Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Are you finished?” Fayed asked. “Or do I have to hit you back?”

Quentin felt his anger seep away. His face felt scaldingly hot.

“Aw, Mitch, I’m sorry.”

“I said, are you finished ?”

Quentin nodded.

“Good. This is not the place for this behavior, Quentin. Now calm down. You’re disturbing the team.”

Quentin nodded again. He’d never felt so embarrassed. Once again, his temper had got the best of him. Maybe he could make it up to Fayed later. Then again, maybe not — he’d just hit the man in front of 133,000 fans, and probably another three billion watching at home. He walked down the sidelines, away from Pine. Anger returned, but this time it was a cold, calculating anger.

Not now. Not now, Pine old kid, not when we can climb back into the hunt.

Quentin had to think. He looked around the sidelines, searching for an answer. He couldn’t tell Hokor, not now, the coach wouldn’t believe him. Even if he did, Pine’s career was over (not to mention, when Gredok found out, probably his life).

Quentin didn’t know what he was looking for until he saw it.

Shayat the Thick.

The drug dealer.

“Holy crap,” Quentin said to himself. “We might win this game after all.”

“YOU WANT DRUGS now ,” Shayat said in a whispered hiss. “It’s the middle of a game. What do you want sleepy for?”

“Just give it to me,” Quentin said. “I know you’ve got it in your locker. I know you wouldn’t let your shipment out of your sight. Now you either give me enough to knock a Human out cold or you and I are going to hook right now.”

Shayat’s eye went from clear to light translucent green.

“I would kill you, Human.”

“Maybe so,” Quentin said. “But if you and I go, I’ll make sure I hurt you enough to keep you out of the game. And you don’t want that today, do you?” Quentin gestured to Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright — both Quyth Warriors were on training tables, Doc and Quyth Leader trainers tending to their wounds. Choto’s right pedipalp quivered sickeningly, even as he lay perfectly still on the table. The pedipalp looked broken, a very painful injury, from what Quentin had heard. John Tweedy might have been hurt, but no one knew, because he stood in front of his locker, bashing his forehead into the metal grate. His tattoo scrolled nothing but gibberish, his lips were frozen in a permanent snarl, and tears of rage trickled down his cheeks.

“But I get to start the second half,” Shayat said. “You wouldn’t do that to me, I haven’t had a chance to play first-string all year.”

“Sure,” Quentin said. “You’ll start, if you give me what I want.”

Shayat looked back at Quentin, and the eye slipped back to clear.

“I will give you the drug.”

Quentin smiled a malicious smile. He was halfway home.

HOKOR WORKED the holoboard, outlining a new defensive strategy designed to shut down Ju. The defensive players, except for Virak and Choto, crowded around the board, pointing excitedly and offering suggestions. The Krakens were down 17-7, yet the defense showed no sign of letting up. They couldn’t wait to get back on the field and take another crack at Ju. Especially John Tweedy. The Human linebacker’s eyes were as wide as wide could be, his nostrils flared in and out, and every word was a guttural scream. HATEYOUHATEYOUHATEYOU scrolled across his sweaty forehead tattoo — he couldn’t concentrate on it long enough to make a message. John looked like a man infused with the living, hunting energy of an entire special forces platoon.

Hokor had already finished with the offense. There wasn’t much to talk about, really — everyone knew that to get back in the game, Donald Pine had to stop getting sacked, start completing passes, and hold onto the ball. Everyone knew this, yet there wasn’t one evil eye cast his way. The team knew that if it could be done, Pine would do it. If Pine couldn’t do it, well, than neither could anyone else. Pine was the kind of quarterback who could throw five interceptions in a game, yet never be pulled, because his next three passes might hit for touchdowns.

That was, of course, when he was trying.

Pine sat in front of his locker, reviewing defensive sets on a portable holotank. Holding a water bottle, Quentin walked up and sat down. Pine glared at him with a look that combined hate and shame.

“Come to yell at me some more, kid?”

Quentin shook his head. “I came to apologize.”

Pine raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Apologize? You?”

Quentin shrugged again. “Look, you’ve got some stuff to deal with, I shouldn’t have lit into you on the field. We can talk about it later.” He handed Pine the water bottle. Pine took it, his eyes never leaving Quentin’s face.

“This isn’t my choice,” Pine said quietly. “I just want you to know that.”

“I know,” Quentin said, and walked away.

Pine took a long drink from the water bottle, then turned back to the holotank.

THE ORBITING DEATH received the second-half kickoff. Choto the Bright lasted only three plays, until he tried to “arm-tackle” The Mad Ju. Trying to take down Ju with a broken pedipalp was a bad idea at best. Ju ripped through Choto’s valiant effort, leaving the Quyth Warrior writhing on the ground.

Shayat the Thick ran onto the field to take Choto’s place. Samuel Darkeye was Choto’s normal backup at outside linebacker, but Hokor needed Shayat’s size to try and stop The Mad Ju. The Krakens “D” kept hammering at the Ju, and the Ju kept hammering back, yet the fumble-fruit of his so-called slippery hands never seemed to materialize. At the end of the drive, to quite literally add insult to injury, Ju crossed the goal line with John Tweedy on his back.

Extra point: good.

Orbiting Death 24, Krakens 7.

Richfield returned the ensuing kick. The Krakens offense took the field, starting from their own 34. Quentin watched carefully. He’d given Pine enough sleepy to knock out a Ki lineman. If he gave too much, the overdose could easily cause brain hemorrhaging. Quentin hoped that wouldn’t happen, but he had a game to win.

The huddle broke and Pine walked up to the line. He seemed to walk slower than normal. He looked around a few times, then shook his head violently and lined up under center. A handoff to Fayed picked up four yards. The team returned to the huddle, but Pine stayed where he was, staring down at the grass as if it were the most interesting thing in the known universe. A blast of anticipation adrenaline shot through Quentin’s body — it was working.

Fayed walked up to Pine, who continued to stare at the ground. A Harrah ref floated up to both Humans. Pine stared at the zebe as if he’d never seen such a thing before. A steady murmur burbled through the capacity crowd: like most of the players, they wondered what was going on. Pine turned to Fayed and said something. Fayed instantly signaled for a timeout.

“Barnes!” Hokor called. “Let’s go!”

Quentin followed Hokor onto the field. They ran up to Fayed and Pine.

“What in the name of the Mother of All is going on here?” Hokor barked, his fur fluffed up with anger.

“Um…” Fayed said. “I, uh, think Pine was hit in the head, or something.”

“Heyyyyy,” Pine said with a smile, never looking away from Fayed. “I can see right into Fayed’s brain. Right inside! ”

“Pine!” Hokor barked. “Pine snap out of it!”

“Fayed is thinking about a ham sandwich.”

“No I’m not,” Fayed said.

“Pine, you okay?” Hokor asked.

“Ham sandwich with Texas mustard,” Pine said. “Don’t deny it, you liar. I can see your thoughts!”