Scott Sigler - The Rookie

Doc held Quentin’s hand tight as he removed the blood-soaked strip, now a deep purple, and applied another.

Yitzhak, leaned in to examine the extent of injury. “Hey won’t that put too many nanocytes in his body? Can’t that cause liver damage.”

“Shut up,” Quentin growled at Yitzhak. “And don’t bother getting warmed up, I’m going back in.”

The second strip also turned purple with blood. Quentin felt as if his hand was being cooked from the inside out.

“It’s not working,” Doc said. “The lacerations are too large, and you’ve got an arterial tear. The nanocytes can’t bind it up. We need to put your hand in the healing tank, Quentin. The gel in the tank is programmed to hold your skin together long enough for the nanocytes to do their work.”

“I don’t have time for the damned tank!” A string of spittle flew from Quentin’s mouth to dangle from the bottom bar of his facemask. He looked up at the scoreboard: 3:12 to play, the Demolition with the ball, second and three on their own 32. As soon as the defense stopped them, the Krakens would have a chance to win the game. He wanted to be on that field, and he wanted to win. He quickly looked around the sidelines, searching for an answer.

Then he saw Messal.

“Messal! Get your box and get over here, now! ”

The manager turned at the sound of Quentin’s bellowing voice, quivering as if a Quyth Leader had done the yelling. He scrambled to grab his box off the bench, then ran to Quentin.

“Get that thing you used to fix my jersey,” Quentin said.

Messal pulled out the gun-pliers. Doc took one look at the device, then looked at the ugly stitch running up the front of Quentin’s jersey.

“Absolutely not!” Doc said. “We will not use stitches on Human flesh!”

“Do it, Messal,” Quentin said.

“Use that on him and I’ll have Gredok fire you,” Doc said. “I mean it, Messal.”

Messal started to put the gun-pliers away. Quentin reached down with his right hand and grabbed the short Quyth Worker by his left pedipalp.

“You use that thing on this ,” Quentin said, holding up his bloody left hand, “or I will kill you, cook you, and eat you.”

Messal quivered like a tuning fork. He reached out and gently pinched together the skin on both sides of the cut. Yassoud moved in and wrapped his arms around Quentin’s left arm, holding it still. Quentin felt Ki arms snake around his chest, their strength holding him immobile. He looked over his shoulder — Kill-O-Yowet’s black eyes stared at him, only inches from his own.

Messal looked up, the obvious question burning in his one eye.

“Do it,” Quentin said through clenched teeth.

Messal pulled the trigger. Quentin’s eyes grew wider still as a new level of pain seared through his arm. He tried to pull back, but Yassoud and Kill-O-Yowet held him still. Messal slid the gun-pliers up the cut in a smooth stroke, and it was over. Quentin stared at his arm — the edges of the skin pursed out a quarter inch from his arm, smeared with blood and roughly stitched together with Kevlar thread, like the seam of his jersey. Echoes of the needle-and-thread pain ripped through his arm, but through that he still felt the burning of the nanocytes. That burning intensified on the stitch itself — the tiny machines were trying to do their job.

“That’s going to leave a horrible scar,” Doc said angrily. “And it’s not going to heal the arterial tear. You’ve got ten minutes, tops, before you pass out.

Quentin heard boos from the crowd. He looked up at the scoreboard, his heart leaping when he saw the magic words “4th down, 6 to go, ball on the Demolition’s 44.” The clock counted down… 1:12… 1:11… 1:10…

“Barnes, get your lazy butt up here,” Hokor’s voice said in his helmet. Quentin ran to his Coach and knelt. Hokor stared at him, and Quentin saw his own reflection in Hokor’s big eye: jersey torn and stitched up the chest, making the left side of his number “10” slightly higher than the right; the orange fabric stained bright red with blood; his arm a bloody mess with an ugly, black-threaded stitch running from his hand to his elbow.

“You sure you can make it?” Hokor asked.

Quentin nodded and smiled. “Just give me the ball, Coach.”

Hokor’s pedipalps reached out, each one lightly touching Quentin’s shoulder pads. “We’ve pulled a lot of new strategies on them this quarter, so they’ll be ready for anything, but at the same time they won’t focus on any one area. We’re going to spread it out, so you’ll have room to move — if you’re in doubt, tuck it and run, but no more head-to-head battles. I can’t have you getting hurt. When you run, you slide before they tackle you, you got it?”

Quentin nodded quickly. Hokor called the first play.

The Demolition punt sailed through the air. Richfield signaled a fair catch at the Krakens’ 17-yard line. Quentin looked at the clock, then nodded again, to himself this time — he had his work cut out for him: he needed to go 83 yards in 56 seconds.

The Krakens offense ran onto the field. In the huddle, the players seemed different, staring at him with near reverence. Quentin noticed that blood streaked all of the Ki linemen jerseys. Red blood. But Ki blood was black… it took him a second to realize that Kill-O-Yowet had rubbed blood, Quentin’s blood , on each jersey. The pain in his arm faded away as a new dose of adrenaline pumped through his veins.

“We’re going to get back in the hunt for Tier One right now ,” Quentin said. “We’ve got 56 seconds to put these motherless losers away. A field goal ties it, but I want a win. X-set, 21-base. All routes break off at twenty yards.” Quentin reached up and grabbed Hawick’s facemask, but when he spoke, it was to another receiver.

“Scarborough,” Quentin said, his eyes still locked on Hawick. “Their nickel back will be on you. She can’t handle your speed.” Scarborough quivered once, then stopped and stood stock-still. “You sprint downfield on a post and when I throw you the ball you damn well catch it. Let’s step on their throats right now and put this one away. Ready?”

“ Break! ”

The crowd roared as Quentin’s team stepped to the line. He moved up with a step left, a half-bounce left, a step right, a half-bounce right. He stood behind Bud-O-Shwek, his hands tapping out a quick left-right-left ba-da-bap on the Ki’s carapace. As he suspected, the defense moved to key on Hawick.

The ball snapped into his hands and he dropped back five long steps. He planted, left knee bent deep, and slid two yards across the oily white surface before his cleats caught and he bounced forward a half-step. Standing tall at the six yard line, he locked his eyes on Hawick. She drove downfield and suddenly broke off at the 37, cutting back on a hook route. The motion was enough to freeze the safety, only for a moment, but in that moment Scarborough turned on the afterburners.

Wait for it … Quentin thought as the pocket started to collapse around him.

She sprinted past the 40… the 50…

Wait for it …

She sprinted past the 40… the 30…

Kill-O-Yowet lost his fit on his defender and fell to the ground. The defender’s body gathered for a vicious blow even as he ran forward, multi-jointed limbs reaching out like those of a hungry, long-armed spider.

Quentin reared back and launched the ball just before the defensive lineman extended and smashed into him at full-force. Quentin was knocked ten yards to his right, the wind whuffing out of his lungs. He hit and rolled. The ball was in the air so long he actually stumbled to his feet before it finished its long parabola.