Scott Sigler - The Rookie

He suddenly realized that Mitchell Fayed had been right: this was nothing like practice. The Ki defensive tackles drove hard against the offensive linemen, roaring and punching and tearing. The offensive linemen gave as good as they got, backing up as they did, throwing punches and tearing at half-shredded jerseys. Huge bodies smashed against one another, flesh shuddering in concussive waves with each impact. Droplets of black blood flew in all directions as the pocket formed around Quentin — he stood at the eye of a storm of predatorial violence, where he was the prey.

Yag-Ah-Latis, his white jersey streaked with black, tried a spin move — it was amazing to see something so big move so fast, show such agility. Kill-O-Yowet managed to counter the spin move and stayed in front of the attacking lineman. The left defensive end had dropped into pass coverage, but the right end came with all his heavy-G force. The 535-pound monstrous Human drove forward, powered by thighs that looked like beer kegs, his thick arms pushing and pulling at Vu-Ko-Will, the Kraken’s right tackle. As big as Vu-Ko-Will was, it was all he could do to stay in front of the attacking beast in a football uniform.

They didn’t just want to tackle him, they wanted to kill him. For the first time since his rookie season in the PNFL, Quentin Barnes felt small.

Quentin waited, feeling the defensive pressure coming for him. His mind operated like a multi-processing machine, simultaneously measuring a hundred different inputs.

He let the ball fly and it arced through the air. At first he thought he’d thrown a bit too far, and a bit too high, but Denver and Jacobina turned on the jets and burned downfield. Fifty yards downfield, Denver and her defender sprang high into the air — but Denver jumped higher. Fifteen feet up, Denver reached out and snagged the perfectly thrown ball. Her momentum carried her into the end zone — she landed for a touchdown.

The crowd volume reached deafening levels. Quentin knelt and picked up a few blades of Iomatt, torn up by the constant churning cleats. He held the circular blades to his nose and sniffed — smelled like cinnamon. He stood, then pointed straight at Yag-Ah-Latis.

“That touchdown was for you , baby!” Quentin shouted. “Now go translate this!” He grabbed his crotch and shook it three times. Yag-Ah-Latis’ black eyespots shrunk to tiny pinholes, and he started to charge forward. This time the Harrah officials were ready. Flags flew again as four of them blocked Yag-Ah-Latis from coming after Quentin. The massive lineman could have effortlessly knocked the Harrah aside, but Yag-Ah-Latis wanted to sit out the season no more than Quentin did.

The offense ran off the field as the kicking team came on. Hokor’s fur stood on end. “What was that ? I told you to take a knee!”

Quentin shrugged. “Transmitter was broken, so I called a play.”

Hokor’s one eye stared hard at Quentin. “After the game I’ll see you in my office, Barnes. Now go get that cut fixed.”

Quentin nodded, then smiled and walked to the bench.

Teammates thumped him on the helmet and shoulder pads. Pine approached and extended a hand. Quentin shook it before he realized what he was doing.

“Great pass,” Pine said. Amazingly, he sounded genuinely happy, but Quentin knew the veteran was mocking him. Pine still had that grin on his face. “Perfectly timed for Denver’s leaping ability.”

“Thanks,” Quentin said.

“How’d you know to throw it high and deep against Jacobina?”

“Well, I… she can’t do her maximum vertical when she’s running full…” Quentin’s voice trailed off, a recent practice memory jumping into his head.

“Who’s the starting cornerback for the Wallcrawlers?” Hokor had asked him.

“Jacobina. Great vertical leap, but not very strong and easily blocked. Two-year vet.”

“What’s her weakness?”

“Trouble reaching maximum vertical leap during a full sprint.”

“How do you beat her?”

“Throw deep and high, make the receiver have to really sprint and jump to make the catch. Jacobina usually can’t match the jump if the ball is thrown correctly.”

Pine’s grin widened, just a bit more, as recognition washed across Quentin’s face.

“Maybe Hokor’s instructions aren’t ‘busy work’ after all, eh rookie?”

Quentin looked away. Pine was right, and he didn’t want to deal with the veteran’s smugness.

A smiling Yitzhak came up and pounded Quentin on the shoulder pad. “Great throw! That’s showing them!”

Doc floated over, his vocal processor kicking out more volume than usual to compensate for the crowd’s incessant noise.

“That’s a nasty cut, Quentin,” Doc said. “Let’s get to work on it.”

Doc grabbed Quentin’s arm and pulled him into one of the med-bays behind the bench. Quentin’s cleats clacked as he moved from the soft field to the bay’s metal-grate floor. Doc reached into a drawer and pulled out a spray can and something wrapped in a sealed plastic wrap. “First let’s clean that up. Ki claws can produce a nasty infection in Humans. Now hold your breath. This will sting just a bit.”

Quentin took in a deep breath and held it as Doc sprayed the can’s contents on his cheek. The mist felt cool on his skin.

“That didn’t sting at all, Doc.”

“I wasn’t talking about the antiseptic,” Doc said, and with one smooth motion ripped open the plastic pouch and put a blue, wet, rectangular cloth on Quentin’s cheek. Pain leapt up immediately, as if someone had placed a branding iron on the cut. He stood up with a start and pushed Doc away.

“High One, what the hell is that ?” Quentin reached up to tear off the cloth, but Doc’s ribbon-like tentacle slapped his hand.

“Don’t be a baby,” Doc said. “That’s nano-knit. It burns because nanocytes are ripping open a few cells to read your DNA.”

The burning intensified. Quentin felt tears welling up in his eyes. “Couldn’t you just stitch the damn thing?”

Doc shuddered, a ripple that coursed through his boneless body. “Don’t insult me, Quentin. You’re not in the barbarian lands anymore.”

Quentin danced in place, fighting to keep his hands off the cloth, but already the pain was subsiding.

“Has the burning ceased?”

Quentin nodded. A tingling sensation replaced the burning.

“The nanocytes have read your DNA to see exactly how your skin is supposed to be. They are rebuilding the cut right now.”

“How many of them are in there?”

“The patch contains roughly five hundred thousand.”

“A half-million?”

“A trivial amount, I assure you. You would need ten times that amount for muscle or ligament damage.”

Quentin had never heard of such medical technology. And he was receiving it on the sidelines of a football game. He could only wonder just how advanced things were in an actual hospital. The Holy Men preached about the Nation’s technical advancements, but most people knew the truth — that the Nation was decades behind rival systems like the Planetary Union and the League of Planets. Of course, he was in the GFL now, in the land of the big money, where no expense would be spared to keep oft-damaged players on the field. Still, he thought of the boy back on Micovi, the one he’d given his jersey to after the PNFL championship. Would this kind of treatment have helped that boy? Would it have saved his leg?

Doc reached out and removed the cloth. It was bloody and limp. He tossed it towards the bench, where it lay with other sideline debris like grass-stained tape, broken straps and broken buckles, torn jerseys and magni-cup rings.