Патрик Томлинсон: Children of the Divide

The Ark’s longtime captain, Chao Feng, even remarked that Benexx, “Must have gotten zer flying genes from zer father.” Which kind of ignored the fact ze was not only adopted, not only a separate species, but indeed traced zer origins to an entirely separate genesis of life from Bryan. Still, considering his hallowed career as a Zero player, it was a flattering thing to say.

For a moment, Benexx felt a pang of guilt over defacing zer father’s image, but the feeling quickly passed. They’d been increasingly butting heads lately, and even if they hadn’t been, Benexx knew he hated the “Bronze monstrosity” that had been erected in Mahama Park not three years before. For a former sports star, zer father was strangely averse to hero worship, or at least of being the target of it.

The airliner’s descent announcement interrupted zer music, letting the passengers know they’d be landing in a half hour. Benexx shifted uncomfortably in zer chair. The designers had gone to great lengths to make them ergonomically compatible with either human or Atlantian physiques, but instead simply ensured they were equally inappropriate for both.

The seat wasn’t zer only source of discomfort, however. The fifteenth anniversary of the Trident approached in only two days. There would be a parade. Zer parents expected zer to participate, solidly against zer expressed wishes. Benexx hated zer role as icon, and with zer critical fifteenth birthday fast approaching, ze felt like it was time ze should be able to make these sorts of calls for zerself.

Ze was leaving vacation and flying straight into a confrontation ze didn’t want to have but wasn’t willing to back down from just for the sake of expediency. Benexx put away zer headset, buckled zer lap belt, and steeled zerself for a fight ze knew ze was probably going to lose.

Three

Third down and long. Down by two. Fourth quarter with no timeouts and under three minutes to play. Standing on the sidelines, Benson read blitz. Two of the Flying Injri’s linebackers shifted forward subtly. It was a small movement, but enough to tip Coach Makhlouf’s hand on the play.

Benson said into the open plant link he shared with the rest of the Mustangs. Benson paused long enough for the Atlantian to make eye contact. Ze didn’t have a plant. Great strides were being made mapping the Atlantian brain, but not enough was known as yet to make the technology compatible for their new allies. So Benson’s voice was being routed into a small com inside zer helmet. Benson couldn’t afford to be misunderstood on the play.

the Atlantian receiver said. Which was less reassuring than it would have been if “OK coach” didn’t comprise ninety percent of Cha’ku’s conversations with Benson.

The offensive line shifted left. Under center, Boswell called for the snap before the defense could make any adjustments. The millisecond the ball left the center’s hand, the blitz of defensive linemen came. Bodies far, far bigger than anything that had been allowed to exist in two hundred years onboard the Ark slammed into each other. Irresistible forces meet immovable objects with a thunderclap. Hillman, intentionally left uncovered to Boswell’s right where the Mustang’s star quarterback would have a clear line of sight on the charging linebacker, came streaking through the gap like a charging Dux’ah and leveled a shoulder in an all-out effort to sack the QB, kill the drive, and force a punt to essentially end the game.

Just as Benson had hoped.

Miraculously, Cha’ku had actually understood Benson’s instructions and ran to the patch of turf Hillman’s charge had left undefended. Ze didn’t manage to shake zer man-on-man coverage, but with the Atlantian’s two-and-a-half-meter tall frame, it hardly mattered. Boswell zeroed in on his open receiver and let loose a rifle shot of a pass well over the head of the human Flying Injri player struggling desperately to match up with Cha’ku.

The oblong football streaked through the air in a tight spiral. Cha’ku reached up with a single hand and stretched as far as ze could. With a slap , the synthetic pigskin smacked into zer palm as the Atlantian’s four tentacle-like fingers curled around it and hauled it in for a seven meter reception. Ze was hit immediately from two sides by zer own man coverage and a free safety, but the nice thing about having receivers with thousands of tiny suction cups on their fingers was no matter how hard defenders hit them, they never coughed up fumbles.

They also never got much in the way of meters after the catch. As hard as they could be to tackle because of the extreme flexibility their omni-directional joints offered them, Atlantians were absolute shit in straight line running. With two defenders wrapping zer up like a Christmas present, Cha’ku toppled over like a felled tree. With one last desperate grab for centimeters, Cha’ku threw out zer arm and stretched the ball as far as ze could before zer knee touched turf and the play was whistled dead.

Benson didn’t have a great angle on the far side of the field and couldn’t tell where exactly Cha’ku had been brought down in relation to the first down marker. The ref made her way over to the pile of tangled limbs, recovered the ball, and placed it on the far side of the marker.

“Yeah!” Benson’s arms rose into the air along with the hoots and hollers of some three thousand Mustang fans, drowning out the boos of the Flying Injri fans that also filled the stands. Football had come a long way in the fifteen years since Benson had pioneered his little rec league, hoping to fill the hole left in his heart from the death of Zero.

Since those early days, their borrowed field had grown into a proper stadium, with seating for eight thousand people, nearly as large as the old Zero Stadium back on the Ark. The original four teams had swelled to a proper semi-pro league of six, one for each of Shambhala’s five boroughs, plus one representing the outlying settlements. Atlantian immigrants had started playing almost as soon as they’d touched down, bringing their unique blend of skills and physical characteristics to a game that was already evolving at breakneck speeds.

But some things never changed. A sudden pall settled over the crowd, squelching their celebration. Benson sensed the trouble and looked back to the field to see what the crowd had spotted. Lying there, not ten meters behind him, was a yellow penalty flag, burning in his vision as if it were the sun itself. It had been thrown far behind the line of scrimmage, close to where Boswell lay sprawled out on the turf underneath Hillman’s impressive frame.

Benson’s attention had been so focused on the pass that he hadn’t been watching the backfield. He hadn’t even seen the flag come out, but based on which ref had thrown it, the odds were good it was a holding call against someone on his offensive line. Ten-meter penalty, repeat third down, and give Coach Makhlouf another chance to put the game away for good.

Boswell was slow to get up. He stumbled over to the sidelines holding a limp left arm. “I think it’s dislocated, coach,” the QB said apologetically.

“That’s OK.” Benson nodded towards the trio of officials conferring about the penalty in the middle of the field. “Looks like we’re just about done anyway.”

Boswell saw the flag and was crestfallen. “It was a pretty good throw though, right?”

“Brilliant throw, Mohammed. Right in the suckers where nobody else could touch it.”

The lead ref broke away from their huddle and faced the crowd. “Personal foul. Defense. Number forty-three. Roughing the passer.”

“What?” Hillman threw his arms out in disbelief and started walking towards the lead ref, but the other two moved to block his way.