Scott Sigler - The Rookie

… and saw Yalla the Biter, already through the line and coming right for him.

BLINK

Quentin juked left, which Yalla instantly matched. Quentin started to juke right, his patented double-move that always got him out of trouble in the PNFL, but in a millisecond’s time he knew Yalla could effortlessly mirror that move with the amazing lateral movement and reaction time of a Quyth Warrior.

Quentin’s instincts took over. He suddenly saw Yalla’s direction as if there were an arrow pointing forward, like a video game, and sensed the linebacker’s force and momentum like a growing pressure in his thoughts. Timing, it’s all in the timing …

Yalla leaned far forward to deliver the hit, suddenly coming off all-fours, pedipalps and arms reaching out. At just that instant Quentin spun violently to the right. The quarterback pushed off with his right hand as he spun, the ball in his left hand, his body between Yalla and the ball. He spun so fast he almost fell over from the momentum, but the move worked. Juke moves took too much time against Quyth Warriors, but a spin move, just as Yalla came off all-fours to deliver the hit, that didn’t give the linebacker enough time to react: one millisecond Quentin was there, the next he was two feet right of where he had been.

Yalla’s momentum carried him past the spinning quarterback, but his powerful pedipalps grabbed a double-handful of jersey on the way past. Quentin felt himself sliding backwards on the slick white surface. He instinctively tucked the ball and started pumping his legs with short, quick, jabbing steps. The Quyth linebacker fell to the ground… Quentin planted his legs and pushed against the weight dragging him down… a ripping sound, and suddenly Quentin lurched forward, free to move once again.

He instantly stood tall and looked downfield — Hawick streaked down the sidelines, a full two steps ahead of her defender.

Quentin fired the ball downfield high and long — as usual, he had no problem hitting an open receiver. Hawick sailed fifteen feet into the air, caught the ball and landed in full stride. The left cornerback was behind her and didn’t stand a chance… the safety came over to help, but she’d also lost a step with the play-action fake. Hawick strode into the end zone untouched.

BLINK

The crowd booed, but without much intensity. Quentin flipped them off en masse as he ran off the field, his torn jersey flapping around him. Morningstar knocked in the extra point, cutting the lead to 21–10.

Quentin sat on the bench, his heart racing, a feeling of pure ecstasy coursing through his brain. Teammates came up to shake his hand, slap his shoulder pads, or just grunt some unintelligible alien words of encouragement.

Pine slid onto the bench next to him. “You’ve got to watch Yalla’s feet,” he said. “He’s showing blitz when he’s on his toes. When he’s flat-footed, he’s in run coverage.”

Quentin nodded. He didn’t know if he could trust Pine, but that bit of advice sounded reliable.

Pine smiled and thumped Quentin on the shoulder pad. “Nice pass, kid, you just need a couple more.”

Pine hobbled away. Messal approached with a box held in his arms. He set it down and removed a gleaming metal device that looked like a combination of a small pistol and a pair of pliers.

“What the hell is that?” Quentin asked.

“For your uniform,” Messal said. His strong pedipalps lined up the torn edges of Quentin’s jersey. Messal pinched the bottom edges together and slid them into the opening of the gun-pliers. The machine made a small whirring noise, and Messal expertly slid it up the length of the ripped Kevlar fabric, knitting the shreds into a ugly but neat line.

“Hey, not bad,” Quentin said as he pulled at the new seam. It held tight.

Messal simply bowed and scuttled off to attend to some other managerial duty.

THEY WERE STILL DOWN two scores, but the Krakens seemed suddenly energized. Entenabe had faced little pressure on the day. Hokor suddenly changed strategy, sending a blitz after the Demolition quarterback on nearly every play. Entenabe managed one completion before Mai-An-Ihkole sacked him on a second down, and Virak the Mean got him on third for a 10-yard loss. The Demolition’s drive chewed up only three minutes. Richfield signaled fair catch on the punt — Krakens’ ball on their own 41, 6:52 to play in the game.

Quentin ran out onto the field, Hokor’s one-eyed face in the heads-up display.

“Now they’re watching out for you,” Hokor said. “This time go X-set, 42-base draw play… we’ll see if Fayed can finally make something happen.”

Quentin called the play and walked to the line. The defensive backs had moved to five-yard cushions instead of their one-yard bump-and-run. The linebackers had moved back as well. At the snap, Quentin held the ball to his ear, showing pass as he dropped back five steps. The defensive backs and the linebackers immediately backpedaled into pass coverage. At the end of his drop, Quentin suddenly handed the ball off to Fayed, who dashed into the line. He cut left into a big hole created by Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit. Warburg moved to block Yalla the Biter. Yalla tucked his head and drove his right arm into Warburg, crushing the big tight end to the ground. Warburg barely slowed Yalla at all, but it was enough for Fayed to slip by, and suddenly the running back was in the defensive backfield. The d-backs converged on him and brought him down, but not before he’d picked up 23 yards and moved the ball to the Demolition 36.

6:28 and counting…

Paul Pierson came in for Fayed at tailback. The Krakens huddled up, electricity and momentum filling the small space.

The Krakens players looked tired, but their eyes blazed sharply and their intensity felt ubiquitous.

His earpiece crackled. “We need to score and score quick,” Hokor said. “Y-set, 42-post, look for Pierson on the delayed route over the middle, we may catch Yalla sleeping.”

Quentin called the play and surveyed the defense as the Krakens lined up. The Demolition showed a normal 3–4, which left them with four defensive backs. Quentin’s instincts told him to watch for the blitz, but Yalla’s feet looked flat.

At the snap Quentin dropped back. Hawick and Scarborough streaked downfield then cut inside on an angle, drawing the free safety and safety with them. Pierson ran to the line acting like he would block, then released and sprinted down the field. Yalla tried to cover him, but Pierson’s superior speed carried him past. Quentin feathered a light toss that sailed just beyond Yalla and hit Pierson in stride. Yalla dove, covering ten yards in the leap, and brought Pierson down from behind after a 22-yard gain.

First-and-10, ball on the Demolition 14, 6:02 to play.

Whistles blew as Harrah officials flew to Pierson, who rolled on the ground in obvious pain. The officials waved their tentacles madly to the Krakens’ sidelines. Before Doc arrived with his cart, Quentin saw Pierson roll to his back, his bloody hands clutching at his foot — which dangled sickly from only a scrap of skin and a few strands of bloody muscle. Yalla’s tackle had ripped the man’s leg in half. Blood shot out of his ravaged leg, splashing on the white field, on Doc, and staining the zebes’ black-and-white uniforms.

Fayed came back in as Doc’s medsled rushed Pierson off the field.

“High One,” said a wide-eyed Quentin. “Did you see that? His whole leg almost came off!”

“Give me the ball,” Fayed said. Intensity narrowed his eyes to angry slits. “I’ll show that cheap-shotting motherless fool.”

Fortunately, Hokor called a dive right — exactly what Fayed wanted. The team lined up. Quentin took the snap and pivoted. Fayed nearly ripped the ball out of his hands and drove forward like a tank. Yalla the Biter came at him, and the two hit head-on like a pair of rams. Yalla fell backwards and Fayed stumbled over him, falling for a five-yard gain. Fayed stood and tossed the ball to the ground in front of Yalla, who was slow getting up.