deeply uncomfortable. He felt sacrilegious just thinking about it.

They reached midfield. Quentin heard the burble of a small anti-grav engine, and he looked up to see Hokor flying towards them in a hovercart, the kind people used to move around on a golf course.

“What the hell is that? Coach can’t walk all of a sudden?”

Pine laughed. “Hokor likes to watch from above, get a full view of the field, but he wants to come down to offer his own special brand of encouragement.”

The hovercart slowed and floated about ten feet off the field.

“I hate that damn golf cart,” Yitzhak said quietly. “Just wait, you’ll see — he’s got a loudspeaker in it and everything.”

As if on cue, Hokor’s amplified voice bellowed across the field.

“Okay, that’s enough of that crap,” the yellow-furred coach said. “You will cease this shivering thing immediately!”

As a unit, the Sklorno instantly stopped shaking, raspers quickly rolling back up under their chin plates. They stood as still as they could, but kept twitching, little chirps escaping them every few seconds.

“That’s better,” Hokor said. “Pine, line them up and run hook routes.”

They all stood on the 50-yard line, the eight Sklorno fifteen yards to the right of the Human quarterbacks. It surprised Quentin that he immediately recognized Denver and Milford — he’d always thought all Sklorno looked alike, but Denver had more red in her eyestalks, and Milford’s oily head of hair seemed to be thicker and longer than any of the others. If it weren’t for jersey names and numbers, however, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between Scarborough, Hawick, Richfield, Mezquitic and the other Kraken receivers.

Pine grabbed a ball from the rack and squatted, just as he’d done in the VR practice field. The first Sklorno bent down into their strange starting stance — legs folded up like a grasshopper, tail sticking straight back to balance the forward-leaning body. The back of her jersey read “Hawick.”

“Hut-hut!”

Pine took a three-step drop, planted, and fired — far too high. In the millisecond after the ball left Pine’s hand, Quentin figured it would sail forty yards downfield. But Hawick was already fifteen yards down field and turning. She didn’t just stop and turn, like a Human receiver would do on a hook route, she stopped, turned and jumped. Quentin’s jaw dropped as Hawick sprang ten feet into the air, like a 280-pound flea — the ball hit her square in the numbers. She landed and turned in the same motion, sprinting all the way to the end zone before stopping.

Quentin stared, barely able to believe what he’d seen. Such speed. Pine and Yitzhak hadn’t been screwing with him in the VR room, Sklorno really were that fast. And that leap. It was one thing to see it on the net, quite another to see it in person.

Yitzhak took the next ball. The next Sklorno’s jersey read “Mezquitic.”

“Hut-hut!” Yitzhak dropped back three steps and fired — again seemingly far too high. Mezquitic sprang high, caught the ball, landed, and streaked down the field. Quentin was still staring at the streaking Sklorno receiver when Pine poked him in the rib pads.

“You’re up, boy.”

Quentin grabbed the next ball from the rack and squatted down just behind the fifty. He looked to his right — “Scarborough” looked back at him, awaiting his signal.

“Hut-hut!” Quentin drove backwards three steps and planted. He started to throw, but hesitated a half second because Scarborough was still a good eight yards from hooking up the route. In less time than it took to blink, Scarborough was there, turning, leaping and looking for the ball. Quentin threw as quickly as he could, but it was too late. Scarborough had hit the ground by the time the throw reached her — it sailed far over her head.

“Barnes!” Hokor barked. “What the hell was that?”

Quentin blushed.

“Get used to the timing, Barnes. With Sklorno receivers, passing is a three-dimensional game. You’re not in the bush leagues anymore.”

Practice continued for another hour. Quentin struggled with the Sklornos’ blinding speed and leaping ability, but made significant progress pass after pass. He had some trouble with Mezquitic, who dropped two of his passes, but he clicked well with the other receivers, particularly Denver. Only in the final five minutes did Hokor open it up for long patterns. Pine dropped back seven steps and fired a 55-yard strike to Hawick. The Sklorno receivers let out a series of rapid clicking noises.

“What is that sound they’re making?” Quentin asked Yitzhak.

“Sklorno equivalent to ooh and ahh ,” Yitzhak said. “The ladies love the long ball.”

Yitzhak threw next, hitting a 45-yard streak to Mezquitic. The receivers let out clicks, but they weren’t as loud as they had been for Pine’s pass.

Quentin smiled as he grabbed the ball and squatted down for his rep. Neither of these guys could match his arm strength, not even the once-great Donald Pine. Scarborough lined up to his right. Quentin barked out a “hut-hut.” He dropped back the prescribed seven steps, and kept going, finally setting up a good fifteen yards from where he’d “snapped” the ball. He watched Scarborough the whole way, his mind now somewhat accustomed to the receiver’s 3.2 speed. Quentin unleashed the ball — the Sklorno’s clicks started immediately as the ball arced through the air like a laser-guided bomb. Scarborough angled under it, and caught it in stride at the back edge of the end zone.

The Sklornos not only clicked and chirped louder than ever, they started jumping up-and-down and hugging each other. Raspers lolled and spit flew everywhere.