Scott Sigler - The Rookie

Per-Ah-Yet ripped through the line and moved forward like a 560-pound, four-armed assassin. Quentin stepped up in the pocket and scrambled to the left to easily avoid the rush — or so he thought. A Human defensive tackle would have slipped by, momentum carrying him past as Quentin bounced forward towards the line. But Per-Ah-Yet wasn’t Human. The Ki stopped on a dime and turned as his body contracted like an accordion. He expanded suddenly and violently, driving towards Quentin, long body trailing behind like a snake. Per’s arms reached out much faster — and longer — than Quentin could have expected in his split-second decision to scramble. The long, thick, spider-like arms flashed out and hauled him in, lifting him off the ground, then driving him to the turf under all of Per-Ah-Yet’s weight and momentum. Quentin hit the ground hard. His body armor protected him from cuts and joint injuries, but couldn’t do much to guard him from the concussive force of a 560-pound defensive lineman slamming him to the ground.

He suffered a second or two of confused blackness. He didn’t know where he was. His brain couldn’t process the situation — he’d scrambled like that hundreds of times in his short career, moving past defensive tackles as if they were statues, leaving them in awe of his speed and athleticism. No one caught him from behind. No one. He’d been almost ten yards from this Ki, a huge cushion, and the lineman knocked the living tar out of him.

Suddenly, Quentin recognized that feeling in his stomach — fear. The same feeling that ran through his mind and body for every punch-in and punch-out. The same fear he’d felt as a small boy, when the Holy Women that ran the orphanage had told stories about the nightmarish Ki, how they ate Humans, how they came in the night to snatch away bad little boys. He hadn’t recognized it because he’d never before felt that emotion on a football field. Now the twelve-foot-long, multi-armed boogey-creature from his childhood nightmares wasn’t just real, it was on him, smothering him.

“Get off me!” Quentin shouted as he tried to scramble out from under Per-Ah-Yet. The Ki’s four-jointed arms grabbed Quentin’s helmet and held it tight, his face close enough to push against Quentin’s facemask. Two of the five black eyespots stared into Quentin’s eyes. Per-Ah-Yet’s hexagonal mouth opened to expose the triangular black teeth.

“Grissach hadillit ai ai,” it hissed, the sound from his wormlike vocal tubes muffled by the curving black helmet.

Quentin didn’t understand the alien’s words. Per-Ah-Yet pushed off him, heavily, and moved back to the defensive huddle.

Yassoud reached down to help Quentin up.

“He doesn’t like you very much,” Yassoud said.

“What did he say?”

“He said something to the effect that you’d look good roasting on a spit at his family picnic.”

Quentin stood, his body emitting a dull throb of complaint. Defensive players weren’t supposed to hit quarterbacks, not in practice. He’d just been leveled and nobody seemed to care. Hokor, for one, wasn’t saying anything. Quentin nodded. Now he understood. Oh yeah, he finally got it. This wasn’t just a mind-game, he really wasn’t going to start. No coach let the defense hit a starting QB.

He was just a rookie, and that meant he was fair game.

It was going to be a long day.

AT THE END of practice, Hokor gathered the team in the orange end zone. They circled around their little coach in his little cart, fifty tired and bruised players that looked like they’d just been through a battle.

“Good practice today,” Hokor said. “We have only one more practice before we open the season. I know that is hard on you rookies, but most of you won’t see much playing time. That is the nature of the league’s schedule, and there is nothing we can do about it. Tomorrow’s practice is a non-contact run through.”

Quentin thought the term “run through” was a funny concept, because he’d been hit so many times he could hardly walk, let alone run. The first-string defense had had a field day with him, blitzing every down, throwing stunts and overloads and everything else they could think of. The second-string defenders hadn’t been any easier, especially Mum-O-Killowe, who attacked every play like he was seeking vengeance on someone who’d killed his family. The rookie Ki lineman had also delivered the biggest hit of the day — a cheap shot, a full two seconds after Quentin had thrown the ball.

He wasn’t going to be the starter, his battered body told him that as clearly as if Hokor had spelled it out on paper. He’d played poorly — again — throwing three interceptions on thirty plays. He’d also thrown two touchdowns, and gone 5-of-13 overall. But three interceptions! It was the freakin’ speed of the game, he just couldn’t get used to it. The defense came at him so much faster than he’d ever seen, and when he threw the ball, the Sklorno defensive backs broke on it like they’d been reading his mind.

He was third-string. And right now, that’s where he belonged.

“Prepare well for tomorrow’s practice,” Hokor said. “You are dismissed.”

As the players walked off the field, Hokor’s cart descended and landed in front of Quentin.

“Barnes, you are throwing behind your receivers. You’ve got to adjust your throws, and you’ve got to start getting the ball higher in the air when throwing to Sklorno. Do you forget that they can jump to catch the ball?”

“No, Coach… well, yeah, I do forget that sometimes.”

“Well stop forgetting. If Pine goes down against the Wallcrawlers you’re not ready to come in.”

“Coach, I’m ready. ” The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it, but they rang hollow even to his own ears. “All I need is more reps, I’m getting the hang of things.”

“Are you? Fine, then tell me who is the primary cornerback for the Wallcrawlers.”

“Bangkok,” Quentin said. He was exhausted, and didn’t want to play this ridiculous trivia game, but would answer the questions asked of him. “Three-year veteran, Wallcrawlers MVP last year, started for last two years, eleven interceptions last year.”

“So with eleven interceptions, do we throw to her side of the field?”

“Not if we can help it,” Quentin said.

“So if we don’t throw at her, who is the strong safety?”

“Marlette. Five-year starter. Has lost an estimated five inches on her vertical leap since leg surgery at the end of last season. Throw high and deep on post patterns.”

Hokor’s pedipalps quivered lightly. “Good. Say it’s third-and-seventeen. The nickel back comes in — who are you facing?”

Quentin started to answer, then had to stop and think. Nickel back for the Wallcrawlers… who did they bring in for passing situations?

“Oshkosh!” Quentin said quickly when the name jumped into his head.

“And what’s her weakness?”

“She… she…” Quentin tried to remember the one obscure fact about Oshkosh that could impact a game, but his tired mind came up with nothing.

“She has fused chitin plates near her hips,” Hokor said. “They’re too near her nervous center for anyone to operate safely. The fused plates greatly limit her ability to turn in mid-air, so if you throw to her area you throw behind her, where she can’t turn to get the ball. Your receivers know this already, and so should you. Now think about that while you start running.”

Quentin’s head dropped. He was exhausted. And he had to run again?

“Hold on, Barnes,” Hokor said. The diminutive alien turned and called through the cart’s loudspeakers.