Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“So what happens to the nanocytes now?”

“They’ll run around, looking for more damaged skin, until they run out of energy.”

“And then?”

“And then what? They stop working.”

“But when do you take them out?”

“We don’t do anything with them, Quentin. Your body will process them out like any other waste. Kidneys will filter them.”

“So I’ll pee them out?”

“That is correct. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must see what other injuries require my attention.”

The game finished with the Krakens defense on the field. Surprisingly, the crowd counted down the last ten seconds in English, and that grand football tradition sounded little different than it had back in the PNFL. Orange and black banners flew, colored streamers sailed, and fireworks blasted over the open stadium.

The Krakens, victorious, drifted in small groups off the field and into the tunnel. He saw Warburg and Seth Hanisek, the Wallcrawlers’ stocky fullback and another Nationalite, praying at the 50-yard line. Quentin ignored them — he had always felt the High One had more important things to do that concern himself with football, and probably didn’t listen to victory thanks.

He left the field, basking in the glow of his first GFL game. He hadn’t played much, but he’d made the most of it: 2-of-2 for 80 yards and a TD. Hokor really had no choice now but to give him more playing time. Pine was great, but Quentin was the future, and now everybody knew it — the Krakens, their fans, and especially Coach Hokor.

HE LOOKED AT his face in the mirror a dozen times in a dozen different ways, but he couldn’t find any sign of that nasty cut. There was redness, like mild sunburn on the area where the bandage had been, but nothing else. Quentin tilted his head this way and that, pulled at his skin, amazed at what he didn’t see.

John Tweedy walked by, dressed only in a towel. “Cut all gone, farm boy?”

Quentin looked at the bigger man, and just nodded. YOU’RE A DUMB BACKWOODS CRACKER scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.

“You won’t find the cut, you stupid hick, it’s fixed,” Tweedy said. He then put on a sarcastic, wide-eyed expression of wonder. “Oh, this here some big magic, Quentin! Here in the big city we fix people right up, like by magic! Big magic here!”

Quentin stared for a moment before he spoke. “What’s your home planet, Tweedy?”

Tweedy pounded his chest three times. “Glory be to Thomas 3.”

“Well, at least the Nation has something in common with Thomas 3.”

“Oh? And what’s that, rookie?”

“Based on your intelligence level, I gather Thomas 3 also has a major inbreeding problem.”

Tweedy’s sarcastic expression evaporated, replaced by a tooth-bared sneer. “You better watch your tongue, boy, or your butt is mine.”

“Sorry, afraid I like women. I’m not your type.”

Tweedy’s right first reared back, his taut muscles rippling under his skin. Quentin watched the hand and simultaneously watched Tweedy’s eyes. The big man stepped forward and threw his ham-sized fist, but Quentin moved so fast the punch might as well have been in slow motion. He stepped to the side and the fist hit only empty air. Tweedy’s momentum carried him forward a few awkward steps. In one smooth motion, Quentin reached out and snatched the towel from Tweedy’s waist, holding one end in each hand: he pulled it tight then snapped his left hand forward. The towel shot out like a striking snake and snapped Tweedy’s rear end — all of this before the big linebacker could even recover from his missed punch.

Tweedy stood straight up as he turned, his hands reaching back to cover his butt. His eyes grew wide with fury and his lips curled back in a primitive snarl. Fists clenched, he took a step forward, but stopped when Quentin held the towel tight once again, poised for another snap.

Tweedy pointed his finger at Quentin. “Put down that towel, you Purist piece of garbage, and we’ll settle this right now.”

“Sure thing, Johnny-boy,” Quentin said. “Maybe this time I can snap Little Johnny right off your body.” He twitched his shoulders as if to snap again, and the naked Tweedy took a hurried step back. Someone in the locker room started laughing.

“Barnes! Put that towel down!”

Quentin turned to see Hokor standing there, fur fluffed, his pedipalps trembling.

“Put it down. ”

Without looking, Quentin tossed the towel behind him. Tweedy caught it and wrapped it once again around his waist.

“In my office, now.” Hokor stomped away, and Quentin followed.

Here we go , Quentin thought. He saw how I play in a real game, and now I’ll get the talk about how he thinks I’m ready for more.

Hokor’s office was just off the central meeting room. Holoframes lined the wall, showing Hokor with Krakens players as well as action shots of him on the sidelines of the D’Kow War Dogs, the Jupiter Jacks and the Chillich Spider-Bears. There were several pictures, the old-fashioned flat kind, showing Humans that Quentin didn’t recognize. One had a brimmed, houndstooth-patterned hat pulled down almost over his eyes. He wore an antique suit and had Human players around him in crimson helmets with a white stripe and crimson jerseys with block white letters and numbers. Another showed a squat, smiling man in a long coat with thick black glasses and a buzz-cut. He was riding on the shoulders of two dirty, happy men in green uniforms with yellow helmets.

A football holo played in the center of the room: the Glory Warpigs playing host to the Krakens’ next foe, the Grontak Hydras.

“How are the Hydras looking, Coach?” Quentin asked.

“They are my nightmare,” Hokor said as he sat behind his desk. The desk was curved like half a circle, made of some hard plant material Quentin had never seen before. Yet despite the alien wood in the alien city with the alien coach, Quentin couldn’t help but think of Coach Graber, sitting behind his desk back on Micovi.

“They have great speed at receiver,” Hokor said. “Their outside linebackers, Lokos the Bruised and Bilis the Destroyer, were All-GFL last year, and Wichita is without a doubt the best corner-back in Tier Two. She’ll probably be able to shut Hawick down completely.”

As the camera changed angles, a score flashed: Warpigs 22, Hydras 12.

“If they’re so good, how come they’re losing?”

Hokor stared for a moment before answering. “Barnes, the Hydras’ score against the Warpigs doesn’t matter. Nor does their record. Nor does it matter if the Hydras lose all their games. The only thing that matters is how they match up against us , and they match up very well indeed. Not that it matters to you.”

“Of course it matters to me, Coach. Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you’re benched next week.”

“ Benched ? Are you kidding me? For snapping John Tweedy on the butt?”

“I do not care about the silly bonding games you Human males play,” Hokor said, his big eye flooding clear black. “You’re benched for that pass you threw.”