Scott Sigler - The Rookie

KRAKENS FANS were scattered around the stadium, with most sitting in the North end zone. The South end zone, however, was the sole domain of die-hard Texas Earthlings fans, dressed in a sea of red, blue and white. As the Krakens lined up at their own 3-yard-line, the fans roared as if a thousand mouths were pressed right up against Quentin’s ear.

Pine’s shoulders shook as he called out the signals, but Quentin couldn’t hear him. The Earthlings fans wanted a break, something good to happen for their team, which was down 14-0.

Quentin watched carefully — Pine’s head bobbed down when he said “Hut!” and the snap was on three. He had to time it right, there was no room for mistakes this close to your own goal line.

One bob.

Alonzo cheated up the line, his eyes locked on Quentin.

Bob -bob.

Even as Quentin ran right to take the handoff, he saw Chok-Oh-Thilit driving inwards, a Ki tank chewing up flesh. Wen-E-Deret tried to stop him, but suddenly bent backwards at a funny angle, multi-jointed limbs spamming in a symphony of pain. Chok-Oh-Thilit roared through the line, already a yard past the goal line. Quentin concentrated on taking the handoff. Once he felt the ball firmly in his arms, he put his head down and drove forward. It was like running into a swinging 600-pound wrecking ball. Every atom in his body jarred backwards. He couldn’t see. He felt arms wrapping around him. Quentin spun to the right, his free hand viciously punching away — it hit some armor and glanced off. Arms tried to drag him down, but he kept pumping his legs, running with a pure animal fury — like hell he’d be tackled for a safety. He felt the Ki arms slip away and he cut upfield — only to feel a shoulder pad drive deep into his stomach and short-but-powerful Human arms wrapping around his waist. Air shot out of his lungs. His body jarred backwards, every atom shaking from the impact. His feet came off the ground and he landed on his back, head snapping into the turf. Whistles blew. The crowd roared.

He gasped for air, but nothing came in or out. He opened his eyes and looked at the ground. It was painted in Earthlings’ red.

Safety.

Krakens 14, Earthlings 2.

Alonzo pushed off him, looked to the sky and screamed a primitive roar of triumph. He looked down at Quentin and smiled.

“Good thing I’m a little small for a linebacker, or that hit might have actually hurt you.”

Quentin sill couldn’t breathe. He weakly lifted his right hand and flipped Alonzo the bird. Alonzo laughed just before his defensive teammates swarmed over him, shouting excitedly in at least four different languages.

DESPITE DOC’S URGING, Quentin refused to lie down. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t get up. Not ever again. He’d just sleep for a long, long time. But Doc wouldn’t put IVs in him if he stood, so he compromised and sat through Hokor’s halftime adjustments.

“This is the game we wanted to play,” Hokor said.

Quentin held out his right arm, allowing Doc to inject an IV needle. He watched the pointed needle slide into his skin, but didn’t feel a thing.

“Fluids,” Doc said quietly. “You’re dehydrated.”

“The defense has shut them down,” Hokor said. “No points, can we keep it up?”

“Yes!” shouted Tweedy. “Johanson talking garbage! I say the only way that loser gets off the field at the end of the game is on a stretcher!”

The Ki linemen let out a roar of approval, banging their forearms against their chest armor.

Another needle, this time in his right arm.

“Blood,” Doc said. “You lost a lot from those cuts on your ribs. We need to get your blood count back to normal.”

“Offensively, we’re doing okay,” Hokor said. “Aka-Na-Tak, I know you’re facing Chok-Oh-Thilit, but you’ve got to step up. You’ve got to play above your level, you can’t let him come through.”

Wen-E-Deret had been hurt on the play that gave the Earthlings a safety. After preliminary treatment on the sidelines, Doc had carted him to the locker room, and from there a grav-ambulance had rushed him off to Hudson Bay Hospital. Someone had mumbled something about a severed nervous cord, a very serious Ki injury, but the team didn’t talk about it. After the game, there would be plenty of time to either visit him in the hospital, or the funeral home.

“I know you can stop him, Aka-Na-Tak,” Pine said. The veteran quarterback looked like he’d been mugged all over again. After Wen-E-Deret’s injury, Chok-Oh-Thilit had sacked Pine three times, each one more devastating than the last. Aka-Na-Tak, a backup tackle, just couldn’t handle the all-pro’s savage defensive strength. “You’ve got to stop him. The honor of your family is riding on this.”

Aka-Na-Tak suddenly sat up straighter.

“You know what he told me after the last sack?” Pine said. “He put his face right against mine and said dijo malach we yokot. ”

All the Ki in the room shuddered with instant anger. All eyes turned to Aka-Na-Tak, who stood stock-still.

“What’s that mean?” Quentin whispered to Doc.

“It means ‘your lineman is my girlfriend,’ roughly.”

Quentin nodded slowly, appreciating the severity of the comment.

“Can you believe he said that?” Pine said. “Although, if you look at the beating I took on your missed blocks, it’s hard to argue with him.”

Suddenly all eyes turned away from Aka-Na-Tak, as if everyone in the room felt embarrassed for him.

Hokor commanded everyone’s attention. “Yes, well, anyway, let’s get on with the halftime adjustments.”

Doc slid away to tend to other players, leaving the needles sticking out of Quentin’s arms. Messal the Efficient ran up, a new set of rib-armor in his hands. The Quyth Worker pulled away the blue bandages covering Quentin’s wounds. They weren’t quite healed yet, but they didn’t have time to wait.

Hokor walked through offensive adjustments. Quentin tried to pay attention, but all he could hear, really, were the words we’re going to run the ball more , repeated over and over again.

THE KRAKENS WEREN’T the only ones making halftime adjustments.

The Earthlings received the second-half kickoff and ran it back to their own 37. They lined up in something that Quentin had never seen before — two tight ends, with three running backs lined up side-by-side, about five yards behind Johanson.

“Well ain’t that something,” Yitzhak murmured. “The Wing-T.”

Krakens defenders shouted to each other, already nervous about the new formation. The Earthlings hadn’t run this formation, not once, all season long.

The ball snapped. Quentin watched Johanson hand off to the Pookie Chang. Chang’s big arms folded over the ball. He plowed into the line and disappeared into a pile of bodies.

But there was no whistle.

Johanson still had the ball, he’d faked the handoff to Chang — he put it into the hands of tailback Peter Lowachee, who folded his arms around the ball the same way Chang had. Johanson “rode” the handoff, seemingly holding onto the ball as Lowachee cut into the off-tackle hole. Johanson then ran to the sidelines, pretending to carry the ball.

Every play is a triple-threat , Quentin thought. Fullback, tailback, or quarterback. And the way they fold over the ball, you can’t see if they have it or not.

Most of the Krakens’ defense had bought the fullback’s dive, leaving plenty of room for Lowachee, who broke through the line and cut upfield. After a half of watching running back Pookie Chang’s big body rumble along, the fleet-footed Lowachee was like poetry in motion. At only 210 pounds he was a featherweight, but man could he move.