Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Damn,” Pine said, shaking his head.

“That was seventy-five yards in the air,” Yitzhak said. “And right on the money.”

Quentin smiled, his hands patting out a quick ba-da-bap on his stomach as he waited for accolades from his new coach.

“Silence!” Hokor shouted at the Sklorno. The anger in his voice seemed to terrify them. They huddled together, shaking and twitching in a mass of fear.

Hokor turned to Quentin. “What was that?”

“A touchdown,” Quentin said.

“I know that, what was that drop?”

Quentin shrugged. “I just wanted to show you what I can do.”

“And what you can do is drop back fifteen yards? What are you, a punter?”

Quentin felt his face flushing red once again. “Well, no, Coach… I just wanted to show you how deep I could throw it.”

“Well if you like to show off so much, how about showing me how far you can run? Take ten laps around the field, we’ll finish up reps without you.”

Quentin blinked, his mind suddenly registering the coach’s words. “Finish up… without me?”

“I said take ten laps!” Hokor said. “Now move!”

Pine grabbed a ball and squatted down for the next rep while Denver crouched in readiness for her turn. Pine dropped back, Denver sprinted, and everyone seemed to ignore Quentin.

Coach Graber had never singled him out like that. Quentin’s face felt hot. Anger swirled in his chest as he trotted to the edge of the field and started his first lap.

QUENTIN’S ROOM WAS EMPTY save for a bed, a table with two round stools, a large vertical equipment locker, and a wide couch that sat in front of the holotank. He sat on the couch, staring at the life-sized image projected by the holotank.

The current image was a Human football player, his jersey a series of horizontal light blue and grey stripes. The computer droned away with stats.

[KITIARA LOMAX. THIRD-YEAR LINEBACKER FOR THE BIGG DIGGERS, NAMED ALL-PRO LAST YEAR. SIX-FOOT-TEN, FOUR-HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE POUNDS. LAST YEAR ACCUMULATED FIFTY-TWO TACKLES AND TWELVE SACKS. LAST CLOCKED TIME IN THE FORTY-YARD-DASH, 4.1]

Quentin clicked his remote, and the image shifted to a Sklorno player, also dressed in a light blue-and-grey striped jersey.

[ARKHAM. FIFTH-YEAR CORNERBACK FOR THE BIGG DIGGERS…]

The computer continued to rattle off statistics, but Quentin looked away from the image and stared at his blank wall. His legs gave off a subdued but ever-present burning feeling, the result of one hundred laps ran for a variety of transgressions, each one as unexpected as the last. His face also burned, but that wasn’t from physical exertion. It was a new feeling, and he found it quite unacceptable.

A buzzer sounded, signaling a visitor at his door. The computer stopped the statistical litany.

[DONALD PINE AT YOUR DOOR]

“Enter,” Quentin said in a toneless voice. He heard the swish of the door, but didn’t bother to get up. He hit the button on the remote. Arkham disappeared, replaced by a huge Ki lineman named Pret-Ah-Karat.

“Better watch out for him,” Pine said quietly. “Last year he hit me so hard he knocked me out of the game.”

Quentin said nothing.

Pine crossed in front of Quentin and sat down on the couch. “We missed you at team dinner, kid. What’s up?”

“Gotta study,” Quentin said sullenly. “Hokor wants me to know all these damn players.”

Pine nodded. “Yeah, you’ve got to know this stuff. But hey, you’ve got to eat, right?”

“Not hungry now, I’ll have something later.” The truth was he was famished, but he had no intention of hitting the mess hall when the rest of the team was present — they’d all watched him run the endless laps, heard Hokor scream at him for various mistakes.

“It’s no big deal, Hokor rips on all the rookies,” Pine said, as if he read Quentin’s thoughts. “He’s got to shake out the weak ones. He’s going to spend most of his time busting on you, because you’re a quarterback. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Tomorrow we do route passing, but this time against the defensive backs. And the next day’s practice is full-contact. So watch out for the Ki defensive linemen.”

Quentin shrugged. “I’m not worried about some damn salamander, I just have to get these stupid players memorized.”

Pine’s eyebrows rose up in surprise. “ Salamander , eh? Don’t let them hear you say that, they’ll tear your head off. Not worried about them? Our nose tackle, Mai-An-Ihkole, weighs 650 pounds and can bench-press 1,200 pounds, for crying out loud, and you’re not worried? I’ve been on this team for two years, they’re under strict orders not to hit me, and I’m worried.”

Quentin turned and looked at Pine. He’d seen Pine run; the man had good reason to be worried. Quentin was faster, more agile, stronger and just plain tougher than Donald Pine.

“Thanks for the advice. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got studying to do.”

Pine shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you need any help, let me know. Hey, maybe I can talk to Scarborough, get you some after-practice reps to get used to the speed of the game.”

“I don’t need help from a cricket.”

Pine stared, then shook his head. “Yeah, you seem so normal on the outside, I forget where you come from. Just remember, kid, those salamanders and crickets are your teammates — you may have won games single-handedly back in the PNFL, but it doesn’t work that way here.”

“Thanks, pops, I’ll remember that,” Quentin said as he clicked the remote control to bring up the next player.

Pine stood, shook his head one more time, and walked to the door he stopped just as the door swished open, and looked back at Quentin.

“Listen, kid, I’m not much for giving advice where it’s not asked, but I feel you deserve to hear something. To play this game, you’ve got to know your history. Until the Creterakians took over, all the races were more likely to slaughter each other than talk, let alone work together. There’s hatred here that goes way beyond anything related to sports. I’m not the greatest quarterback to ever play the game, but I figured out something a long time ago — for these warring races to play together as a team, someone has to step up and lead. Leading in the GFL means you forget your bigotry and get along with everyone. And it’s a hard job. Damn near impossible. I expect everyone to get along and play as a unit. Warburg is one thing, but you’re a quarterback, and as such people tend to follow your lead. Your racism will cause problems, and I won’t tolerate that. When you play for my team, you will respect your teammates.”

Quentin felt his anger rising. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

“Your team?” Quentin said coldly. “Keep on living in that fantasy world, Pine, and you’ll be a happy man in the retirement home. It’s not going to be your team much longer.”

Pine stared back hard, then sneered. “Whatever you say, rookie. It will be your team, all right. It will be your team when I decide to hang it up. Until then, you haven’t got what it takes to be a starter, and you certainly don’t have what it takes to beat me. ”

He walked out, the door swishing shut behind him.

Quentin turned off the holotank and stared at the blank wall. He hated salamanders, he hated crickets, and he hated blue-boy Donald Pine. But they would all learn. The Krakens were Quentin Barnes’ team now, and sooner or later everyone would play by his rules.

THE SECOND DAY of practice saw Quentin, Pine and Yitzhak once again descend the lift into the orange end zone. The Sklorno receivers were there, this time in full pads, but so were Humans and Quyth Warriors — the linebackers — and eight new Sklorno — the defensive backs. All the defensive players wore black jerseys, while the offense wore orange.