Scott Sigler - The Rookie

They stood on the red line with the other rookies. The blue-furred Quyth Leader walked down the line, looking at each one of them in turn. Two white-uniformed workers slid a grav-cart into the shuttle.

“I am Kotop the Observer,” the leader said. “My team will be checking you each time you come back from out-system. I’m sure nobody here is smuggling anything, right?”

Yassoud started laughing, his curly beard jiggling in time.

“Yes, it is all so very funny,” Kotop said. Quentin stared at the little Leader — did he detect sarcasm in the alien’s voice?

Kotop said nothing else, just stared, his one eye a deep shade of black. The workers came out of the shuttle.

“No explosives, no weapons,” one of them said to Kotop.

“You may all go,” Kotop said. He sounded disgusted.

“WE’RE IN TROUBLE,” Hokor said quietly. Despite the fact that every Krakens player was crammed into the central meeting area, Hokor didn’t need volume to be heard. Nobody made a sound. There had been some joking and laughing and boasting as the players filtered out of their respective locker rooms and into the central area, but all of that faded when Hokor used his holopen to decorate the far wall with three large, glowing orange marks.

The marks were the number one, a dash, and the number two.

1-2.

“We’re a losing team,” Hokor said. “A losing team. How does that sound to you?”

No one answered.

“Tweedy, how does that sound to you?”

“Sounds like I’d rather eat a poop sandwich, Coach.”

“Right,” Hokor said. “So why did we allow the Pioneers to throw for 340 yards on us, when we only sacked Adrienne once?”

Tweedy said nothing.

“Berea,” Hokor said to the right corner back, who immediately began to tremble. “What number do you like more, 1-and-2, or 340 yards passing?”

Berea said nothing. Instead, she fell on the floor and lay flat, trembling like a damaged moth.

“And you, Barnes? How does it feel to be on your first losing team?”

“Humiliating, Coach,” Quentin said quietly.

“And you, Kill-O-Yowet?” Hokor’s voice rose in intensity. “I’ve got some numbers for you, too. Which do you like better, 1-and-2, or five sacks. Five sacks.”

Kill-O-Yowet said nothing.

“Do you realize that in one game, we went from allowing the fewest sacks in the conference to allowing the second most? Do you realize that you and your brethren on the offensive line are now the second worst unit in the Quyth Irradiated Conference?”

Kill-O-Yowet let out a low growl, but that was all.

Hokor hit a button, and the “1–2” vanished. He wrote three new symbols.

0-3.

“This is the record of Sky Demolition. They are the worst team in the conference. If they beat us, then, by default, we are the worst team in the conference. If you think you feel bad now, imagine how you will feel if lose to them.”

Hokor paused dramatically. A deathly silence filled the locker room.

He cleared the numbers again. Three names flashed up on the screen: Brady Entenabe, San Mateo, and Yalla the Biter. The holotank flashed two pictures: a tall, blonde-haired Human frozen in mid-throw, and a sprinting Sklorno. Both were dressed in the uniforms of the Sky Demolition: light purple leg armor, deep purple jersey with light purple numbers trimmed in white, and deep purple helmets with three white stripes down the center.

“Brady Entenabe is a second-year quarterback having a surprisingly good year, despite the Demolition’s record. In three games, he has seven touchdown passes and has run for two more. Four of those touchdown passes have gone to San Mateo. Entenabe has also given up five interceptions. He’s thrown for 812 yards, 260 of which have gone to San Mateo. We are going to stop that combination. There is no alternative.”

Hokor hit a button. The pictures faded away, replaced by a moderate-sized Quyth Warrior.

“Yalla the Biter is fast, perhaps the fastest linebacker in the conference. He is faster than John Tweedy. He is faster than Virak the Mean. He has four sacks on the season, along with two interceptions and seventeen tackles. He is the Demolition’s biggest defensive threat. He also has six unnecessary roughness penalties, three for late hits on the quarterback. Last week he was thrown out of the game for fighting. In Week One he killed Princeton, kick returner for Bigg Diggers, on a clean hit. Last week he severed the leg of the Wallcrawlers’ tight end, ending the Human’s career. If the offensive line plays as poorly this week as they did against the Pioneers, I suspect our quarterbacks will be sledded off the field.”

Hokor cleared the pictures. The room remained quiet. “The Sky Demolition is not a deep team — if we stop those three, we win. I don’t care about the Tier Two tournament anymore. All I care about is the Sky Demolition. This game is all that matters to us. Let’s practice like we want to win back our honor.”

Quentin felt the change in the locker room. There was no yelling, no pushing, no testosterone-oriented boasting, but the air had changed nonetheless. Hokor’s quiet speech had affected them all, himself included. Quentin had four days to change the team. Four days to get them playing as a unit.

But was that enough time?

THE TOUCHBACK was in punch drive, en route to Orbital Station Two, home of the Sky Demolition. Quentin shut down the holotank in his room. He’d looked at the Demolition defensive players over and over again — now it was time to put that study into practical use. He headed for the VR practice field. Last night’s practice had gone well. The repetitive throws to the receivers had started to give him a better perspective on the speed involved. Practicing with holograms was effective, but a hologram couldn’t catch the ball, and therefore couldn’t give him a truly realistic idea of where to put a ball so that a talented receiver could haul it in.

Quentin walked into the VR field, expecting to see Denver and Milford — it shocked him to see not only the two rookies, but Hawick and Scarborough as well. In addition, two reserve defensive backs — Saugatuck and Rehoboth — stood ready to play.

“If Quentin Barnes approves,” Denver said with the Sklorno equivalent of a submissive bow, “these humble players would like to partake in the receiving of your gifts.”

Quentin felt slightly embarrassed to see Hawick and Scarborough, two starting receivers. Yet as soon as that feeling crossed his brain, he chased it away — he was the starting quarterback, and should have asked those two to practice with him from the beginning. The fact that they had come on their own, well, that was both emotionally flattering and strategically encouraging. Now he’d have an even more realistic version of a game situation.

“I approve,” Quentin said. “And thank you.”

All the Sklorno bowed as one. Quentin smiled as he walked to the rack of footballs, realizing that these teammates, at least, had accepted him as an equal.

FOR QUENTIN, the days blurred past, a run-on sentence crammed with practice and study with little of the punctuation that sleep would provide. He woke four hours before first meal, studied Sky Demolition defensive players, formations and plays, then went to eat with the team. He then sat in position meetings with Pine, Yitzhak and Hokor. Then team practice. Doc had said Pine could dress for the game, but he was not to practice, which meant Quentin took eighty-five percent of all reps. After practice came second meal, which Quentin now took with the rest of the team. He tried talking to as many teammates as he could. He got the impression his teammates knew he was trying, and it seemed to be making a difference.