Scott Sigler - The Rookie

PINE GOT UP slowly after his fifth sack. He was bleeding again, this time from a cut on his arm. At least he got up — Aka-Na-Tak still lay on the ground, a limp tubular body with limp multi-jointed arms. A thin, recurring squirt of black blood jetted up from his back, like a little on-off geyser of oil. Chok-Oh-Thilit had destroyed his second right tackle of the game.

After starting on their own 15 the Krakens had put together a 30-yard drive, but on third-and-long Chok-Oh-Thilit smashed through Aka-Na-Tak and dragged Pine down. The Krakens offense ran off the field to be replaced by the punt team as Doc’s medsled floated Aka-Na-Tak off the field. There was only five minutes left to play. The defense had to come up with one more stop.

THE DEFENSE HELD. The Krakens got the ball back with 2:12 to play in the game, ball on their own 35.

Quentin sat at the bottom of the pile, face-down, the football pressing into his diaphragm, so much weight on top of him that he couldn’t draw in a full breath. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing — when he took a full breath, his ribs screamed and his chest ached with the effort. Another assassination attempt by Chok-Oh-Thilit had torn away Quentin’s second set of rib armor, along with more of his skin, and blood — Doc said not to worry, though… he’d be fine after an hour in the rejuv tank. The injury wouldn’t stop Quentin from finishing the game. Gosh. Thanks, Doc.

Cay-Oh-Kiware was the third Krakens guard to face Chok-Oh-Thilit, and he wasn’t doing much better than had Wen-E-Deret or Aka-Na-Tak.

The weight lifted from Quentin’s back one chunk at a time, until the last player rolled off. Quentin pushed his way up. He didn’t want to get up, he wanted to lay there, maybe take a nice nap. But he’d be damned before he’d show those Earthlings one more ounce of weakness or pain.

“How you holding up, champ?” Alonzo asked. “It’s not going to stop, you know. Maybe you should just stay down.”

“Then you better quit fooling around and dig out your A-game,” Quentin said as he stood tall and walked back to the huddle, ignoring the invisible knife buried deep in his ribs. “‘Cause what you got ain’t bothering me all that much.”

He was the last one back to the huddle. Pine stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at him as he walked around to the back of the huddle and took his place.

“Finished catching up on old times?” Pine asked him.

“Hey, he started talking crap, I just — ”

“Just nothing,” Pine snapped. “Shut your mouth and get back to the huddle, got it?”

“Hey! I’m not going to take this, he — ”

“Quentin! Shut up! Jesus, you Purist Nation guys don’t ever stop running at the mouth. Next play you get your butt back to the huddle and don’t say a word, you got it?”

Quentin started to protest one more time, then closed his mouth. He was furious that Pine was talking to him this way, but it was Pine’s huddle. Pine looked at the sidelines, then shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Let’s keep it on the ground.”

An unheard voice said something to Pine. He nodded towards the sidelines and turned back to the huddle.

“Okay, we’ve pounded it up the middle enough for now, let’s mix it up. Y-set, screen pass right. Quentin, maybe this time you could actually run with the ball instead of pussyfooting it to the line so they can smack you around like a little girl?”

Quentin’s eyes widened with rage. “What are you talking about?”

“We’d have this game wrapped up if we had Fayed, or even Yassoud, but all we’ve got is you , you lazy backwater rookie.”

Without thinking, he pushed his way forward to slide between Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, who were in front of him, bent down so the players behind them could see Pine. Quentin raised his right fist to swing at Pine, but two sets of hands and one set of tentacles grabbed him from all sides and held him back.

“Hey,” Pine said, holding his hands out, palms up, that arrogant grin on his bloody face. “You want a piece of me you little spoiled racist brat ?”

The word seemed to slip into Quentin’s brain like a branding iron. He jerked against the hands holding him back as the huddle shifted and broke apart.

“You wanna mess with me , Pine?” Quentin screamed. He tried to break loose. From behind, a strong arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed, lightly, just enough for Quentin to feel pressure on his windpipe — just enough to know he’d pass out if the arm tightened further.

“Stop this right now,” Tom Pareless said quietly. “I let you go, you run the play, deal?”

Quentin nodded, or at least moved his head — he couldn’t nod with Pareless’ thick arm wedged around his neck and under his chin.

“WHAT’S GOING ON there, Chick? The Krakens are fighting in the huddle.”

“Well, Masara, it looks like tempers might be flaring. Can we get a close-up of Barnes’ face? Now run it in slow-mo.”

“You want to see if you can tell what this argument is about, Chick?”

“You got it, Masara. Look at that guy, he’s as wide-eyed-mad as a Brahma bull getting a three-pound suppository. Hold on, let me see what he’s saying… well , it seems that Quentin Barnes had a few choice words. He said — ”

“I think the viewers have a good idea what he said, Chick.”

“Yeah, but he called Donald Pine a — ”

“And we’re back to the action on the field! The Krakens are lining up in an I-formation with Hawick wide left, Scarborough wide right and Kobayasho at right tight end.”

QUENTIN LINED UP in the I-formation, right behind Tom Pareless. He was so mad he could barely see, barely hear the snap count. So now he knew what kind of a man Pine really was — screw all the favors Quentin had given him, screw the fact that Quentin had saved the man’s reputation and career: when the going got tough, Donald Pine passed the buck.

“Green, twenty-eight!” Pine shouted.

Quentin couldn’t even stand the sound of that blue-boy’s voice. How could he have been so stupid to give up the quarterback spot for the biggest game of the year? He asked Hokor for this!

“ Greeeeeeen , twenty-eight!”

Well he and Pine would settle up once the game was over. That old man was going to get his, that was for certain.

“Hut-hut!”

Quentin drove forward and to the right as Pareless stood, hands out, to pass-block. On the screen pass, Quentin’s job was to block down on the defensive tackle, then bounce outside and wait for the pass. Cay-Oh-Kiware and Vu-Ko-Will, the right guard and tackle, respectively, would make half-hearted blocks, enough so that the defense could go right by, then bounce to the right and block for Quentin. The defensive line would chase after Pine, who would back up, drawing them in — when Pine threw the little dump-pass to Quentin, those same defenders would be too far away from the play to do anything about it.

Quentin ran up as Chok-Oh-Thilit spun around Vu-Ko-Will’s pseudo-block.

I’ll show you, Pine.

Quentin launched himself forward just as Chok-Oh-Thilit finished his spin. Quentin’s elbow smashed into the Ki lineman’s helmet, snapping his head back. Chok-Oh-Thilit stumbled, then fell to the ground.

BLINK

The world decelerated: Quentin bounced to the right and looked back. Three defensive linemen closed in on Pine, who backpedaled and looked confused. The linemen gathered and shot forward towards the scrambling quarterback — who at the last possible second deftly tossed a floating pass. Quentin watched the ball in total fascination. It moved so slow he could read the small letters burned into the ball (Riddell GFL-licensed), and count the pebbles in the leather grain. The ball slowly spun towards him, until his hands seemed to reach out and pull it in like an old friend.