Scott Sigler - The Rookie

Quentin turned back to the line. “Hut-hut!”

The line erupted with crashes and clacks and grunts for the game’s first trench battle. Pareless and Fayed each took a step up and a step outside, where they crouched, waiting for the first opportunity to block. Quentin dropped straight back, slipping between the two running backs like they were centurions guarding some ancient gate. Hawick and Mezquitic shot downfield on streak patterns, while Scarborough ran forward for fifteen yards, then angled to the middle of the field on a post pattern.

Those patterns drew single coverage from the two cornerbacks and the safety. Quentin watched the free safety, the key to the play. Hawick and Scarborough were both running even with their defenders, but Quentin could tell they still had an extra step in their gas tanks. The safety ran to the outside to pick up the Krakens’ most deadly threat — Hawick.

That was all Quentin needed to see.

He cocked his arm and threw just as Tom Pareless undercut the first Ki defender that broke through the line. The ball arced downfield, not a perfect spiral this time, but marred by a tiny bit of wobble. It didn’t look pretty, but it was on target. Scarborough remained step-for-step with her defender for another two seconds, then put on a sudden burst of speed that took her just a few feet past. She timed the ball perfectly, leaping high into the air to catch the ball without a single mid-air twist or turn or alteration. The defender reached for her, but Scarborough kicked out with her right leg, hitting the defender in the chest. The blow knocked the defender back, just a bit, and when the two hit the ground she had a good three steps of clearance, more than any Sklorno needed just fifteen yards from the goal line.

Scarborough ran into the end zone.

First play from scrimmage, a 67-yard touchdown strike.

THE REST OF THE GAME brought more of the same. Quentin had never felt so in sync before, not even in his Purist Nation days. He knew exactly where his receivers were at all times. The receivers seemed to read his thoughts, breaking off patterns to find the ball already in the air, moving to open spots in perfect time with any of Quentin’s scrambling efforts. He saw every defender, every disguised coverage, every blitz. He saw the sideways-rolling Quyth Warrior linebackers and knew when they would pop up into a pass-coverage stance. When he ran, he knew when they would lean in for the tackle, when their balance was all forward, and that told him just when to spin: juke moves didn’t work on them, but half the time spin moves left them falling flat on their face. He saw Ki defensive lineman raging past his offensive line, he saw them gather and knew when to step forward just as they released, springing violently forward to grasp only empty air. He saw the speed and timing of the Sklorno defensive backs, and knew just where to throw to avoid them. He even saw a safety blitz and two corner blitzes — but each time he threw in a fraction of a second, hitting the open receiver before the streaking d-back could close on him.

Nothing could touch him.

The Krakens’ defense played its best game of the season. Aside from one long run by Chooch Motumbo, the Survivors tailback, the defense shut down everything. By the end of the third quarter, the Krakens were up 28-7 and in clear control of the game.

That was when disaster struck.

THIRD-AND-3 on the Survivors’ 35.

Quentin surveyed the defense. He could have audibled to a slant pass, because the linebacker was cheating inside, but opted to go with the called play, a sweep to the right. He didn’t want to put the ball in the air now, nothing that might give the Survivors a chance to get back in the game. Dressed in metallic silver jerseys, leg armor and helmets, the Survivors’ defense looked like a bunch of old-time science-fiction robots, ones that had been through a losing battle and were now covered in orange grass stains, dirt and blood. Lots of blood. Still, they weren’t giving up, and even though they were having their asses handed to them, the Survivors’ defense fought as hard as they could on every play.

“Hut-HUUUT!”

The ball slapped into Quentin’s hands. He pivoted backwards off his right foot, coming all the way around before softly pitching the ball to Fayed. Already moving right, Fayed caught the ball and ran parallel to the line of scrimmage, Kopor the Climber out in front to block. Sho-Do-Thikit, the left guard, stepped back and pulled to the right, giving Fayed two blockers on the quick pitch. The play’s design was simple — get outside as fast as possible and try to cut up and out. A good block on the outside linebacker could leave Fayed one-on-one with the slender Sklorno defensive backs, a punishing equation that would almost always end with Fayed driving the defender back for positive yards, if not breaking the tackle outright for a big gain.

Quentin watched the three Krakens sweep right, orange jerseys with black numbers and orange trim, orange leg armor with black piping, orange and black helmets. The outside linebacker, a powerful heavy-G giant from Rodina named Sven Draupnir, drove upfield as the middle linebacker, Kylee Cannell, used his impressive speed to dash towards the sidelines, trying to stay just inside of Fayed’s left shoulder, preventing an inside cutback that could go for big yards. Draupnir crashed forward like a tank. Wen-E-Deret tried to reach him, but Draupnir stepped to the right tackle’s outside shoulder and drove past, batting away strong Ki arms like some mere annoyance. Wen-E-Deret gathered and leapt, but was too late. Kopor stepped up and met Draupnir head-on — the resulting collision sent a clack so loud it was heard in the upper deck, even over the roar of the crowd. Kopor was knocked back as if he were a child, rolling feet-over-head right into Fayed.

Fayed reached one arm down as his feet came off the ground. His extended hand met Kopor’s shoulder pad. Fayed pushed off quickly, an amazingly athletic move, his arm absorbing the shock. Instead of being knocked over, he was simply knocked back — his lithe feet landed on the ground, he stumbled once, then recovered and headed for the sidelines.

Fayed’s athleticism was a wonder to behold, but Cannell was no slouch. He used Fayed’s momentary stumble to close the gap. Cannell dove, his big fingers grabbing handfuls of Fayed’s jersey. Fayed’s strong legs pumped away, dragging the prone, 420-pound Cannell along the ground.

Topinabee raced up field at top speed, a silver streak headed for the encumbered Fayed. Fayed started to lower his shoulder, but like a water-skier bouncing up from some trick, Cannell slid to his feet, his fingers still deeply wrapped in Fayed’s jersey. With a primal grunt, Cannell planted his feet and swung. The motion first stopped Fayed cold, then ripped him in a blurring, backwards horizontal arc. At the end of the arc, almost 360 degrees from where he started, the orange-jersied blur met the oncoming silver-jersied blur of Topinabee with a crack that made the Draupnir/Kopor collision sound quiet by comparison. Quentin winced as the two came together. The crowd “ ooohheed ” in amazement, most of them probably wincing themselves.

Cannell pounded his chest, playing to the crowd.

Topinabee slowly rose to her feet, stumbled, then fell.

Fayed didn’t get up.

His foot twitched, and the fingers of his left hand opened and closed spasmodically, but he didn’t get up. He was laying facedown — actually, he should have been face-down, because his stomach and chest were on the ground, but his face was actually looking up.

“Oh High One,” Quentin said, then ran to his teammate.

Fayed’s eyes were wide with terror. He tried to breath, but couldn’t seem to draw air. His head was turned so far around, he could almost have looked down and seen his own spine.